Tiller between my legs, I hold the finicky jib sheet in one hand and my sparkling water in the ­other. Sueños picks up speed like a horse ready to run. I’m solo sailing, my favorite pastime. And I’m wing on wing, my favorite point of sail. Today, Montana’s Flathead Lake is perfect for both.

The Rocky Mountains graze blue sky on the eastern shore. Those craggy peaks culminate in Glacier National Park 30 miles north, where grizzlies, goats and woodsmen roam. To the west, bleached bluffs have baked to golden perfection after a long summer. And in front of me, the September sun glints across a vast expanse of royal blue that is mine alone.

At age 43, I’ve sailed more than half my life. I live with my husband and our two young kids in an area of Montana 100 miles to the south. We’ve spent the past four winters cruising in the Bahamas aboard Mikat, a 36-foot Jaguar catamaran. 

But my husband is less enamored of sailing than I am. Or, to be more accurate, he wants a break from fixing boats in beautiful places. A few months ago, we sold our one-third-ownership share in Mikat. As I skim across Flathead, he’s happily planning a family backpacking trip to Bolivia, South America’s only landlocked country.

The loss of our catamaran hit me harder than I expected. When we walked away from Mikat in Marsh Harbour, in the Bahamas, this past March, I nearly hyperventilated. What if it became a ghost ship that pulled me under when it sailed off without us?

A few weeks later, at a ­meditation class back in Montana, the instructor told us to envision a place where we felt happy, healthy and peaceful. I closed my eyes, and the forward berth on Mikat came into view—sheets perpetually damp and sandy, a tinge of diesel and mildew behind the salt water. I saw my children spiraling through the air as they swung on a halyard, framed against a slice of white sand. I saw the four of us diving off the transom, baptized anew in the neon water. 

I needed another happy place. So I found a boat ­partnership closer to home. 

Sueños is a Catalina 25 that’s been cruising Flathead Lake for two decades—only a few years longer than I have. As the largest natural lake west of the Mississippi, Flathead has hundreds of miles of shoreline to explore, along with a half-dozen islands. 

I nudge the tiller to turn toward my favorite of these islands, trimming in the sails. When I reach the horseshoe anchorage tucked against Wild Horse Island, I scramble around the deck, alternating between nursing the idling outboard, lowering the main at the mast, and running to the bow to wrest the anchor and chain from the hold. Sueños is definitely not set up for singlehanding, but that just makes it more interesting.

The sun is skimming the top of the ponderosas by the time I’ve set the hook. I strip off my clothes and cannonball off the side before the light disappears completely. The lake is cold but not icy…yet. The sailing season is short here in the Big Sky State—June through September, at best. Half of those days are too chilly to swim, the other half too smoky to see the mountains. But ­occasionally, you stumble upon the magic that makes Montana the last best place.

Before the last of the light fades, I row the dinghy to shore. Most of the island is a state park, with no roads or electricity. The few homes along its shore are accessible only by boat. I huff up a steep hill in the twilight, then startle when I see a herd of bighorn sheep at the top. Standing stock still, I watch two dozen mamas corral their rambunctious half-grown babies into a still-green hollow where they’ll be safe from human hikers.

Back aboard Sueños, I drink a beer while making dinner. The alcohol goes straight to my head and inspires me to call my friend Katie in Bellingham. As a fellow sailor who grew up in Montana, she’ll be able to appreciate how special it is to be alone on Flathead.

“I was just thinking about you,” she says. “We watched that documentary on the Race to Alaska last night. Are we ever going to do it?”

We’ve been talking for years about entering the 750-mile, nonmotorized, free-for-all ocean race from Port Townsend, Washington, to Ketchikan, Alaska. Our kids were always too little, our jobs too hard to leave for a month, and our motivation not quite strong enough to brave gnarly currents, freezing water, and wandering grizzlies.

But now, I have a sailboat-­size hole in my heart, and a craving for the next big ­adventure gnawing at my belly.

The beer answers bravely. “We’re totally doing it. This June.”

“Seriously?” Her voice ­ratchets up an octave. 

“Dead serious.”

We talk for a while about what kind of boat we want (cheap but fast, bigger than a shoebox and hopefully slightly drier), as well as whether we should invite others (maybe one more if it’s a woman and she can suffer cheerfully). Then we talk for even longer about what kind of logo and sweatshirt we should make for our team (because there’s no such thing as a perfect boat, but a good hoodie can last for decades). We decide on a team name: Sail Like A Mother.

I’m too excited to sleep, so I roll out my sleeping bag in the cockpit and stare up at the glittery smear of the Milky Way. I picture braving the Strait of Juan de Fuca at night, rounding Cape Caution with 30-knot winds on the nose, and ringing the bell if (when!) we arrive in Ketchikan nine months from now.

The next day, I sail Sueños back across Flathead. The lake is just as empty, just as regal. The boat picks up speed with both sails fully loaded, cutting fast toward the little harbor with its bobbing boats.

My heart picks up speed too. Sailing alone has never scared me. It’s docking alone that gives me nightmares.

The old finger docks at Dayton Yacht Harbor are wobbly, narrow and made of ancient, splintery planks. There are no cleats, just a rusty metal pylon at one end and chains looped around boards on the other. Since it’s a weekday in September, the docks are deserted. No one is around to lend a hand.

Talk about adventure.

A couple hundred yards away, I do my deck-scramble dance to take down the sails and put out the fenders. I loop an extra-long bow line on the forward cleat and a stout stern line on the port side. I gauge the wind. It’s behind me, of course, to make this even harder. 

I take deep breaths and mutter: “You got this. You got this.” Leaning over the stern, I maneuver the sputtering outboard and tiller at the same time to turn into the slip. At the last minute, I throw it in reverse and leap onto the precarious dock with both lines in hand. I quickly wrap the stern line around the pylon and hold on tight to the bow line, hoping that I don’t fall into the lake. Sueños settles safely. Whew.

Before I go back to my family, I sit in the cockpit for a few minutes. Soaking in the mountains. Remembering past voyages. Planning a new one. Thanking the universe for the gift of people who are willing to travel beside me on wild, watery paths.

Brianna Randall is a writer based in Montana. Her stories have appeared in National Geographic, BBC, The Washington Post, Outside, CNN, Discover and plenty of sailing magazines. Follow her and the (comedic) exploits of Team Sail Like A Mother at briannarandall.com. 

The post Northern Exposure: Sailing Montana’s Flathead Lake appeared first on Cruising World.

This was the question we debated all winter long: Could two 79-year-old sailors take on Lake Superior one last time?

My wife, Jennifer, and I have had the great luxury of sailing Catamount, our Caliber 38, for 18 summers on the upper Great Lakes. These summers included nine on Superior—for the past six summers with Jack, our Brittany Spaniel. But the big 8-0 is staring us squarely in the face, and we know our time afloat is nearing its end. Between Covid and Canada’s border closures, we had not been to our favorite Great Lake in four years. Was it realistic to think we could handle the biggest and baddest of all the lakes, where services are few, docks and anchorages are often 50 miles apart, and the weather has sunk many a boat over the centuries?

We got the blessings of our children and decided to give Superior another shot, but with some rules. Two long days were to be followed by a day off.  Naps were encouraged. Sailing on just the jib was still sailing. Motorsailing was still sailing. Heck, even motoring would count as sailing. No more 12- or 14-hour days. No going up the mast. No beating or tacking into waves more than 2 feet high. No white-knuckle entrances into anchorages. Docks were OK. Above all, savor every moment.

Spoiler alert: We broke every one of those rules, except the last.

Lake Superior is almost 400 miles from east to west (the sun rises 35 minutes earlier at its eastern end than its western end). It has more than 2,000 miles of shoreline. Our previous trips had been up and back along the Canadian shore, or up and back along the American shore, or up one shore, across the lake and back via the other. We had never circumnavigated the whole lake. Why not go for it? In for a dime, in for a dollar.

Getting to Lake Superior from our home port of Cheboygan, Michigan, means crossing 40 miles of western Lake Huron and fighting a 2-knot current for another 40 miles up the St. Marys River to the locks at Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan (the “Soo.”) But we had two days of favorable winds and sailed all the way to the Soo in early July. We felt confident we could do this.

Then another concern: If we did the American shore first, we would encounter prevailing westerly winds and a 1½-knot current that runs clockwise around the lake. That favored going up the Canadian shore first and sailing counterclockwise. But the Canadian shore is also the most dramatic, the most remote (think Maine without people or lobster pots) and has rock-bound anchorages every 5 miles or so. We wanted to save the best for last, so clockwise it was: first the American shore, then back via Canada.

At the Soo, we got our first Lake Superior forecast, including that the mid-lake weather buoy recorded a water temperature of 39 degrees. Yeah, we would be putting off swimming until August.

We were the sole occupant of the 1,200-foot-long lock that raised us 21 feet from the St. Marys River to Superior itself. What service! Then we reached 48 miles to Whitefish Point’s breakwater-protected docks, beating an eastbound fog bank by minutes. We toured the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum with its dramatic display about the 1975 sinking of the ore carrier Edmund Fitzgerald, when the gales of November came early. We also met members of the museum’s dive team who were looking for the sunken schooner Annie M. Peterson, which disappeared nearby with its crew of seven in a late-fall storm in 1914. The 191-foot schooner had been built in 1874 by Jennifer’s great-great-great grandfather in Green Bay, Wisconsin. As we prepared to strike farther west, it was sobering to think we might be sailing over the bones of her family’s lost boat.

We anchored out in charming Grand Marais, Michigan, to watch Fourth of July fireworks overhead, and then sailed wing and wing along the colorful cliffs of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Contrary winds and fog, interrupted only by thunderstorms, kept us up anchored in Grand Island’s Murray Bay for two days, but two longish motorsailing days got us to the Keweenaw Peninsula, a dramatic arc of land that forces its way squarely into Superior’s maw. 

The Keweenaw is the remnant of a rift in the earth’s crust that filled in with copper-rich magma. Its copper mines in the late 1800s allowed the electrification of America and attracted miners from throughout Europe, most notably Finland. The town of Hancock, Michigan, sits astride the waterway that cuts through the peninsula, and is the only town you will ever visit where the street sings are in English and Finnish.

We sat in the cockpit for four hours waiting out a midnight squall with continuous lightning in Eagle Harbor, farther east on the Keweenaw’s north shore. A three-hour midday nap gave us the energy to carry on to Copper Harbor at the peninsula’s tip, where we gratefully stayed at the town’s neat-as-a-pin (and not much bigger) wilderness marina, which had bear-proof garbage cans.

Rare easterly winds pushed us west for two long days to the hardscrabble town of Ontonogan, Michigan. We goofed by not resting there a full day. Instead, we tried to beat west into 2-footers; that was OK for a few miles, but not the 48 we had to cover to get to the Apostle Islands. So, in a rare burst of good judgment, we turned back for a second night at Ontonogan. Our decision was validated when the harbormaster rewarded us with zucchini from his garden and freshly caught lake trout.

The forecast for going west the following day wasn’t great either, but it was the best forecast for the next week, so we tried it once more. The west wind repeatedly backed southwest and veered northwest, allowing us to tack six times through 90 degrees of apparent wind without once altering our westerly course for the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore. We staggered into virtually empty Julian Bay on the east side of Stockton Island and rewarded ourselves with three days off.

We have brought Catamount to the Apostles several times over the years. We love the area: lots of anchorages, sandy beaches, nothing to whack your keel, wave-carved sandstone arches and caves. Sailboats outnumber powerboats 10-to-1. We dusted off our dinghy-racing skills by beating through narrow passages, and we hiked the islands’ many trails. It is a seductive place, and our time in the islands recharged our batteries, which admittedly were getting a little low.

But our quest to circle the lake had our bow pointed west and my hometown of Duluth, Minnesota. I grew up on Superior’s rocky shores and was looking forward to bringing Catamount into Duluth’s big commercial harbor. With thunderstorms in the forecast, we left the Apostles early for the 70-mile trip. We almost made it; the storms caught us just a mile outside the harbor entrance. My glorious homecoming was in a downpour, the harbor entrance visible only on radar, but our decks were sluiced clean as we settled gratefully into Barker’s Island Marina. Owned and managed by sailors, Barker’s is the most complete and well-run, full-service marina we have ever seen. We almost wished we had boat problems to fix just so we could take advantage of their skills.

After three days of visiting with family and eating their cooking, we passed under Duluth’s Aerial Lift Bridge and headed east along Superior’s Minnesota shore, 150 miles of gorgeous but inhospitable rock cliffs and rocky beaches. Northwest winds got us nearly to hullspeed without any seas as we scooted to the only protection, first at the docks at Silver Bay and then 50 miles farther east at Grand Marais (yes, there was a Grand Marais back in Michigan too).

To our south was the looming hulk of Isle Royale National Park. The 40-mile-long island, 12 miles from Canada and 45 miles from Michigan, is American territory courtesy of some cartographic chicanery by Benjamin Franklin at the conclusion of the American Revolution. Maps of Lake Superior at the time showed three large islands in Lake Superior, with Isle Royale smack in the middle. Franklin knew there were rumors of copper deposits on the island and magnanimously said, “You guys take those two, we’ll settle for this one.” In reality, there was only one other big island in the lake; England (and later Canada) got Michipicoten Island, much smaller and less impressive than Isle Royale. We have sailed to Isle Royale several times, but we had to pass this time because they now forbid dogs in the park, even good sailing dogs like Jack.

Our first true wilderness anchorage was at the Susie Islands, just a mile from the Canadian border, where we got an American send-off with another three-hour midnight squall and electrical storm. After a day of catching up on sleep, we were finally at the jumping-off spot for Canada.

We love Canada. (Full disclosure: we have a Canadian daughter-in-law and two dual-citizenship granddaughters.) We love its people, its wilderness, its no-drama way of life. And we especially love its 350 miles of Lake Superior. After a four-year absence, we lustily sang “O Canada” while we hauled up our red maple leaf courtesy flag. We spent our first night hunkered under the 400-foot cliffs of Jarvis Bay, and washed down our version of poutine (alfredo sauce over hash browns) with two Molsons.

Superior’s Canadian shore has legendary fog when warm air from the American prairies moves over all that frigid water, and that’s what engulfed us as we crossed the 19 miles of Thunder Bay, with its commercial shipping lanes and myriad islands. Visibility fell to nothing. Distinguishing thousand-foot-long islands from thousand-foot-long freighters was tough. The radar contact we were puzzling over proved to be the latter, but the gray pall lifted just enough for us to be confident we would sail safely in front of it.

Now we were truly in the wilderness. Rocky shores, abundant anchorages, high cliffs, no other boats. As we worked our way across the top of the lake, a dilemma arose. Every hour under sail meant having to choose or ignore a world-class anchorage. The prosaically named Boat Harbour or Fish Harbour? The charmingly labeled Old Man’s Pocket or Uncle Dave’s? The fan-shaped basaltic columns and caves of Woodbine or the mile-long black sand beach of Shesheeb Bay? Tough choices. We couldn’t overnight in all of them, so we anchored for lunch stops and dog runs, then moved on every night as we worked our way east.

We cautiously threaded our way past shoals into tiny Walker Channel to take another day off, and the next day sailed between majestic cliffs directly to the anchorage in Loon Harbour. There, we dinghied to a tiny nearby island for a wilderness sauna. No one knows who built it, who maintains it and how it hasn’t burned down after all these years, but its rusty stove got the temperature up to 180 degrees. We also finally had the courage to swim in Lake Superior, with “swimming” being defined as belly-flopping into 3 feet of water and then racing back into the sauna.

We sprung for two nights at the dock in the tiny community of Red Rock, Ontario, for more fuel and Molsons. The town is so close to the 49th parallel that it’s farther north than most of Newfoundland. Then it was off to the Slate Islands in Superior’s northeast corner. We had following winds and seas, poled out the jib and put the preventer on the boom for a 20-mile wing-and-wing romp, finally dropping sail deep into the archipelago’s interior. The Slates are the remnant of an ancient meteor impact crater, and a network of cliff-studded islands protected us from a series of storms that blew through for four days. Jennifer went up the mast to retrieve a halyard I hadn’t secured properly, and when we finally hauled the anchor, we had to disengage it from a 12-foot log.

From the Slate Islands back to the Soo is 200 miles of the most remote shoreline anywhere this side of Labrador or British Columbia. We threaded between skinny islets just big enough to support solitary pine trees into well-protected Pulpwood Harbour, part of Pukaskwa National Park. It was white-knuckle time slipping past shoals with just 2 feet under our keel at the entrance into tiny Dampier Cove, surrounded by pine-fringed islands. When the forecast called for 30 knots from the northwest, we hunkered in well-protected Pilot Cove for two days, put out two anchors and a shore line, and watched 9-footers gallop by the harbor entrance.

A brief weather window allowed us to reach 30 miles with a double-reefed main and scrap jib toward Indian Harbour. We were unwilling to turn broadside into the seas to drop the main sail into the wind, and I struggled with the downwind take down, causing some anxious moments on deck (me) and in the cockpit (Jennifer) before we got it sorted out. But Indian Harbour was just as we hoped it would be: empty, protected, tranquil, restorative. Three days there seemed way too short.

As we left Indian Harbour, while motorsailing off a lee shore, the fan belt broke, leading to more anxious moments. Jennifer worked the sails while I crawled into the engine room, wrench and replacement belt in hand. It was a good thing we’d had three quiet days in Indian Harbour; this Lake Superior cruising life is tiring stuff.

By now it was late August. Nights were cooler, maple trees were changing color, and Orion had begun his autumnal march across the southern sky. When a high finally settled over the lake, it was time to head south, and we hustled back to the Soo.

We gazed wistfully over the stern as we left Lake Superior. Left her forever. We had been greeted by loons in Loon Harbour and an eagle at Eagle Harbor. We had walked beaches rarely trod by human feet. We had sat out at night with only our masthead light and the International Space Station on its appointed rounds between us and the Milky Way. We’d had glorious sails past some of the most stunning scenery anywhere on the planet, and we’d only seen two other sailboats in four weeks and 350 miles on Superior’s Canadian shore.

We had heeded Mark Twain’s advice: “Years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than the things you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from a safe harbor.” We’re not ready to call the broker quite yet, but we know that should this Lake Superior summer be the last we ever spend on Catamount, it was challenging and rewarding and memorable. We are regretful and grateful, and proud of what we did.

Yes, we broke every one of our own rules at least once, but not the last one: we savored every moment.

The post Savoring Superior: A Great Lakes Cruise To Remember appeared first on Cruising World.

Smells like dinosaur poop,” Lyra said, wrinkling her 4-year-old nose as we stepped out of our dinghy onto the delta of the Yellowstone River. “Mom, look! A dino footprint!” 

She wasn’t far off the mark. Great blue heron tracks traversed the mile-long mudflat, the pterodactyl-like claw prints bigger than Lyra’s hand. She skipped ahead to join her brother, who was collecting a bouquet of windblown osprey feathers to bring back to our boat. My husband, Rob, set out to stalk the shoreline with his fly rod, hoping to pull in yet another hefty Yellowstone cutthroat trout.

I surveyed the wild scenery: The 11,000-foot-tall Table Mountain rose just behind a dense swath of green willows, with nary a trace of human life in sight. Behind me, our 1974 Catalina 22, Tranquilidad, gleamed atop a vast navy lake, the only boat for miles. We were anchored where the Yellowstone River empties into its namesake lake in one of the most remote parts of Yellowstone National Park. Nicknamed “the Thorofare” because it’s a major migratory corridor for animals such as elk, deer, bison, wolves and grizzlies, this area includes the farthest point from a road in the Lower 48—which was about a dozen miles upriver from where we were anchored. Fewer than 100 people visit the Thorofare each year; all of them have to move through it by foot, paddle or wind power.

Arriving at this rewarding destination was definitely not simple. Our journey began three years prior, when we found an affordable swing-keel boat and trailer that looked perfect for fulfilling our dream of sailing across Yellowstone Lake. 

The only trouble was that the keel was inside the cockpit instead of attached to the hull. After renting a mini excavator to lift the 600-pound cast-iron fin, building a wooden contraption to slide it under the boat, and then replacing the cable and winch, we were in business. We took Tranquilidad out on a small lake near our home in Missoula, Montana, to test whether it leaked, what needed replacing, and how to stow gear, food and four bodies in a space barely bigger than our couch. 

Our first overnight lake voyage proved that we’d need to wait on Yellowstone until our kids were older. At barely 1 year old, Lyra was a definite liability on deck. And while 5-year-old Talon was slightly more capable, he was way more interested in endlessly casting bobbers off the bow than sitting still in the cockpit.

Two years later, after a dozen more weekend trips and plenty of patching, painting, and reconfiguring the boat, we deemed the family and Tranquilidad ready to traverse the largest high-elevation lake in North America. 

First, though, we had to ­navigate the National Park Service permitting system. Our plan was to launch at Grant Marina, one of two marinas on the lake, then head toward the delta of the Yellowstone River 30 miles southeast. We hoped to camp at least one night each way to break up the sailing time for the kids and to explore other parts of the lake.

The backcountry rules for camping or boating on Yellowstone Lake cover an entire 20-page booklet, which we pored over (literally with a magnifying glass) in March. Some sites are off-limits certain dates for waterfowl nesting. Some require boats to be completely removed from the water, an obvious no-go for us. We researched wind patterns and calculated mileages, then mailed in a list of desired anchorages, dates and backup choices, only to find out that the National Park Service had just changed to an online system for backcountry permits. 

A couple of months later, we received an email that we were approved for the early lottery and had earned a chance to reserve our sites. Next up, we turned our attention to the trailer. 

Hauling a sailboat 320 miles over mountain passes and along winding two-lane roads would arguably be the most nerve-wracking part of the whole trip. Rob greased bearings, replaced the aging tires, and made sure a spare was accessible. 

Then we created meal plans and shopping lists to outfit our family for seven days of camping. We also ­double-checked our safety gear, some of which was required: a handheld VHF radio (since Tranquilidad has no electrical wiring), life jackets, throw ropes, battery-powered navigation lights, a foghorn, flares and bear spray.

On a hot July morning, we departed for Yellowstone, our truck packed with bedding and clothes, food and water, books and games, and gear for fishing, snorkeling and hiking. We made sure to arrive at the park entrance in the evening, in hopes of avoiding long lines of summer tourists who drive at a snail’s speed. 

Our plan worked: Hundreds of cars streamed past us, exiting Yellowstone as we cruised in. The kids pointed at bison lumbering along the road and elk grazing in green ­meadows. We even got lucky as we arrived at Old Faithful, pulling into the parking lot just as the geyser began erupting. “A water volcano! Run, Mom, run!” Lyra yelled, pulling me toward the geothermal wonder as soon as she hopped down from the truck.

That night, we set up a tent at Grant Village Campground because we couldn’t launch Tranquilidad without park ­officials first inspecting the vessel for aquatic invasive species. The next morning, we arrived at the park’s ­backcountry office promptly at 8 for our inspection, and to gather our permits and watch the mandatory video on ­wilderness safety. 

As Rob and I raised the mast and readied the sailboat in the marina’s parking lot, the kids practiced the video’s top recommendation for avoiding bear encounters: Make lots of noise. 

We were underway by 10, a light breeze behind us. The southeast arm where we were headed was nonmotorized, but we’d mounted a 3 hp outboard in case we needed propulsion on other parts of the lake. Our cherry-red Alpacka Forager bounced on its painter in our wake. We used this versatile, 13-pound inflatable raft as a dinghy. 

Four hours and 17 miles later, we made it to our first anchorage. Nesting loons called from a sandy spit, and lodgepole pines sent shadows into the shallows. Rob and Talon fished from shore for cutthroat that were rising amid a thick hatch of mayflies while Lyra and I made a sandcastle crowned with an enormous rack of elk antlers we found in the woods. We even swam a bit, surprised that the water wasn’t as frigid as expected. All 132 square miles of Yellowstone Lake freeze each winter—some parts had thawed mere weeks before we arrived. At 7,733 feet above sea level, the average year-round water temperature is 41 ­degrees Fahrenheit.

I’ve sailed across the Pacific and lived under Montana’s big skies for 20 years, but I’ve never seen stars as dense and as crisp as from atop Yellowstone Lake.

In fact, even though it was midsummer, I’d packed our wool socks, down coats and winter hats. Yellowstone is infamous not only for its cold water, but also for its unpredictable mountain weather. A friend who had sailed across Yellowstone a decade ago warned us: “Watch out for squalls. Waves whip up fast out there.”

But our trip was plagued by the opposite problem: no wind. We’d launched during a heat wave, which left us bobbing slowly beneath scorching sun. Fortunately, Tranquilidad was able to ghost along at 2 knots even when the surface was glassy—a boon because the outboard (which had served us well the past two years) had lost power. We’d forgotten to account for the fact that its tiny carburetor was getting less oxygen at the lake’s high elevation. In between maximizing sail trim in the scanty breeze, we fiddled with a system of tarps and umbrellas to create patches of shade. Although we’ve weathered plenty of harrowing gales at sea and backpacked dozens of miles through the wilderness together, Rob declared Day Three “one of our hardest adventure days yet.” He’d take 30-knot winds and stormy waters almost any day over inching along beneath 90-degree sun. 

The plus side of going slowly was that we had plenty of time to fish from the boat and to watch the jaw-dropping scenery. Yellowstone’s forests are immense. The water is cold and clear. The flower-filled meadows are magical. And all of it we had nearly to ourselves. Over the course of seven days, we saw fewer than a dozen motorboats and only a handful of canoes and kayaks.

When the sun finally set after 9 each evening, we all breathed a sigh of relief—until the mosquitoes and biting flies found us. They seemed to particularly like the cabin, congregating in every corner below to nip at ankles and elbows. We rigged a mosquito net over the kids’ berth while Rob and I each bunked on one of the narrow cockpit ­benches, pulling our hats low and sleeping bags high. 

Sleeping outside was well worth a few bug bites to gape at the stars though. I’ve sailed across the Pacific, camped in Alaska, and lived under Montana’s big skies for 20 years, but I’ve never seen stars as dense or as crisp as from atop Yellowstone Lake. It gave “milky” a new meaning as our galaxy glittered above.

We spent a lovely few days hiking around the Thorofare. Talon chased frogs and caught butterflies. Lyra plundered patches of fingernail-size strawberries. Rob and I took turns snorkeling from the boat, stalking thickets of logs stacked underwater in search of the lake’s namesake cutthroat trout. All of us competed in stone-skipping competitions from the gravel beaches, counting the pings each rock made across the clear green water. While we spotted a few deer grazing on the shore and all sorts of shorebirds, waterfowl and raptors, we never ran across any of Yellowstone’s famed megafauna. The intense heat surely relegated most animals to nocturnal ambles. We did, however, witness a few extraordinary hatches of mayflies—aquatic insects that feed fish and birds. One morning, they coated every lee surface of the boat and our bodies for an hour, thousands of tiny U-shaped creatures with fluttering, gossamer wings.

On Day Five, when we were slated to move to a new campsite a few miles ­northwest, we waited until the wind picked up in the evening. As we tacked back and forth on a close reach, thunderheads built over the mountains and spread purple across the western horizon. Mounting waves were ­beginning to rock Tranquilidad. I glanced at the wide-open shoreline along our designated anchorage and realized that we would be exposed to the full fetch of the lake. 

As we sailed closer to our ­intended anchorage, Rob pointed out a small stream, about 8 feet across, that connected to an interior pond just off the main lake. It looked invitingly calm, protected by a ring of pine trees. I set the anchor and lashed the sails, our rigging rattling in the building storm, while Rob quickly paddled the dinghy over to gauge the stream’s depth. “Two feet, maybe!” he yelled over the wind. With our keel and rudder raised, Tranquilidad drafted just under 2 feet. I motioned him back, calling, “Let’s try it!”

We paddled the sailboat through the small cut, wind at our back, holding our breath. Our bottom didn’t scrape a whit, and we breathed a sigh of relief: We had found a freshwater hurricane hole. Nestled happily in our placid little pond, we dined on ­ramen ­noodles while ­whitecaps frothed in fury across the mighty lake beyond.

As we tacked back and forth on a close reach, thunderheads built over the mountains and spread purple across the western horizon. 

The gale dissipated by bedtime, and morning once again dawned hot and breathless. We settled in for a long, slow meander back to the marina. The kids read books and played cards in the tiny cabin. I did yoga on the bow while Rob listened to a podcast under an umbrella at the helm. Even though the breeze was only a faint glimmer, Tranquilidad moved at a respectable 3 knots.

The marina came into sight around 2 p.m. But as soon as we rounded the aptly named Breeze Point, the wind whipped up quickly and aggressively—just like we’d been warned. It circled 180 degrees and blasted across our nose in 35-knot gusts, sending us heeling hard to starboard. We frantically secured our scattered gear and swapped out the genoa for the storm jib. An hour later, after two dozen tacks and a lot of nail biting from our kids, we tied up safely to the dock.

I handed out pepperoni slices and water bottles while we got our land legs under us again. Rob backed the trailer down, and we pulled Tranquilidad out of the water. 

As the boat dried beneath the pines in the parking lot, I asked, “Who wants to jump in the lake one last time?” Both kids grabbed their nets and raced to the beach, just in case there were any critters worth catching along the way. 

Know Before You Go

Make sure you’re familiar with the extensive regulations and permits required to boat in Yellowstone National Park. These can be found on the national park’s website, along with park-entrance requirements and fees. Here are the highlights.

Season and boat length: The season runs Memorial Day through the end of October. Nonmotorized boats (including sailboats) are allowed on several lakes in the park, including Yellowstone, Lewis and Shoshone lakes. Vessels must be under 40 feet to launch in the park.

Marinas: Grant Marina has a boat ramp, trailer parking and pit toilets, but no slips or overnight moorage. Bridge Bay Marina has overnight slip rentals, but a low bridge to enter might limit sailboats. Both marinas are best accessed from the West Yellowstone entrance in Montana. Expect a one- or two-hour drive through the park (and delays from bison gawkers).

Backcountry reservations: All vessels must have a backcountry permit for a designated campsite each night, even if you sleep aboard your boat at anchor. First, study the map and boating regulations booklet for descriptions of each site (a few even have docks) and the mileage between them to plan your preferred itinerary. Next, apply for a reservation through the early access lottery at recreation.gov in March. If chosen for early access, you will be allotted a two-hour window in April to reserve your itinerary online. Remaining advance permits are available on recreation.gov in late April—and they go fast. A hard copy of the permit must be picked up in person at any backcountry office in the park the day before or the day of your launch date.

Aquatic invasive species: All watercraft must be inspected for aquatic invasive species prior to launch, and are required to have an AIS sticker on the hull after inspection. This can be done at a backcountry office after you pick up your permit. 

Fishing license: If you plan to fish, you’ll also need to get a license from the state of Wyoming and a permit from Yellowstone National Park. Be familiar with fishing regulations for each lake.

Wilderness preparation: Don’t expect to see a gas station, restaurant or rescue vehicle once you’re on the lake. Bring ­plenty of water, fuel, food and tools. It’s also a good idea to bring an extensive first-aid kit, a satellite tracker like Spot or Garmin inReach, and protection from sun, rain, and bugs. Each campsite has a pit toilet, or you can use your boat’s holding tank. You’ll be required to watch a short video on wilderness safety when you pick up your permit before launch. 

Required equipment: The park requires all boats to have PFDs, a sound-producing device (like an air horn or whistle), running and navigation lights, fire extinguishers, ventilation, and flame arrestors for inboard engines. Though not required, the park recommends bringing the following safety gear: an oar or paddle, bailing device, anchor and line, VHF radio, compass, GPS unit, dry bags, a floating throw rope or ring, and a visual distress signal such as flares.

Non-motorized or no-go zones: Certain areas have ­restrictions on speed, motors, anchoring, and/or landing vessels to protect natural resources and nesting waterfowl. Print out the map and boating regulations guide to have these rules on board and to ensure that you follow any special instructions laid out in your permit. Bring along a few field guides and a good set of binoculars to help identify the flora and fauna you’ll see in the park.

Triple-Check Your Trailer

While it might be more fun to focus on rigging your boat for the upcoming adventure, it’s just as important to get your trailer shipshape to ensure that you actually make it to the water. Trailers require constant, careful maintenance to keep you, your boat, and other vehicles safe while on the road.

Avoid flats by inflating trailer tires to their maximum rating, which may be as high as 50 or 60 psi. Check the tread carefully, noting if it’s wearing more on one side, which might mean that the axle is bent. 

Flats are fairly common for trailers. Always bring along a good-quality spare tire, either mounted on the trailer or stowed in the back of the truck, along with tools and a jack to change a flat.

Inspect the wheel bearings and repack them with fresh grease (marine grade) every few years or before a long trip.

Check the brake fluid and brake pads on your truck and trailer (some lightweight boat trailers don’t have their own brakes). 

Make sure the trailer lights work, including signals, brakes and rear running lights. Clean any rust or mud off the ­ground-wire connection with sandpaper. 

Check that the trailer ball hitch is seated properly before you go. Make sure your safety chains are properly connected, and take it slow. Like sailing, you’ll get there eventually.

The post Sailing in Yellowstone National Park appeared first on Cruising World.

This summer, with the pandemic and social distancing still in mind, taking the family on a Down East cruise to Maine might be just the thing. After all, it’s not only one of the world’s great sailing destinations, but also there are isolated coves, vacant beaches and uninhabited islands where self-isolation is just fine. If you take your own boat, there are ample shore services, yards, marinas and harbor towns in which to haul or moor your vessel between visits. Or you can charter a bareboat or reserve a crewed yacht. Let me provide an overview of what’s entailed in cruising Maine in the second summer of COVID-19.

The coronavirus restrictions remain fluid, and of course you’ll need to investigate the current situation before shoving off. Now, on to the fun stuff.

Sailing to Maine is the easy part.

It’s only 144 nautical miles on a rhumb-line course from the Cape Cod Canal to Monhegan Island. At 6 knots, that’s 24 hours. It’s another 24 miles up through Muscle Ridge Channel to Owls Head Lighthouse—the front door to what I feel is the greatest cruising ground anywhere: Penobscot Bay.

The distance from York Harbor, near the southern border with New Hampshire, all the way to the Canadian border is 200 nautical miles in a straight line…but the Maine coastline is anything but straight. If you add in the shoreline around each of the 4,500 islands—then include the coves, bays, harbors and tidal rivers—Maine has more coastline than the rest of the entire East Coast, more than 5,000 miles. Logic suggests there must be a few places along that stretch where you can find a secluded spot to anchor for a spell.

Maine’s largest bay, Penobscot, is split down the middle by a chain of islands: the Fox Islands to the south, Islesboro to the north, with a dozen small islands in between. There are half a dozen harbor towns, some small fishing villages, and lots of isolated coves in which to anchor. You’ll find uninhabited islands and beaches to explore, mountain trails to hike, waterfront restaurants and seafood shacks, and open-air farmers markets. There’ll be blueberries to pick, corn to shuck, lobsters to boil, and quiet evenings aboard in your own boat.

Nice, right? Now let’s get to the particulars.

The two-week cruise I’ve outlined below will keep you and your crew safe, in your own bubble, on your own boat. Each day includes a few hours of sailing to a new anchorage. Afternoons are for exploring uninhabited islands, secluded coves and a few villages. Evenings, you are alone, anchored in a secluded cove, as the sun drops behind the Camden Hills. There are enough wilderness islands there to fill up a few weeks—if not the entire summer, and many summers to come.

I’ve lived on and cruised along the coast of Maine for 50 years, and my ideal two-week getaway would be a circumnavigation of the Fox Islands. A couple of kayaks and a RIB with at least a 10 to 15 hp outboard are essential for this kind of serious gunkholing. The anchorages I’ve described are no more than a few hours apart, affording the crew some time to test their sailing skills, and the navigator to plot courses to keep everything off the rocks. You may also find your own anchorages. There are untold options galore, so go explore. I won’t mind at all.

Day One: Rockland is a good place to start (and also a good spot to leave your boat between visits). This large commercial port is easy to enter, with ample space for anchoring. There are rental moorings, docks, fuel, four marinas (including a mega-yacht facility), a large chandlery (Hamilton Marine), supermarkets, canvas shop, mechanics and boatyards. Main Street is abuzz with shops, a theater, two art museums, lots of art galleries, and half a dozen restaurants; the four-star Primo eatery is also nearby. Cape Air provides regular service to Boston from the local airport; the Concord bus line stops at the ferry terminal twice each day. US1 passes through town, and rental and loaner cars are available. Box stores are a few miles out of town. It’s almost civilized there.

To kick things off, leave Rockland midmorning and steer northeast for Pulpit Harbor on the northwest corner of North Haven Island. It’s only 10 nautical miles, and with a southerly breeze, you’ll be there by lunch. Leave Pulpit Rock, with an osprey nest atop, to starboard and find a spot to anchor inside. The moorings are all locally owned, so find a spot in midharbor in 25 feet of water to anchor, or in the two coves on the south side.

There’s a public dock farther in for your dinghy. The island’s food store is a half-mile walk south, from the bridge. Take your dinghy farther up into the cove, past the traffic bridge. Farmland, fields of lupine, and cottages covered in roses line the banks and roads. In the summer, the sun sets over the Camden Hills across the bay well after 8 p.m.

Day Two: Two options: north around the top of North Haven, or south. The wind that day will dictate. The northerly route offers up a scattering of islands with four possible anchorages. Hank and Jan Taft have described these in their comprehensive A Cruising Guide to the Maine Coast (see “Resources and References,” page 51). The Barred Islands and Butter Island are accessible and a good place for lunch, beachcombing, a hike, or even an overnight stop in settled conditions.

Quick aside on dinghies: Finding a place along these islands to beach a dinghy is one thing; securing said dinghy is another. Pull it up on the beach, and when you get back from your hike, you might find that the tide has floated it off the beach and it’s drifting away, or it’s high and dry, 30 feet from the water’s edge.

There are numerous techniques to solve this problem. The captain can drop off the landing party and return to the yacht for a nap. Go ashore in kayaks; they are easily pulled above the high-tide line and carried back. Or rig a dinghy-retrieval mooring system: Secure a floating buoy to the dinghy anchor line with a shackle. Drop it in deep water. Nose into the beach, off-load, then with a long loop of line rove through a shackle on the anchor float, pull the dinghy back out to where you dropped the anchor. Tie the shore end of the loop to something above high tide. When you get back, just pull your dinghy in to the beach. Make your own, or try West Marine’s Anchor Buddy, a ready-made dinghy mooring system using a long bungee cord that snaps your dinghy back out into deep water.

Days Three and Four: With a fair breeze, steer southeast from Butter Island, down to Oak Hill on the tip of North Haven. Give the hodgepodge of small islands and ledges a wide berth on the way. Mind the current. There are two possible anchorages: Marsh Cove, below the hill on which sits the Watson Estate. No access ashore. Mullen Cove is better. The beach provides access to hiking trails through a town-owned park. Just south is Burnt Island, now a North Haven park, with a walking trail all the way around and a float to which you can tie a dinghy at any state of the tide. Or head for the beach off the northwest tip of Calderwood Island. You can’t go wrong with any of these.

Calderwood is tucked in between Simpson and Babbidge islands on the northeast side of the Fox Island Thoroughfare. Uninhabited and open to the public, it is now owned by Maine Coast Heritage Trust, which keeps the trails open now that the sheep have left. There’s a spruce forest at the southern end where the kids can build fairy houses. Anchor off the beach on the north side where hiking trails begin. Be aware of the rock in the middle of the anchorage. I spent a few hours there once waiting to be floated off. This is a popular anchorage, and if too crowded, there’s another spot to the east, between Calderwood and Babbidge. Two beaches provide access ashore and to the trails. The passage between the two islands is strewn with ledges and rock. When departing, go back around the north side of Babbidge or Calderwood. Calderwood might need two days to fully explore. I’ve spent weeks there photographing.

Nearby are two obvious anchorages for the night: Carver Cove, south of Widow Island, is calm, with views of saltwater farms, fields and forests. To the north, past the Goose Rocks spark plug lighthouse is Kent Cove. There’s no shore access, but if there’s a breeze, there’ll be no mosquitos.

Day Five: You have decisions to make: You could go east to Stonington, the Deer Isle Thoroughfare, and on to the islands farther down the Maine coast. (We say “down” up here in Maine when heading up the coast, as in Down East. The prevailing winds are southwest, meaning you’re mostly sailing “downwind.”)

But for the purposes of this itinerary, that cruise is for another time. So we’ll head west through the Fox Islands Thoroughfare, a narrow body of water separating North Haven from Vinalhaven. It’ll be busy with schooners, fishermen, gleaming classic yachts, and powerboats of all sizes passing through. The shore on the south side has a few summer cottages from the previous century. In the 1800s, Maine was a summer retreat for the wealthy from Boston, Manhattan and Philadelphia. With extended families and servants, they arrived by steamship to “camp out” in rambling cedar-shingled cottages. These “cottages” might look small from offshore, but up close, they are massive mansions with dozens of rooms, rambling porches, and servant’s quarters. They are still there. In recent years, the wealthy have returned to buy up fishermen’s shore frontage to erect even-more-lavish estates, with a jet-powered Hinckley picnic boat tied to the dock.

On the north side of the thoroughfare is the small village of North Haven, established by wealthy New York yachtsmen in the last century. North Haven is a world apart from its neighbor, Vinalhaven. The only grocery store is in the middle of the island, but the village might have places to order lunch, ice cream or dinner. This changes annually. Anchor outside the mooring field and out of the ferry’s approach to its terminal. Dinghy docks line both sides of the ferry terminal. The village has a library, art galleries and a community center with frequent performances, plays, lecturers and concerts. The roads wander inland past Victorian cottages, farms, fields and forests. Eric Hopkins, an island painter with a wide reputation, has a studio and gallery in the village, and there may be others. Seasons change, as do the residents.

Spend the night at anchor, or duck around to Perry Creek, a narrow cove on the south side of the thoroughfare. Ashore is a wilderness park with walking trails. Wander through spruce forests, over ledge outcroppings with views. It’s tight in there, but there are a few moorings that can be used by transients for a donation to the Vinalhaven Land Trust. Or drop the hook at the eastern entrance in 20 feet of water. If that’s too crowded, head farther south into Seal Cove. Watch the chart closely because rocks are about, but you should be able to find a spot with sufficient swing room. Take the dinghy back up to Perry Creek, where there’s access to the trails on the southeast side. Watch for a sign nailed high up on a tree. Set your dinghy moor and climb ashore.

Day Six: Heading west down the thoroughfare, pass Browns Light to port, the Sugar Loaves to starboard. You’re heading to Leadbetter Narrow. Pass north of Dogfish Island. To port is Crockette Cove, where there’s room for a boat or two, but mind the underwater cables. At high tide, you can take the dinghy or kayaks a mile and more up into the cove. There are more anchorages on the other side of Leadbetter Narrow.

Narrow is the operative word. It’s a tight squeeze between Leadbetter Island and the mainland of Vinalhaven. Steer north of the green can that marks a rock in the middle of the gap. The current is swift through there. Pass through, and you are at the head of Hurricane Sound, surrounded by a string of islands to the west and Vinalhaven to the east.

There is a lot to explore there, but first get the boat anchored. There’s a nifty spot to the east of Turnip Island, a small tree-topped isle at the entrance to Long Cove, a milelong fjord carved into the solid granite of Vinalhaven Island. There is an abandoned quarry on the hill that provided building blocks for the post offices in Boston and New York in the 1800s. At that time, more people lived and worked the granite quarries on Vinalheaven than live there now.

Read More: Maine

The entrance into Long Cove, to the east of Hall Island, narrows to 200 feet, but once through, the cove opens up into a quiet pond with room for a few boats to anchor. The shoreline is tall, covered in spruce. There are a few floating docks along both sides of the shore. Pathways lead up to large private estates. No access there.

A third of the way in, there’s a ledge barring the way, so take the dinghy and explore. Be back before the tides are low because the bar might be too shallow to navigate.

Day Seven: From your anchorage in or near Long Cove, there are small coves and islands—including Fiddlehead and a spot called the Basin—to explore. Use the kayaks, but someone should be in the RIB as a chase boat. The Basin is a large, almost landlocked body of water that’s worth a whole day fussing around in small boats. The narrow entrance to the Basin provides a reversing-falls effect, so enter at slack tide, or with the RIB. Be warned: The narrows can be a whitewater experience.

Day Eight: There are dozens of small islands to the west, a few with limited anchorages. One is south of the neck between Lawry’s Island and Cedar Island. There’s enough room for one, so leave early enough or give it a pass if someone is there. Farther south in Hurricane Sound are White and Garden islands, with two possible anchorages. Go ashore on the beach and take in beautiful vistas of the Camden Hills, and across to Owls Head.

Day Nine: Sail south to the anchorage and mooring field off the east side of Hurricane Island. In the 1800s, this island was a bustling community working the granite stone quarry, still visible today. In the 1970s and ’80s, it was home to the Outward Bound School. In 2009, the Hurricane Island Center for Science and Leadership took over the site, with science, technology, engineering and mathematics experiential education programs for youths between the ages of 11 and 18. Guest rental moorings might be available, and you are invited to go ashore. Anchoring is possible, but the bottom is rocky, with kelp. There are trails around the island and a center to visit.

You’ve been gone a week now, and you might need a few provisions. There’s a small grocery store nearby in Carvers Harbor. You can get there by going southeast around Herons Neck light or up and around Greens Island, then down the Reach, a narrow, twisty passageway between Vinalhaven and Greens Island leading to Carvers Harbor, the main settlement on the island. Keep an eye on the chart and markers as you go because they can be confusing. You might meet the ferry on its way to or from Rockland.

Just before the ferry terminal, drop the hook off Dodge Point or on the opposite side of the entrance, south of Potato Island. Send in the dinghy to see if there is a rental mooring available. Look for a buoy with a bottle wired atop a stick. It’s for the rental fee. Call the harbor master if necessary (207-756-0209).

Carvers Harbor is one of Maine’s busiest lobster-fishing harbors, landing some 5 million pounds of lobster annually. The harbor is narrow, full of lobster boats, and the shore is lined with floating docks piled high with the traps, wood crates and scales. It’s there where fishermen offload and weigh their haul, and cash out. There’s no room in the harbor to anchor, and the bottom is too hard anyway, so anchor outside.

There’s lots to do ashore, so take the crew to the dinghy dock at the head of the harbor, where you can tie up. Across the street is the Nightingale Restaurant, formerly the Harbor Gawker. There are shops, a grocery store, art galleries, pubs, offices and buildings that date back to when this town was a granite shipping port. The streets lead to lanes, past Victorian homes and farms, summer estates, forests, and abandoned, water-filled quarries. Stay overnight because tomorrow will be a long day.

Day 10: It’s just 4 miles from Carvers Harbor to Brimstone Island, a tall, rugged, uninhabited island on the outer edge of Penobscot Bay. It might as well be on the edge of the world. Anchor off the pebble beach at the northwest corner. This is a day-only anchorage. The bottom is rocky with kelp. Holding ground is better on the south side between Brimstone and Little Brimstone but only in settled weather. Dinghy ashore, but keep an eye on the tide or set a dinghy mooring.

The island beach is famous for its small, round, black basaltic pebbles, polished smooth by 100,000 years of wave and tidal action. The stones arrived there eons ago from far, far to the north, carried by the ice sheet as it moved slowly south. I’ve carried three of these small black stones in my left pocket for years. Wherever I am in the world, I can grab a handful of Maine. Stay clear of the east side of the island because it is a bird nesting area.

By early afternoon it will be time to gather up the crew and return to the boat for lunch and a discussion of what to do with the remaining days of the trip.

Day 11: Six miles north of Brimstone, halfway up the eastern shore of Vinalhaven, is Seal Bay, a nifty piece of water with anchorages, coves and islands. The entrance is between aptly named Bluff Head and Hen Island. The channel is narrow and the current swift, but inside there are five or six individual and secluded anchorages. You’ll be surrounded by a granite and spruce wilderness. The only trail access is through Huber Preserve, south of Burnt Island. With a kayak or the dinghy, you can explore the coves and islands, and watch wildlife, birds, dolphins, foxes, and perhaps see a deer. Next to Seal Bay is Winter Harbor, another narrow cove cut deep into the island. There are three or four spots to anchor, but mind the current and swing room.

Days 12 and 13: It’s time to get back into civilization, and cellphone service. Let’s head to Camden. This is a morning trip from Seal Bay. Head up through the Fox Island Thoroughfare, put the Sugar Loaves to port this time, and turn right at the Fiddler, a granite stone monument at the southern end of a ledge off Stand-In-Point. From there, it’s an 8-mile dash across West Bay to Camden. Watch out for the Graves, a ledge above high tide, marked by a light, a mile and a half southeast from Camden.

Put Curtis Island Lighthouse to port as you enter Camden’s outer harbor. There’s room to anchor inside to the right, east of the mooring field, west of the ledges. The Yacht Club, Wayfarer Marine and the town have rental moorings. Call ahead. The inner-harbor floats are filled with local craft, but Wayfarer and the town docks might have space to come alongside. Wayfarer has a fuel dock and pump-out station. The town has a pump-out boat that will come to you in the outer harbor. Call ahead.

Ashore, Camden is as charming a town as you could imagine. It was the film set for the 1950s movie Peyton Place. There are shops, a library, provisioning, laundry, and on Wednesdays and Saturdays, there’s an open-air farmers market. There are hardware stores, T-shirt shops, and art and home-furnishing galleries. Camden has also become Maine’s foodie town, with more a dozen restaurants, featuring Italian, Asian and French cuisine, and good-old New England seafood. There’s waterfront dining, and Harbor Dogs—a fish-taco truck—is right there on the public landing.

There’s a large, freshwater lake nearby and half a dozen hiking trails that wander through the Camden Hills. A half-hour climb to the top of Mount Battie, which oversees Camden, provides stunning vistas of Penobscot Bay. You can see the islands you just explored, with views all the way to Blue Hill, Cadillac Mountain and Isle au Haut. The trail begins just a 10-minute walk from the dinghy docks.

In non-COVID times, there are concerts and plays, as well as performances on the library lawn and at the Opera House. Wandering the streets or hiking over the hill to Rockport will get you back in shape from two weeks of cruising. It’s so nice there, you could move in. I did.

Day 14: Last day—it’s back to Rockland, 7 miles south of Camden. The crew can pack up, unload and head back to civilization. The boat can get parked on a mooring until the next adventure, or take you south. From there, it’s roughly 36 hours to Newport, Rhode Island. Or you can haul the boat for the winter, with plans to sail farther east next summer.

You can also think about future trips.

Northern Penobscot Bay needs a visit, including Warren Island, a state park next to Islesboro Island with hiking trails. Then into East Bay to visit Castine Harbor, Smith Cove and a dinghy trip up the Bagaduce. There are small coves and anchorages such as Bucks Harbor, along Eggemoggin Reach. Swans Island is next, then up into Blue Hill Bay, over to Mount Desert Island and Somes Sound. That’s another two-week jaunt before returning west, back through the Deer Isle Thoroughfare, with stops in Stonington and the islands of Merchants Row. Then a day’s sail back to Rockland.

The opportunities are endless. This could become a habit.

The Challenges of Cruising Maine

here are a few navigational challenges I should mention, such as fog, 10-foot tides, 4-knot currents, anchoring among rocks and ledges, and lobster buoys and trap lines. I didn’t say cruising the coast of Maine was going to easy, but it can be an exciting challenge for any cruising sailor. I can think if no better place to test your skills while exploring one of the world’s great archipelagos.

Fog: There are three degrees of fog, I’m told. With “normal” fog, you can see a quarter-mile ahead. “Thick” fog is when you can see only a few boat lengths ahead. With “dungeons” of fog, it’s so thick, you can’t see the bow of your own boat. In the old days, Mainers practiced potato navigation: a kid on the bow with a bag of spuds tossing them ahead. A splash? Keep going. A thud? Tacking!

Today, AIS, radar, GPS, chart plotters and VHF have reduced the anxiety, but many lobster boats fail to use AIS, radar doesn’t see trap buoys and lines, and the currents haven’t changed. Someone on deck needs to keep visual watch while you are below glued to the radar screen. The sounder doesn’t help much in fog. Your keel could be in 30 feet of water with the bowsprit tangled up in the spruce trees ashore. The most valuable piece of equipment to have on board in fog is the anchor. Fog will burn off by late morning—if it’s going to. In June and early July, fog is more common, less so later in the summer. September is the best month in Maine.

Tides and current: Tides in Maine run 8 to 10 feet. That’s a lot of water to push up into the bays and drain back out, twice each day, at six- and 12-hour intervals. The tidal current running in and out of bays and coves can reach 4 knots. An hour’s run across the bay can set you off a mile on arrival, unless you compensate. With all those ledges and rocks lurking about, even a few feet off course can put you aground.

Anchoring means deploying sufficient scope to cope with the tidal range. Then there’s the set of the current: When the tidal current switches direction, where will your boat sit? Best to have a few anchors and extra line aboard to deploy in a Bahamian moor, to anchor astern or to run a stern line ashore.

Lobster buoys and trap lines: Lobster buoys are as much a hazard as fog and currents. Maine is prime lobster-fishing territory, with buoys so thick in places, you could walk to shore on them. The colorful buoys are not the problem—it’s the line that floats just below the surface from the buoy to the toggle. The toggle is a small float that keeps the trap line off the bottom, but when the tide is low, the toggle might reach the surface, and the 20 feet of line to the colorful buoy floats just below the surface.

Steer around the top of a buoy, not the bottom end where the line exits the base of the buoy. Do not go between the buoy and the toggle; you’re liable to find that you’ve snagged the line and fouled the prop. This might require a dive overboard into frigid water to cut the line free. And in most places, the sea rarely gets above 60 degrees, even in the middle of the summer. Lobster boats have a wire cage around the prop to keep out their trap lines. You can have a line cutter bolted to your prop shaft to cut the line, but then the fisherman has lost his trap. Radar doesn’t see the buoys, and you can’t see them at night. Keep a constant watch when navigating in Maine, and steer clear of buoys and trap lines. Even sailboats with their prop locked can snag a line on the blades or the rudder. Divers can be hired in many harbors to free a fouled prop. Still, lobster buoys are helpful in seeing which way the current flows and at what speed.

Prevailing winds: A midsummer day in Maine is apt to be under a high-pressure system, resulting in sunny, fog-free days but little wind, especially in the mornings. As the land heats up, a southwest sea breeze is likely to fill in after lunch, and might get up to 20 knots by late afternoon, just before dying off before dark. Gales are infrequent in the summer, and when a low comes up the East Coast, it tends to pass by just offshore to the east, producing northeasterly winds. Most Maine bays and harbors are open to the southwest, providing a lee to those winds. Hurricanes are infrequent.

David H. Lyman is journalist, author, photographer and sailor. He sailed into Maine in the early 1970s and started a summer photography school, the Maine Photographic Workshops, which continues today as Maine Media Workshops (mainemedia.edu). He has been owned by four different sailboats, from an Alden 34-footer to a Bowman 57. He has sailed the entire East Coast, and made more than 24 offshore voyages between Maine and the Caribbean. His first memoir about his hitch as a Navy photojournalist with a Seabee outfit in Vietnam in 1967 was published in 2019. He lives and writes in Camden, Maine.

The post Cruising Maine’s Penobscot Bay appeared first on Cruising World.

At a time of year when cruisers might point their bows south to escape winter in North America, or head to cyclone-free regions across the Pacific, instead they are contending with a wide array of restrictions brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic as a new normal has emerged over the summer. § Looking ahead, top health officials expect the pandemic to increase this winter—and that in 2021, the threat of coronavirus will remain. We hope for a vaccine and yet expect that any success will take time to reach far-flung corners of the world. For the cruiser, or hopeful cruiser, is it possible to plan a safe watery adventure?

Despite a world shrunk by globalization, regional and national responses to coronavirus continue to vary dramatically. There is no crystal ball, of course, so to form a view of what cruising might look like in the year ahead, we reached out to sailors around the world to see what might be possible.

North America

If the mainstream traveler rediscovered staycations, American cruisers are reminded that from Penobscot Bay to the Dry Tortugas in the east, and Puget Sound to San Diego in the west—the United States coastline offers extensive cruising for all seasons. The US border never closed to maritime entry, but a number of states had lockdown periods, and several continue to require different degrees of testing or self-quarantine. A pandemic flare-up could limit movement or require isolating. Other cruisers are placing their bets on a new period of slower-paced Caribbean cruising.

Allan and Lavonne Shelton were bound for Panama after several leisurely months in the Bahamas when borders started snapping shut in March. Making a rest stop in Jamaica en route, the crew learned that Panama had closed. They rerouted back to their home waters in Chesapeake Bay. “We were concerned about the possibility of being stranded somewhere with fewer cruising options than we would have by returning to the US, and we didn’t want to be a burden on another country’s health system.” Lavonne says.

Like many, the added risk of the virus put a damper on their 2021 plans. “We want to be able to socialize freely while cruising. We love hosting visitors aboard Vinyasa, and enjoy visiting others too. Realistically for us, cruising freely means waiting until a reliable vaccine is widely available and we’ve both received it.” The Vinyasa crew plans to sail between seasonal bases in Florida and Maryland until they feel safe to voyage abroad again.

Vivian Vuong and her husband, Nathan Zahrt, call the Compass 47 Ultima home. And 2020 was meant to be their breakout year, leading offshore training passages with John Kretschmer Sailing, but closures in the Bahamas and Florida Keys put a pall on plans. “By July we were finally able to do a training passage from Solomons, Maryland, to Newport, Rhode Island, and had an epic sail in nice weather, full of wildlife sightings. We saw whales, sharks, and pods of hundreds of dolphins feeding on schools of fish,” Vivian says. But they postponed further training passages, and instead shifted to working on superyachts to afford planned upgrades for Ultima. Vivian speaks for ­many cruisers when she says, “The ­hardest part of this pandemic is the uncertainty that it causes,” and in their case, it’s not just where this ocean-girdling couple can go, but the future of their work as well. Looking ahead, they anticipate this winter that Caribbean islands will offer opportunities for their own cruising and, hopefully, voyages they can share with others seeking a life afloat.

Mediterranean

At peak uncertainty when borders closed throughout the region, boats transited the breadth of the Mediterranean without options for landfall. The region later swung hard in the other direction, with uncomplicated movement between most European Union countries with just a few extra steps for clearance. But crews from nations outside the Schengen Area have more to juggle than just the stay limits in member states. If cases surged, how might countries respond? Uncertainty around the answer to this has encouraged many cruisers to focus on a safe harbor where they can make longer-term plans, saving active cruising for a post-pandemic environment.

“Most folks we talk to have a sense of being in a surreal film,” Shannon Morrelli reports from the catamaran Sweetie. They were spending their second winter in Tunisia when cases of COVID-19 surged, and the Monastir Marina ­provided a friendly haven. “It was treated as a single-family residence; cruisers could walk the docks and the marina’s headland during lockdown.” The lockdown started days after Monastir denizens, the American crew of the catamaran Grateful, flew back to the US for a brief visit in March; they weren’t able to get back to Tunisia until September. “Our circuitous return depended on the fact that Turkey (a non-EU country) was happy to have us and our tourism dollars,” Niki Elenbaas says.

When European countries began to reopen borders to their citizens, EU-based sailors left Tunisia for summertime cruising grounds closer to home. It was about another month before non-EU crews were able to sail north. To mitigate uncertainty ahead, Shannon and her husband, Tony, purchased a yearlong marina contract for Sweetie in Monastir; Niki and Jamie Elenbaas have done the same for Grateful. For 2021, they plan to cruise between Tunisia and other Mediterranean countries as restrictions (and Schengen rules) allow— and they expect ongoing changes.

Complexity’s crew, Barbara and Jim Cole, hail from Puget Sound. They have similarly doubled down to reduce their risk from instability in the Mediterranean with a long-term contract at a Cyprus marina. Barbara recalled the stressful passages they made across the Indian Ocean and up the Red Sea in the first months of the year. Although overdue for a trip home, they don’t think a flight to the States is viable given the risks of virus exposure coupled with the possibility of being barred from returning to their Hallberg Rassy 36. “Our resources and health could be taken away by careless exposure; it would be terrible to suffer a devastating illness so far from loved ones,” Barbara says. Meanwhile, the couple purchased a car to better travel the island. These experienced cruisers are upbeat; they don’t talk about being stuck but rather about the historic ruins and local delicacies: “As cruisers do, we are all making the best of our situation.”

Friends aboard the Ovni 41 Xamala empathize. “We have not moved much since our arrival in Crete [via the Red Sea] because of the uncertainty with infection clusters and lockdowns,” Anita Farine writes. Fortunately, as holders of Schengen Area passports, they’re able to extend their stay in Greece. “We feel for our international friends who don’t have many places to go to after the three months in Schengen.”

The Griswold family had just returned to Trifecta in Turkey. “From April through June we lived at anchor with very few boats, cruising the Turquoise coast,” Matt says. Family intentions were to continue west in the Med, then cross the Atlantic as the American family’s sabbatical cruise winds down. Then Turkey closed the border with Greece, and they gained empathy for cruisers who had felt trapped by the pandemic. Malta’s decision to open a corridor for EU access was a welcome relief. “In Malta, we filled out an extra check-in paper on arrival for the health department; otherwise no questions were asked. Life returned to ‘cruiser normal’ in an instant.” They’ve since sailed to Italy, Monaco and France, and are organizing an informal rally of boats bound for the Caribbean for the winter.

South Pacific

Island nations and protectorates in the South Pacific were among the first to lock down borders, and most remain closed. With dispersed populations and limited healthcare facilities, they remain conservative about reopening: To date, only Fiji and French Polynesia have a process for yachts to apply for permission to enter. Most cruisers responded by remaining in place; a minority made a move to Fiji when their Blue Lane Initiative—a program offering cruising boats easier entries, although with strict protocols—to enter a country commenced, and a few are choosing extensive passages to more-distant safe havens.

Like many cruisers, the crew of Maple intended to sail west from French Polynesia in 2020 after enjoying over a year in the islands with a long-term visa. With about two years left in their cruising kitty, they planned a winding path of island hops to reach Southeast Asia before wrapping up to go home to Canada. When the coronavirus stymied this plan, they evaluated how best to make the use of their family time left. Given the closed borders (or unpredictable restrictions) in their original plan, they’ve determined that it will be best to sail a loop through the north Pacific back to Canada. They’ll begin in January with a 5,400-nautical-mile passage from Tahiti to Okinawa, Japan.

“This will be our longest single passage, probably will be for the duration of our cruising lives, but we are oddly looking forward to it,” Darryl Lapaire says. The route will carry them close to islands of closed countries: Tuvalu, Kiribati, Federal States of Micronesia, and Guam. “Some of the islands are quite small, so we will need to be watchful and ensure we are zoomed in on our electronic navigation devices for this segment. Cyclonic storms in the equatorial North Pacific breed in the waters around the Marshall Islands and Micronesia, so from this area to Japan will form the area of greatest risk for us.”

Fiji and French Polynesia have created extensive permissions processes to request entry, making those countries possible options for those crossing the Pacific. Kris Adams and David Frost are longtime cruisers aboard the Kaufman 49 Taipan. Moored in Huahine, their attitude models that of many cruisers in French Polynesia: “We are very content here. We were hoping to be home after 19 years,” Kris says, but “the east coast of Australia is still nearly 3,000 nautical miles and then still a Southern Ocean passage away from our hometown in Albany, Western Australia.” This crew has the chops; they’re just choosing, as are most, to appreciate where they are instead. They can migrate to eastern island groups in French Polynesia for relative safety during cyclone season.

These are the difficult options facing cruisers in this region: Either remain in a hurricane zone for the storm season, or sail significant distances like the Maple crew, or hope for the continued generosity of a host country, or go against prevailing conditions to find an open border—all options fraught with uncertainty of future closures.

Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean

Although most countries in Southeast Asia aren’t welcoming arrivals, those within borders already are largely accommodated. The lack of options for landfall halted Indian Ocean transits early on; these are now easing, allowing cruisers already there a path from the region. But cruisers are challenged by bureaucracy here, as well as a lack of understanding for their situation, in countries that feel particularly far from home. Cruisers sheltering in place must juggle this uncertainty; many who can are sailing on.

The family aboard Dafne has cruised from North America across the Pacific and through Southeast Asia. As cases of COVID-19 surged, they sequestered for months in Indonesia’s Mentawai Islands. But with a teen heading to college and other family tugs to the US, they made plans to cross the Indian Ocean as soon as there were signs of South Africa opening up. “We would have stayed in Asia if we felt positive about being able to move between countries, but that seemed unlikely and now looks even worse,” Lani Bevaqua says. If a family emergency called them home, they’d be stuck: Interisland travel halted, making it impossible to reach a marina where they could safely leave their boat and access an airport, except by sailing Dafne out of the country. “We felt uncomfortable being caught somewhere that we literally couldn’t leave,” she says from their anchorage in Seychelles. They expect to arrive in the Caribbean next spring, and cruise North America in 2021.

In Indonesia, Adamastor’s crew were ­relieved that the state of emergency allowed continued visa extensions in this notoriously bureaucratic destination. But Jess Lloyd-Mostyn was troubled that “once the emergency stay permit amnesty was over, the first thing we were asked was, ‘Why have you not sailed back to England?’ It’s very hard to explain calmly how impossible such a thing (a journey of 13,000 odd miles) would be right now, with three young children, and not feel frustrated.”

Jess, husband James and their little ones intended to leave Indonesia earlier this year to avoid exceeding the three-year cruising permit; with no borders open nearby, they might face a hefty bill to import the boat. Yet Jess remains optimistic as they progress toward a clearance port to demonstrate their intentions to depart when it’s reasonable, and appreciates their relative security. “I think that things are harder for cruisers in Thailand because the immigration laws want foreigners to leave, but the Customs laws state that boats can’t be left unattended. Couple that with all the surrounding borders being closed, and what can you do?”

Interim Models for Cruising

While the options vary by region, there are clear themes. Even under the assumption that 2021 will continue with many countries inaccessible, there will be fluctuating regulations in those that are accessible, and added hurdles for clearance into nearly all locales. Two basic approaches stand out: first, taking longer passages to fewer destinations; second, cruising within a country or region where clearances are easier. More-experienced cruisers are better-prepared for the first, and any can choose the latter.

For most cruisers, the patience born of our adage that plans are made in the sand at low tide is playing out in new approaches. Some are reducing range, or keeping potential passage distances to reach backup-plan harbors in mind when making destination decisions. Others are slowing down, whether forced by quarantine or to enjoy fewer places for longer. And nearly all anticipate more hurdles—for more paperwork, more communications ­requirements and more fees.

What’s gone until the world has a widely available, reliable vaccine is the model for visiting a string of countries in a season or even a year. Bucket listers in search of a circumnavigation can’t count on the access to ports (regulations might change while underway) or access to goods or repairs in a typical fast-track loop.

Starting Under Pandemic

Should those with a long-held dream to go cruising hold off on a 2021 departure? This decision is based on individual circumstances and risk tolerance, just as in any other year. The stakes are just higher now, and the well of patience, perseverance, and skills needed for safe and comfortable cruising tapped further.

On the west coast, the reduced size of a casual rally that annually progresses down the US West Coast highlights this decision. The Coho Ho-Ho is an informal fleet where crews head south from Puget Sound on their own timetable, sharing information and camaraderie along the way. In a typical summer, the fleet is comprised of a few dozen boats; this year, all but two canceled southbound plans. Cruising in Mexico on his Lord Nelson 35 Jean Anne, Steve Olson says: “I was a bit shocked and saddened when I heard that cruisers were opting not to sail down to Mexico due to COVID. Knowing what I now know about Mexico and Mexican cruising, I feel much safer and less at risk of contracting COVID down here than I would in the US.”

Yet for many, the pandemic is motivation to set sail despite the challenges. Yacht brokers report that boat sales are booming. Subscribers to the coaching ­service my husband, Jamie, and I have to help cruisers and potential cruisers ­succeed is running at double pre-­coronavirus levels. One family we’re working with recently flew to Grenada (via a couple of other island hops because there are no direct US flights); they waited out a 14-day quarantine in a beachfront cottage there before moving onto their new-to-them catamaran. Another family flew from the US to Latvia for a 14-day “country cleaning” before heading back across the pond to Martinique to a boat waiting for them. Still others are ­beginning on the US coast, where no international clearance is needed to spread their cruising wings.

While 2021 might not be a good year for new cruisers to strike out across oceans, ranging from a point of ­departure is reasonable. The slower pace and necessity to watch regulations might even facilitate softer landings into the lifestyle, and open experiences missed on a faster track.

Looking Forward

As this issue goes to press, COVID-19 ­cases are rising again in many regions. Lessons from 2020 suggest that advance planning will continue to be difficult, and travel corridors might not emerge. Many common cruising routes—such as exploring the Caribbean chain, sailing coastwise through Latin America, or winding across the South Pacific—include migrations through countries that are more vulnerable to outbreaks, with healthcare systems that sailors might not wish to test. While it is still possible to cruise, it is more complicated.

Cruising now leans on deeper skills and resourcefulness. It requires patience and research, and costs more. But a focus on experiences rather than route schedules can bring fresh perspective into the joys of voyaging. More than ever, cruising will be about sensitivity to the locales hosting our vessels. It will be about taking the time to find empathy for the outlook of the local communities we anchor near.

Aboard Totem, our family’s cruising plans were upended in 2020. Instead of ­departing Mexico to sail to the South Pacific, we self-isolated for months in the Sea of Cortez. As much as we crave a return of passagemaking to faraway places, I expect that 2021 will continue to feature tacos instead of bringing back poisson cru. But for our crew, as for many cruisers, the joy of life afloat stems from experiences within the journey—not chalking up destinations. In the past week, wildlife encounters with a transient pod of orcas, filter-feeding whale sharks, and yipping coyote packs in the moonlight reminded us again that magic exists wherever you choose to seek it, and doesn’t know there’s a pandemic on.

Follow along with Behan Gifford and the rest of the Totem crew at cruisingworld.com/sailing-totem.

New Clearance Requirements

Arriving into a new country just got more complicated. Processes and paperwork vary; this list is based on a common range of requirements among Caribbean islands.

• Have arrival authorization issued prior to departure from a previous port.
• Take a pre-departure COVID-19 test, generally specified to be the RT-PCR (nasal swab).
• Carry proof of health insurance.
• Expect a health check on arrival, including additional COVID-19 testing.
• Expect quarantine days, depending on travel history; some islands credit sea time.
• Carry a supply of approved face masks and a thermometer.
• Use a contact-tracing app while in country.

The post The Outlook for Cruising 2021 appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s a typical down-on-the-dock scene in Maine. A handful of old-timers who have cruised this coast for better than a half-century share stories about favorite anchorages, shoreside hikes and precious swimming quarries. For them, the islands of Maine make life worth living, and the chance to sail among them summer after summer has more than justified the annual expense and effort they put into maintaining their sailboats. And then along comes Steve Stone and Amy Tunney, relative newcomers to town. Each is carrying a dry bag and wearing a backpack in preparation for a camp-­cruising voyage down Blue Hill Bay. Once out in the open water, they’ll make a final assessment of the wind forecast over the coming days, and they’ll ease off toward Acadia National Park to port, or toward Merchant Row and Vinalhaven to starboard.

Instead of spending countless hours sanding and painting and caulking their wooden boats as the purists do, Stone simply pulls the cover off their elegant craft, Howdy, slips it off the trailer into the water, and it’s good to go. No big hydraulic trailer necessary, no knuckle-busting engine work, no masts to step with a crane. When the wind blows, he and Tunney sail. When the wind quits, they row. Naturally the old-timers want to know more about how they go about the camp-cruising thing they have going.

Well, first of all, Stone and Tunney chose the right boat and boatbuilder: an Iain Oughtred-designed Caledonia Yawl built by Geoff Kerr. Kerr has built more than 20 boats to this design using marine-grade okoume plywood and epoxy, both of which are light and strong. And because the wood doesn’t shrink and swell like traditional sawn lumber, they can be stored on a trailer in a hot garage or under a tarp and be ready to launch at a moment’s notice without danger of leaking.

Besides this, Caledonias are great sailing boats: stiff in a breeze, easily reefable and surprisingly fast even to windward. A virtual ballerina of a boat at the hands of skilled sailors, these yawls are always in balance as they roll along before a freshening sea breeze on a summer afternoon.

At 19 feet, 6 inches, with a 6-foot-5-inch beam, Caledonia Yawls can carry a lot of gear and still have room for people. Occasionally we have even seen as many as 10 aboard Howdy with Stone and Tunney—plus a couple of dogs—enjoying an evening margarita cruise. With a draft of only 11 inches with the centerboard up and a sturdy keel, Stone can haul their Caledonia up the beach or pull it into deeper water with a haul-off anchoring system.

So how do they find big quantities of summer enjoyment in a small craft?

Besides choosing the right boat to carry them on their sail-camping adventures, Tunney and Stone have amassed gear and equipment to ensure that while they might be camping, they definitely aren’t roughing it. First off, they insisted on comfortable bedding. For this they chose a couple of Therm-a-Rest NeoAir inflatable mattresses. Rolled up, each one measures 4-by-6 inches, so onboard stowage is no problem.

And this was only the beginning. Summer by ­summer, they have added to their gear, all of it a sweet balance of simplicity, portability and comfort. Stone says their go-to website for discovering the best in camping apparatus is outdoorgearlab.com.

Another thing they make sure they do is carry ample fresh water, not only for drinking and cooking, but also for showers. What they take adds up to something like a gallon per day per person, plus fresh water for their hang-in-a-tree sun showers from Hydrapak. Water is heavy and takes up valuable space in the boat, but to stay fresh and clean on a five-night trip seems well worth it to them. As the water gets used, the bags roll up to the size of a tennis ball and stow away.

There’s only one real menace along the Maine coast, but it’s so reliable, you can set your clock to its irritation: mosquitoes. The only defense is to wall them off; set up the tent early and then dive in as soon as the first mosquito appears. Naturally they bring along bug dope, but they resist a total DEET soak-down if at all possible. Their other defense is to avoid islands with intense mosquito problems: islands with standing fresh water or adjacent salt marshes. Setting up camp on the windward side of an island also helps. And camp-cruisers generally stay clear of islands with rocky beaches. They make for hard landings, and swarms of biting flies often lurk beneath the stones. Once when Tunney and Stone veered off course to an unscouted island too late in the day to find an alternate site, Stone recalls that his partner came under a ferocious attack of these biting flies as she scouted out potential tent spots ashore while he rowed along the cobblestone beach waiting for her signal to land and unload. Seeing her slapping and cursing as she strode through the high grass, he pulled ashore and threw her a can of bug spray. Vigorously scrubbing chemicals into her thick hair and coming up with a total grin at the situation, this otherwise chemical-averse woman showed him that camping-wise, she was signed up for the long haul.

RELATED: A Celebration of Boats in Maine

Besides a tent and comfortable bedding, they carry headlamps, a good Whisperlite white-gas stove, super-insulated soft coolers to keep food fresh and ice cubes at the ready for the daily margarita, a grate for campfire grilling, and a horse-feed-style rubber bucket with a rope handle. The bucket, they say, is good for chores and fire safety. Anything needing to stay dry goes in large dry bags. True, it’s a lot to lug, but that’s what it takes to make their life comfortable—a priority of their own choosing.

For food, Tunney does the planning. She puts together meals before they go, such as a vegetable hash with chicken, frozen pizza from their favorite pizzeria that they grill by the slice over a charcoal fire, or veggie burgers. What the meals have in common is that they are easy to transport and simple to prepare.

But what ties it all together is the beauty and accessibility of the Maine coast. Not only are there countless islands to camp on within easy reach along the midcoast, the islands are generally strung out in a way that makes four- to five-day trips work for them.

When summer weekends arrive, they cross-reference wind and weather apps on their phones to get a feel for upcoming conditions. No matter what they have laid out in theory, it’s the weather that will shape their actual trip. This means the starting point isn’t usually chosen until the day before the launch, and the specific route they end up taking through the islands develops as they go. They always have a rough plan, usually with a specific island in mind for the evening, and Stone draws upon his old flight training to keep one eye on the weather for storms as well as a stream of bailout islands and coves as “emergency landing strips” along the way.

A key part of the Down East camp-sailing planning process is finding a safe place to bring the boat ashore or anchor it off with a haul-out system. Given the 9- to 12-foot tides, using an anchor and line and hauling the boat out past the low-tide line often means anchoring the boat 100 or more feet from shore. Getting things right is essential to a good night’s sleep. The last thing campers want is to find themselves wading out in the middle of the night if bad weather blows up.

Like sailing itself, sail-camping is a learn-as-you-go experience. And both Stone and Tunney have found it to be an economical and enjoyable way to experience one of the most beautiful, safe and accessible coastlines in the world. In summer, winds are generally manageable and predicted with great accuracy on phone apps and National Weather Service VHF-radio broadcasts. Navigation, once a challenge, has been made simple by GPS-enabled smartphones and other portable devices. Although they prefer charts and a compass, they use Navionics on their iPhones as a backup. A great many, perhaps even a majority of Maine islands, are located in waters protected from the open sea.

The reward for all that’s involved in small-boat adventures? “Cruising without an engine, with only oar and sail power, releases the tension from sticking to some plan,” Stone says. “If we follow the wind and currents each day, there’s no hard plan that requires sticking to. We often speak of ‘going with the flow’ and being forced to be in the moment. Without an engine, self-reliance becomes a necessity, and self-reliance usually brings peace and independence.”

Ultimately it is this peace and independence, enmeshed as it is in the challenges of exploring the natural world of Maine’s ­beautiful islands, that make Tunney and Stone love their ­getaways so deeply and brings them ever closer as a couple.

Bill Mayher is a writer and sailor who hails from Brooklin, Maine. He and Steve Stone are co-founders of marine video site ­ offcenterharbor.com.

Get to Know the Islands

To better familiarize themselves with the geography of potential camping spots, Amy Tunney and Steve Stone often take time to scope out potential islands to camp on, dipping into coves and up creeks to see what might work on a future voyage. Luckily a great many potential camping islands are under the auspices of either the Maine Island Trail Association or the Maine Coast Heritage Trust.

MITA has arranged permission from over 200 island owners to allow access to the association’s members. Many allow overnight camping. In exchange, MITA runs spring and fall cleanup programs and generally keeps a close eye on things. Accordingly, island owners have come to value their relationship with MITA, and the number of islands designated for camping has increased over the years. For beach cruisers, the best reason to join the association might be to get a copy of its guidebook and be able to access its app by smartphone. The book makes for great bedside reading and dreaming in the offseason, while the phone app is particularly useful during the cruise itself.

Both the book and the app are arranged geographically and give a convenient regional overview. Additionally, there is a chart of each MITA island that points out landing places, informs campers about various regulations that might apply, and shows the locations of campsites. MITA is vehement about the latter. The last thing they want is campers roaming around on an island with hatchet and bow saw, whacking out additional campsites. If the guide indicates one tent site on a given island, that’s it—one campsite. Faced with such limitations, camp cruisers are advised to get going early to their next landfall so they can be sure to get what they want, particularly on summer weekends.

The Maine Coast Heritage Trust, according to its mission statement, “conserves and stewards Maine’s coastal land and islands for their renowned scenic beauty, ecological value, outdoor recreational opportunities, and contribution to community [well-being].” So far the trust has conserved 154,150 acres, protected 320 islands and established some 93 preserves featuring 93 miles of trails. Without question, the coast would look far different without both the efforts of the trust and the generosity of coastal land owners who have donated land in order to keep it the way it was when they found it.

The post Sailing and Camping Along Down East Maine appeared first on Cruising World.

The first ankle biter struck while we were a couple of miles offshore, sailing past the twin lighthouses on Thatcher Island, off Rockport, Massachusetts. One moment, shipmates Herb McCormick and Tom Famulari and I were all chill, enjoying a lazy reach along Cape Ann. The next, we were boarded by a horde of flies with fangs. We swatted with ball caps, slapped with rolls of paper, but they kept on coming in an attack that raged until sunset—and resumed at dawn on the other side of the Gulf of Maine.

Who knew battling bugs would the hardest part of a Down East passage? The actual sailing? Pure delight: All it took were 25 hours and a southerly breeze for us to be snug on a mooring in pretty Tenants Harbor, Maine, with a fine sunrise in our wake, a refreshing beverage in hand, and more than a month’s worth of Penobscot Bay adventures about to begin with family and friends.

With a life moored in southern New England, my winter thoughts the past few years had often turned to a summer cruise along the Maine coast. But for a whole variety of reasons, time, distance and logistics repeatedly ruled it out. But then, out of the blue, the stars aligned this past July, and with minimal advance planning, the trip was on.

Our departure point was Nahant, Massachusetts, a small seaside town north of Boston where Tom and I live, and where my wife, Sue, and I had our Sabre 34, Jackalope, hanging on a mooring. Herb, who is Cruising World’s executive editor, and I had just finished putting out the annual charter issue, so we had a free spell to grab a good-weather window, which, as luck would have it, opened wide just two days after the issue shipped.

It’s roughly 125 nautical miles from Nahant to Tenants Harbor, or about a day’s run for Jackalope in most conditions. So while Herb drove to meet us, I grabbed a few provisions, loaded them up, and by Saturday morning at 11, we were good to go.

We motorsailed the first few miles until a sea breeze filled in off Gloucester. Late in the afternoon, with flies nipping and Cape Ann disappearing astern, we watched a steady stream of whale-­watching boats parade past on their way to and from the waters surrounding Jeffreys Ledge. Soon, they too were out of sight, and by dusk, we were well offshore, enjoying a stunning sunset, surrounded by nothing but open water and occasional patches of buoys and fishing gear.

To make things easy, we stood two-hour tricks at the wheel through the night. Just before dawn, I came up from a nap below to find Herb on the helm and Jackalope surrounded by shark fins that curiously seemed to be waving at us. They, along with a blazing sunrise, were a memorable way to begin the first day in Maine.

We were perhaps 10 or so miles from a waypoint we’d set off the southern end of Monhegan Island, and it wasn’t long before we heard the beefy rumble of diesel engines and spotted the glowing deck lights of fishing boats. Maybe that was what woke the flies, or perhaps it was the warmth of the day returning. In either case, soon Tom the Slayer was back at it, dispensing vengeance in a now-bloodied cockpit.

Past Monhegan, the mainland began to come into focus: bold granite shorelines topped by evergreens. First came the outer islands—Allen and Burnt and Mosquito—and then the coast, with cottages dotting the shore. By noon, we had Southern Island in sight, and then we were past it, making the turn down the channel into Tenants. As luck would have it, several salty-looking Friendship sloops were visiting, having just finished their annual rendezvous.

RELATED: Changes on the Gulf of Maine

Later in the day, after a nap and a bracing swim in the 61-degree water, we dinghied ashore to Tenants Harbor Boat Yard. In the guest center up the hill, I couldn’t help but wonder what prompted the management to post a sign politely asking visitors not to shower with their dogs. At any rate, we didn’t. Instead, we made the best of the remaining daylight and took an extended inflatable tour to check out the lobster boats, work skiffs, all manner of sailboats and visiting sloops swinging on moorings. Later, we enjoyed a tasty dinner of kielbasa and beans, topped off by a blazing redish sunset and star-filled sky.

The Rockland area, with Tenants Harbor nearby, is a convenient place to set up camp or juggle crew when cruising this part of the Maine coast. By car or bus, the city is about three hours from Boston, and there is regular ferry service out to the islands. Once a fishing town, the harbor today is teeming with residential and transient moorings. Ashore, there are well-stocked grocery stores, chandleries, several full-service marinas, shops, museums and restaurants. But better yet, Rockland sits at the southwestern end of Penobscot Bay, long a sailor’s playground filled with countless islands, coves and harbors waiting to be explored. During late July and August, weekend classic-yacht and full-on-racing regattas attract an array of yachts and their motherships, which move from one venue to another in an endless parade of sail.

With Jackalope’s delivery complete, Tom and Herb headed home, Sue and the dog arrived, and I shifted into vacation mode for a couple of weeks. First on the agenda: a few days sailing with my brother, Dave, and his wife, Peggy, who live just down the road from Tenants and on whose mooring we were squatters.

With the boat ­provisioned, refueled and tanks filled with water, we got a late-­morning start two days later. The breeze was light as we motored up Muscle Ridge Channel, a lobster- pot-studded waterway between the mainland and a series of off-lying islands. By Rockland, we set sail and rode a southerly sea breeze east to the entrance of the Fox Island Thorofare.

The Thorofare is a busy, meandering channel that runs between North Haven and the larger Vinalhaven to the south. With the wind behind us, it was an easy run, with plenty of time to gawk at the sprawling “cottages” along either shore. Even on a midweek afternoon, there was plenty of boat traffic to keep us company. Maine is Vacationland, after all.

In North Haven, we found an empty transient mooring near the ferry dock. It turned out to be a ringside seat to an endless stream of schooners, sloops, runabouts and, of course, lobster boats, which roared past, rocking ­everything with their wakes.

A work colleague and his wife have a summer home a couple of blocks from the waterfront, so eventually we dinghied ashore and went to find them. But not before a visit to Brown’s Boatyard, where we paid our $25 rental fee for the night. Brown’s is the sort of yard you’d expect to find in a working harbor. Its rambling red buildings are filled with boat parts, machinery and projects in various stages of repair. For a sailor, the weathered wharf and yard were a visual tapestry to behold.

From there, we walked a rambling route through the village to find our friends, enjoyed a cocktail on their porch that overlooks the Thorofare, then walked back into town for pizza at Calderwell Hall. The place was packed, and for the record, the food was delicious.

The next morning, we used the dog as an excuse to take a long walk along the one road that heads north out of town, and then we continued on through the Thorofare to East Penobscot Bay. It was another light-air day, but we were in no hurry and were content to reach across to Merchant Row, an island-speckled body of water between Stonington and Isle Au Haut. Even with a chart plotter, iNavX on my phone, and paper charts, it was easy to get quickly disorientated and lose track of just which rocky outcropping we were passing. Throw in a few thousand lobster pots to snag, and well, it was a navigational experience that kept everyone focused. We continued east into Jericho Bay, then swung north and eventually circled back toward Stonington through the Deer Island Thorofare.

Our plan was to spend the night in town, but of course, plans change. Instead, we met up with a friend of Peggy’s—who was sailing nearby—and dropped the hook alongside in a well-protected anchorage off Camp Island. It had been several hours since we were last ashore, and my ­attention—as well as the dog’s—was immediately drawn to a nearby rocky islet with the welcoming name of Hell’s Half Acre. Before we could get there though, a schooner dropped anchor and delivered its guests ashore. No matter, there were plenty more deserted granite knobs nearby to explore.

In the morning, the sea was glassy-calm as we motored toward the southern end of Eggemoggin Reach. That’s when we, or I should say I, snagged the first lobster pot. All of a sudden, there was a loud thunk, thunk, thunk on the hull and the diesel died. Luckily, I’d brought along a wetsuit, so I was able to dress for the occasion. In the water, the current tugged the boat and stretched the pot warp tight, so all it took was a slice with the knife and we were free. But then we began drifting along at a pretty good clip, and there were several wraps of rope still knotted around the prop shaft. The crew managed to grab a passing pot, which we used as a temporary anchor while I sawed away at the remaining line. Eventually, Dave donned the wetsuit and finished off the job while I caught my breath and kept a wary eye on the lobstermen working traps nearby. I wondered out loud what the protocol might be for meeting the missing buoy’s owner in such a situation.

The rest of the day more than made up for that inconvenient start. We emerged from the Deer Island Thorofare as the breeze filled in across Jericho Bay. Our timing was perfect, and we watched dozens of small sailboats cross our path in the Small Reach Regatta, put on by the Traditional Small Craft Association. The annual raid-style multiday event begins and ends in Brooklin, home to the Wooden Boat School and the Brooklin Boat Yard.

With a 10-knot breeze behind us, we had a long run up the Reach, jibing between Deer Isle to port and the mainland. To starboard, a couple of large schooners ghosted along the shore. Our destination was Bucks Harbor, where we picked up a mooring for the night and took full advantage of the marina’s outdoor showers.

Ironically, Buck’s Harbor Marina is now owned by a couple with the last name of Buck. Jon works in the medical field, but during summer, he manages to spend most of his time at the marina along with his wife, Jessica, and their hardworking kids. Together, they keep the place spotless and have even found time to launch a small fleet of charter boats.

Bucks Harbor, it turns out, would be as far afield as we’d go in our wanderings. Our shipmates had to get back for work, so in the morning, we sailed across the north end of Deer Island and headed for home by way of Islesboro, the long island that bisects this part of Penobscot Bay. A lively wind picked up from the south, and we were closehauled all the way back past North Haven. As we neared the southern tip of Islesboro, our timing once again proved perfect, even if our luck wasn’t. We found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of the Camden Classic Cup Regatta. Yawls and ketches and schooners, all under billowing clouds of sail, blew past us toward the windward mark just as we managed to snag our second lobster buoy. It was a scramble to get the sails down in the 20-knot breeze, and even after we got the line cut, it was too rough to think about going under the boat to pull what remained from the prop shaft. Instead, we unfurled the jib to get underway and avoid the rocks to leeward. But now, the fleet was upon us once again with spinnakers flying. They, of course, were on starboard tack, and we were closehauled on port. And yes, we had a few interesting crossings as we headed off in search of calmer waters.

Back in Tenants Harbor, I took a day to catch up on work, and our daughter, Lily, joined us. Now maniacal about avoiding lobster traps, we sailed back up Muscle Ridge Channel and caught the opening day of the Lobster Festival in Rockland. The waterfront was abuzz in anticipation of the coronation that evening of the Maine Sea Goddess.

From there, we headed back to North Haven to visit Pulpit Harbor, where we anchored with a tremendous view of the Camden Hills to the west. By the time the sun set, I was running out of superlatives to describe the surroundings.

Much of the rest of August, I had to work. Still, we found time for dinghy rides and daysails, and enjoyed quiet nights on the boat at the mooring. Then toward the end of the month, Dave and I made one last three-day visit to investigate the anchorages on the east side of Vinalhaven. Anchored in Seal Bay, we took the dinghy to explore long fingers of water cut into the granite shoreline. We motored deep into Winter Harbor to get a closer look at the towering granite cliffs that line it. And we spent a final afternoon and night on a mooring back at Brown’s Boatyard in North Haven.

But days were getting shorter and the weather cooler. It was time for this excellent summer adventure to come to an end. Sue and I had already decided to leave the boat in Maine for the winter rather than sailing back south, and had found a yard where we could haul out sometime later in the fall. We were hooked, and we knew it.

But as Dave and I beat our way south toward Tenants Harbor in the morning, I pondered my fall schdule and checked my phone to find the National Hurricane Center tracking multiple disturbances, any one of which might spin its way up the coast. It had already been a season filled with abrupt changes in plans, so why not the endgame too? A quick call to Spruce Head Marine sealed the deal. We’d leave the boat on one of their moorings, and they’d take care of the rest. A simple solution meant no need to worry. Turns out, aside from lobster pots and flies, staying in Maine was just as easy as getting there.

Mark Pillsbury is CW’s editor.

The post Cruising Maine, by Chance appeared first on Cruising World.

The wind’s blowing 20 across confused seas as a 5-foot swell reminds us Hurricane Chris went by not long ago. It’s a great day for my dad, my nephew and me to sail the Nova Scotia coast. We steer a broad reach at 7 knots, and that takes the sting out of the gusts as we wend through lumpy seas like a skier through moguls. It’s not all good times; the sky’s gone the color of old nickels, and our boat skids awkwardly off every 10th wave. Still, there’s plenty to like for three generations of McCarthys aiming south from Shelburne onward to round Cape Sable for a night on the Bay of Fundy shore.

A set of larger waves slides beneath Nellie, my trusty Beneteau First 42, and one dollop of wave spanks her transom and — splash! — lands in my father’s lap. It’s a pot-full of cold ocean, but on this day, it makes Ted grin. “Rub a dub dub!” he chortles. My nephew Mac responds from the wheel, “Three men in a tub!” and we smile to recognize ourselves in this building sea.

Yes, it’s the three of us aboard this tub, and from my nephew to me to my dad, it’s three perspectives on an ocean experience. You see, the old man’s been remembering the whales he saw 50 years back and the shoals of fish he sailed through when he was young. But Mac says he’s seen mostly jellyfish in his sailing, and rarely a whale. In other words, my crew combines past and future into a crucial ecological present: Ted McCarthy is into his eighth decade afloat, Mac Huffard is getting ready for college with two weeks at sea, and I’m somewhere between the kid my dad took sailing and the skipper my nephew knows.

The Gulf of Maine is changing around us in increments we register over a lifetime but overlook in any single season. Its illustrious fishing history has been on my mind this whole cruise, and sharing the cockpit with family born in 1941 and in 1999 gives me a new appreciation for the slow changes each generation lives through in any ecological community. Cape Sable is just ahead, and it occurs to me we’re rushing along atop the Gulf of Maine as an ecosystem, as a historical context and as a family setting.

The summer goal was pretty simple: first, cruise from Cape Elizabeth, Maine, to Cape Sable across the Gulf of Maine’s celebrated fishing banks; second, visit eastern Nova Scotia; third, get back around Cape Sable and return to Maine on the shorter leg across the Bay of Fundy. The first leg was about 300 miles, with the promise our keel would pass over fish-rich Browns Bank and Jeffreys Bank and other shallows that arc from Cape Cod all the way to the Grand Banks. We weren’t going all the way to Newfoundland — I only had three weeks — but I was excited this little venture would combine marine ecology and family to truly appreciate the Gulf of Maine.

The area from Cape Cod to Nova Scotia is the Gulf of Maine: 70,000 square miles of life as deep as the Empire State Building and as cold as the refrigerator in your kitchen. If someone asks where I’m from, I say “Maine,” but I’d probably do better to say “the Gulf of Maine.” That second answer would emphasize coastline and islands quilted with spruce and known to heron and osprey. The prevailing winds blow from southwest to northeast, from Cape Cod’s glossy tip to the matte-gray breakers off Cape Sable, a journey of 300 miles, if run by sailboats in the Marblehead to Halifax Ocean Race. It’s no surprise these racers encounter a living ocean’s emissaries in that rich expanse of currents and banks. Out there are fin whales, right whales, humpbacks and sharks. Maybe you’ve been, and out there you saw terns, gannets, gulls and storm petrels. Of course, amid these visitors to the surface are hints of deeper play from mackerel, herring, haddock and hake.

Aboard Nellie, the crew accommodates my enthusiasm for the lives and ledges 50 fathoms beneath our deck shoes. My nephew should care that right here in his family’s front yard is one of Earth’s miracles of abundance. Sandy shallows like Browns Bank separate the warm Gulf Stream from the cold Gulf of Maine, and tidal streams mingle nutrients that power spectacular plankton blooms, feeding the herring that feed the cod that bring the tuna and swordfish and sharks and whales. But when you’re 19, ecological history seems less important than the social present. Nevertheless, on this family cruise I try to impress that we follow enterprising fishermen who knew these banks before there was a United States or a diesel engine.

A mile ahead of us, a white hull steams east below whirling radar domes and scything antennas. I say, “Imagine it’s 1575. You’re sailing here from Cornwall or Brittany with a simple compass and a couple of prayers. Those people were adventurous.” The crew nods, wary of my enthusiasm for the historical. Today’s fishermen have my respect too, and in a sense, the fishing is the story. The fishing brought Europeans in their shallops and pinnaces, and even the longboats of Leif Erikson back in the year 1000. Erikson, they say, settled Vinland (what’s now Newfoundland), and on the foggy rollers off Matinicus you can imagine the squeal of those oars.

If wanderlust brought the Norsemen, cod brought Portuguese, French and English fishermen. Those were in the Cabot, Hudson and de Champlain days; fat-bottomed fishing boats rollicked in Maine harbors before Jamestown or Plymouth Plantation even existed. On the Isles of Shoals, at Popham Beach, up on Monhegan, men who might have drunk with Shakespeare and fired on the Spanish Armada dried their fish on New World racks, pulled their nets near Wabanaki families and, each autumn, packed their holds to sail protein back to a hungry Europe.

But where are the fish these earlier generations applauded? I’m listening through the hull to hear the Gulf of Maine’s gentle testimony — there’s a cautionary tale unfolding. Sailing from Cape Elizabeth to Cape Sable buys you a front-row seat to contemplate the plenty this gulf once held, and a view of what loss looks like at the ecosystem level. The marine life I encountered today — gannets, guillemots and terns in the air, a whale at some distance, a shoal of bluefish to port shepherded by five gulls — is a fraction of the vibrant communities that once interacted here. Early visitors left clear written records of their days. In 1602, John Brereton described: “Whales and Seales in great abundance … Tunneys, Anchoves, Bonits, Salmons, Lobsters, Oisters having Pearle, and infinite other sorts of fish, which are more plentifull upon those coasts of America, than in any other part of the known world.”

“More plentifull,” indeed. A dozen generations back, our ancestors reported walruses off Nova Scotia, beluga whales all the way to Boston, great auk in the thousands, salmon runs to push a rowboat upriver, right whales aplenty and, above all, the majesty of cod.

Looking out for fishing boats, I tell Mac it was the limitless regenerative power of cod that bankrolled early America. Cod are the perfect inhabitants for these perfect waters, feeding on the sand lance and capelin and other tiny denizens of the shallow banks nearby. Around 1740, rich men in the Massachusetts State House hung a wooden codfish above their chamber to remind themselves where wealth comes from. They called it “the sacred cod”! Today, you can barely find a codfish. By some estimates the Gulf of Maine holds only one-third of 1 percent of the cod here when the Mayflower came ashore.

My dad says he remembers boats going out of Boston and cod as cheap fish for Friday nights.

Mac says, “I’ve never seen a codfish.”

I think that if each generation normalizes the conditions it inhabits it can only presume the ecology it encounters to be “natural.” We’re trapped in a limited perspective, like boats in the fog. Maybe sailing is a useful antidote because so many of us learn to sail in family groups, and sharing a cockpit with your family’s youngest and oldest is also sharing the long view on ocean health.

Four hundred years along, Gulf of Maine cod teeter on the edge of endangered status. Industrial fishing in these waters pulled so many fish so fast that even the cod could not reproduce quickly enough to sustain their dizzying numbers. Endless supply was the assumption and endless resilience was the expectation as vigorous trawling of undersea banks like Jeffreys Ledge and Cashes Ledge dug and gouged the seafloor into a mucky morass. Powerful mechanized fleets were deployed from the 1920s on. “The combined force of decades of fishing by domestic and foreign trawl fishers stripped the bottom of life, and rearranged the very foundation of the gulf,” writes marine biologist Callum Roberts. “Trawling had become a geologic force.”

When I was a kid, more powerful fishing boats from Portland to Gloucester followed the cod offshore where they mated and shoaled, and there collected the oldest, healthiest fish in that vulnerable moment. We thought it was business as usual back in the 1970s, but factory fishing swept up the last best hope, and left us with a stunted ecosystem. I recall catching codfish on a jig off the New Meadows River, in Maine, in the mid-’70s, at a time when ecologists were warning of a collapse and the fishing industry scoffed and brought more technology to bear. That last cod I caught was green black, goggle-eyed, held firmly at the jaw by my big hook. I saw only a personal success in those fins and smells, a good fish I’d caught with my hands, and not the last twitch of a receding era.

In Nova Scotia, we tied up to fishing docks and I chatted with amiable, welcoming fishermen. They’ve adjusted their practices since the 1992 moratorium on cod fishing. “I’m mostly for the haddock when I can, and the lobsters all winter,” said one skipper in West Head. Another fisherman told me of the sustainable tuna industry off Cape Sable, where men fish hook-and-line for bluefin tuna in an enterprise free of bycatch and destruction. They all work hard to satisfy the appetite for fish ashore, and deserve our consideration.

Across the border, Maine fishermen suffered a record-low cod catch in 2015 (about 250,000 pounds), and promptly had a worse year in 2016 (170,000 pounds). The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration tells us the spawning population in the Gulf of Maine has never been smaller — and the overall decline since 2005 has been 80 percent. That is 80 percent from already rotten, overfished, habitat-debased 2005, not my heyday, shiny-jigging 1975, much less a robust base line such as 1575. For someone born in 1999, these fisheries seem normal; to my dad, they seem sadly depleted. I deduce that our influence unfolds at such a slow pace that profound environmental changes surprise us all — like watching the clock’s hour hand, you know it’s moving but you just can’t see it.

Another steady-slow cause of environmental harm is our hotter climate. The Gulf of Maine is warming faster than just about any body of water on the planet. This warming means big changes to the ecosystem. A retired fisheries officer I interviewed said ocean warming is a threat to Nova Scotia: “You can blame Exxon or you can call it God’s wrath, but the fact is cold-water fish are going elsewhere, or not surviving.”

The cod, halibut and even lobsters are sensitive to temperature, and as the Gulf of Maine warms and as it acidifies, signature species such as lobster struggle. With spray coming aboard and Nellie fighting the helm in a trough, I wonder what this watery place will look like two decades on, when Mac takes his kids to the sea.

But it’s not all bad news. On the sail up here we glided across fishing banks on a calm day, and the flat seas were delightful with life. The cod might be all but gone, yet I saw humpback whales spouting bubbles into the setting sun, white-sided dolphins leaping clear into the air and shearwaters, storm petrels and gannets dancing against blue skies. The Gulf of Maine still thrives, still lives if we will let its residents rebound. The silly “three men in a tub” rhyme ends with the ambiguous line, “and all of them out to sea,” creating uneasiness, a sense of imminent catastrophe. But what if “out to sea” is where you want to be? Then you’re not condemned, you’re lucky to know that watery place in a personal way. That seems closer to the family experience I’m having this brisk day.

To be at sea with a young sailor is to wish for an ecological future healthier than the one I’ve occupied. Maybe with awareness and planning, the story of decline in these waters can change into one of revitalization. Mac turns the wheel and looks to windward; what blows from there is the possibility of a resilient, blooming Gulf of Maine or, sadly, a wholesale unraveling of the ecology under climate warming and aggressive industrial fishing. Which way will we steer? Which way will he steer?

The Gulf of Maine is just the place for cruising sailors to take on these questions because it hosts so much incredible sailing amid so much incredible marine life. Cruisers enjoy a direct view of ocean health, and organizations like Sailors for the Sea and Turn the Tide on Plastic attest to the sailing community’s engagement. You can only hope coming generations will know the thrill of marine creatures riding their bow waves or spouting in the distance.

A flash in the water was a chunk of driftwood. Dad says, “Your grandfather saw leatherback turtles off Cape Ann,” and I think of the creatures once neighbors and now merely memories. And here we are, three generations who care about the ocean, and each of us with our own ocean in mind. Soon we’ll drop a reef in the mainsail and send Mac forward to secure the tack, to tighten the clew, to motion from the mast while my father steers us into the wind and I crank the halyard snug. A metaphor? Sure, a metaphor of people working together for the well-being of the ship, a symbol of active cooperation guaranteeing sustainability for the craft that floats them.

Jeffrey McCarthy is director of the environmental humanities graduate program at the University of Utah.

The post Changes on the Gulf of Maine appeared first on Cruising World.

Pacific coast of Mexico has one of the world’s best cruising grounds: the Sea of Cortez. Within its 2,500 miles of coastline, the Gulf of California is protected from big Pacific swells by the Baja California Peninsula. It offers hundreds of gorgeous islands and anchorages — and is a great place to buy a sailboat.

I was in the market for a new boat and was keen on the idea of buying one in an area where I wanted to cruise. The Pacific coast of Mexico fit the bill perfectly. My search began in Mazatlán, on the Pacific coast south of the Baja Peninsula, where I looked at a number of boats, including a wonderful Rafiki 37, a double-ender designed by Stan Huntingford. I was impressed by both the maintenance level and inventory of cruising gear aboard many of the vessels.

In my travels, it has seemed that most boats for sale in Mexico are owned by Americans who sail them down from the States, float around the Sea of Cortez for a while, and then don’t fancy the bash home to windward. The boat then gets put on the market (quite often with the threat of divorce explicitly or implicitly made) at a fairly decent price.

Toward the southern end of Baja California is the city of La Paz (which means “peace” in Spanish), whose wide harbor is a mecca for sailors from all over. I went there next, to meet Shelly of La Paz Yachts, who had several interesting boats on her books, including a nearly immaculate Hans Christian 36, which I eventually bought for almost exactly half of what my girlfriend, Jasna, and I sold our modest little steel sloop for in Australia. The Hans Christian is a Bob Perry-designed double-ended cutter; now two years on, we are just beginning to realize what a great boat she is.

Why Buy in Mexico?

Many Americans are wary of Mexico, and this has more to do with the media than with reality. You don’t have to watch TV for very long before an unimaginative director portrays a Mexican as a desperado, drug-addled bag snatcher or cartel boss. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I have traveled and worked all over Europe, the Middle East, Africa and the Pacific, and it would be hard to find a stereotype so profoundly undeserved. In my experience, most folks I’ve come across in Mexico have been industrious, honest, family-oriented and friendly people with an amazing tolerance of the fairly dismissive attitude TV-educated foreigners have toward them (even in their own country).

On top of that, there are loads of nice boats in the country, and the sellers are serious.

During our purchase of the Hans Christian, La Paz Yachts handled the paperwork, titling and escrow seamlessly, and the company has continued to assist us above and beyond the call of duty. The bureaucracy is made easy by the Mexican government (see sidebar), and everyone I dealt with was friendly and helpful. Unlike in some states in the U.S., there is no sales tax. On top of all that, there is no panic to get your boat out of the country (as there is in many nations), because Mexico gives you a 10-year Temporary Import Permit for the princely sum of $50.

Perhaps the best part of buying a vessel in this region of Mexico is that you have the whole Sea of Cortez and Pacific coast to get used to your new boat and sample the delights of what Jacques Cousteau once called “the world’s aquarium.”

Now, if all the above is still not making you want to head for the Aeromexico ticket desk, then consider also the food, music, tequila, beer, weather, countryside, artwork, crystal-clear water, fabulous fishing and the wonderful affordability of it all. We came to buy a boat and stayed for three years (and even became temporary Mexican residents). Come down and see for yourself!

The Details:

Getting There: You likely can fly to Mexico directly from an airport near your home; however, the cheapest way is often to fly to Los Angeles and change there to a local flight to La Paz or Cabo San Lucas. There is also a bus from San Diego to La Paz, which is much more comfortable than you would imagine, and no one seems too bothered by how much luggage you throw on it.

Visas: U.S. residents can have up to 180 days upon entry, but you need to ask for it, as immigration officials will often just stamp vacationers in for a couple of weeks. The visa is easily extendable for another six months. If you want to stay longer, you can become a temporary resident. We did, and it was straightforward, taking two 15-minute visits to immigration.

Taxes: There are no taxes for buying a foreign-registered boat in Mexico (which is pretty much all of them). You need to apply for a Temporary Import Permit, which will allow you to keep your boat in the country for 10 years before incurring taxes. The whole process took us less than an hour and cost about $50.

Language: Both Jasna and I are fairly good Spanish speakers, but we didn’t have the opportunity to use our skills much, as all the brokers and chandleries are set up by or cater to the American market.

Brokers: There are four brokerages on the west coast of Mexico that operate under the umbrella of Mazatlán Marine Center (mazmarine.com): La Paz Yachts, Puerto Vallarta Yachts, Mazatlán Yachts and San Carlos Yachts. We worked with La Paz Yachts, and I cannot recommend them highly enough.

Price: Prices tend to be advertised high and come down a fair amount. We paid about 60 percent of the asking price. While sellers will of course vary in what they will accept, don’t be afraid to put in a low offer — there are more sellers than buyers!

Surveys: Plenty of good surveyors operate in La Paz and mainland Mexico. I used Dennis Ross, who lives on his yacht, Toucan Play. He can be reached on VHF channel 22.

Marinas and Moorings: La Paz is a large natural harbor with good holding. You can anchor for about $1 a day, but be sure to leave plenty of swinging room; the opposing wind and current can create a condition known locally as the “La Paz Waltz,” wherein boats can swing stern to stern. There are a few moorings for rent at about $75 a month. Marina prices vary enormously depending on if you pay daily, monthly or yearly, and whether you want one in a resort or on a budget. We recommend anchoring out or getting a mooring buoy and saving your pennies. La Paz has a definite cyclone season from mid-May through November, and leaving during it is a good idea. Failing that, taking a marina berth for the riskier months (August to October) is a viable option.

Rick Page is currently sailing Calypso back home to Australia with his girlfriend, Jasna Tuta. You can follow along with their adventures on their website ­(sailingcalypso.com).

The post A Bounty of Boats, The Beauty of Baja appeared first on Cruising World.

Every October, yachts by the hundreds leave New England ports and head south for warmer latitudes. This annual migration follows two basic routes, offshore to Bermuda and then on to the Caribbean, or else along the coast, where destinations might include Florida, the Bahamas, or eventually a sail along the Thorny Path to the Virgin Islands and beyond.

In Bermuda, cruisers frequently wait for another spell of fair northerly winds to continue toward the Caribbean. But the island, located east of the Gulf Stream, can be difficult to reach, and isn’t by any means an ideal place to weather strong autumnal lows springing eastward from the mainland, nor an occasional tropical system barreling through in October or even November.

Most “snowbirds” instead stop in Block Island, at the eastern end of Long Island Sound; at the Hudson River; or in the lee of Sandy Hook, New Jersey. From there, they take off southward along the Jersey coast when a cold front is followed by northerly winds. New Jersey ports like Atlantic City and Cape May offer safe escapes when the wind switches to the south, signaling the approach of the next low.

Farther south, cruisers often wait for a break in Ocean City, Maryland, or Cape Henlopen’s Port of Refuge, on the edge of Delaware Bay. Then, somewhere off Cape Charles at the Chesapeake Bay entrance, it’s time to decide the next move. When a sailboat’s mast height exceeds 64 feet, the course around Cape Hatteras is the only option, since ICW fixed bridges have 64 feet of clearance at high tide. Considering that the mighty Gulf Stream flows north at a good clip, southbound yachts avoid it by sailing close to the shores of North Carolina’s barrier islands.

Weather plays a key factor in rounding Hatteras. Ocracoke Inlet — tricky, but the only usable one on that outer coast — can get quite nasty in onshore swells, so most offshore-bound yachts discount it. When conditions threaten the Cape Hatteras route, southbound boats, rather than get caught on the exposed coast, can divert to the marinas in Little Creek, Virginia, 10 miles west of Cape Henry, at the mouth of ­Chesapeake Bay. Little Creek is reached via Thimble Shoal Channel through the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. There, one waits for a good forecast before tackling Hatteras.

Those with a mast height under 64 feet, however, have more options. They can, of course, await a suitable weather window and head outside, but they can also take advantage of the protection offered by the Intracoastal Waterway.

A glance at the chart indicates the ocean route is shorter than the meanders of the ICW. However, when measured from Little Creek as a departure point, to Beaufort, North Carolina — the next important port on the way south — the two routes are about the same, at 190 nautical miles.

So on a recent transit, when the weather forecast rattled out three days of imminent southerlies, we sailed on through the Chesapeake Bridge-Tunnel gate. The waters smoothed out, and the ICW route, which I nicknamed the Great ­Hatteras Bypass, began to look very inviting. We’d move in daylight only, spending nights at anchor. The trip would take a few more days, but my wife, Nancy, and I figured, “Hey, let’s turn this passage into a cruise.” We’d be hobnobbing with nature and visiting a few interesting towns along the way.

The sky turned a livid purple, a sure sign of rain the next day, when, after passing a formidable gathering of U.S. Navy ships, we dropped anchor at Hospital Bight on the outskirts of Portsmouth, Virginia. Portsmouth offers good services to yachts: marinas and a large boatyard, as well as a free-of-charge yacht basin right downtown. A small ferry keeps chugging between here and the Nauticus National Maritime Center, a naval museum, and the battleship Wisconsin on the Norfolk side of Elizabeth River. The area has an industrial air that spans a few miles around it.

With our 7-foot draft, we had to miss a true natural wonder, the Great Dismal Swamp Canal, whose entrance is 6 statute miles south of Portsmouth. (Mileage along the ICW is measured in statute rather than nautical miles.) Our previous boat drew just under 6 feet and had allowed us to take this route on earlier trips. To transit the swamp is to travel through a green tunnel of forest trees with their branches locking overhead, surrounded by resounding birdcalls.

Instead, we chugged on 12 statute miles to Great Bridge Lock. South of the lock, the industrial vistas gave way, and the first sights of nature kicked in as flocks of Canada geese herded fuzzy chicks alongside the moving boats. Great Bridge, or strictly speaking, the town of Chesapeake, Virginia, was an easy place to stock up on groceries for the next few days. Yachts in need of inexpensive fuel and competent boat services of all kinds can dock or haul out at the Atlantic Yacht Basin just south of the lock and bridge. The bulkhead wharfs south of the lock and another south of the bridge welcome visiting yachts free of charge.

The Albemarle-Chesapeake Canal begins here. It’s a gateway to a freshwater passage all the way to Pamlico Sound. Although no tides vary the water levels, prolonged, strong northerly winds can reduce the depths by 3 to 4 feet for the next 100 miles. With our restrictive draft, we paid attention to the wind direction before taking off for North Landing River and Currituck Sound in North Carolina. This is a real osprey alley, with massive nests crowning channel beacons. Currituck Sound merges into Coinjock Bay and leads to the town of Coinjock, North Carolina; it’s a straight channel banked by yacht docks and restaurants famous for prime rib the size of wakeboards. From there, North River winds between shoals and marshes southward to Albemarle Sound.

Finally in the wide, deep waters of Albemarle Sound, sailboats can spread their wings. About midway across, we spotted an armada of lucky shallow-draft yachts running downwind from Elizabeth City after a passage via the Great Dismal Swamp Canal. I noticed no one carried on eastward and then south via Croatan Sound, toward Pamlico Sound, most likely because of the 45-foot bridge spanning that route.

In a fresh northwest breeze, we trimmed up for a fast close reach across Albemarle Sound toward Edenton, 35 miles away and a definite departure from the beaten track. “You go there and you will never want to leave” was a typical line we heard about the charms of Edenton.

A few hours later we tied up inside the boat basin downtown. Two minutes into a chat with a fellow fishing off the pier, he told us, “We came here from Wisconsin — the best move we ever made.” Edenton has undergone a phenomenal transformation since being known as “Rogue’s Harbor” in the 17th century. Within a few generations, in 1722, it ­became the capital of North Carolina. Joseph Hewes, a Northern, Quaker ship owner, moved to Edenton, became the first secretary of the Navy in 1776, and even gave his own vessels to reinforce the young naval fleet. John Adams called him the father of the U.S. Navy. Today Edenton is a genteel town of happy people with great walks among pretty homes that are typical of 19th-century Southern architecture.

A brisk sail two days later took us to the Alligator River swing bridge at the south end of Albemarle Sound, and on to the deep waters (11 feet or more) of Alligator River, its banks pure wilderness. Nature crowded closer in the Alligator River-Pungo River Canal, which cuts through flooded forests. Ashore, bald eagles perched on dead treetops and scanned the autumn-gold marshes for stray rodents. A flock of white geese or maybe trumpeter swans winged westward overhead, an unexpected visual bonus.

On this day of wafting light airs, the forecast announced 40-knot northerlies. Even with our 7-foot draft, there was usually a choice of anchorages among low marshes — good enough for moderate winds. Now we needed more protection. When a long stand of tall pines appeared on the upland shore a few miles east of Belhaven, we headed in and dropped anchor in 10 feet, less than a tenth of a mile from shore. All afternoon boats streamed to the marinas in Belhaven. Breakwaters protect the harbor there from the south, but its funnel-shaped inside waters face north, promising a choppy, windy night. A varnished mahogany 1920s-vintage motor­yacht passed nearby and then vanished into the creeks on the backside of Belhaven, where a hidden boatyard thrives. The yacht’s skipper obviously knew the unmarked vein of deeper water winding through the very shallow approach.

All night, gusts whistled and rattled the rigging, the offshore wind blowing the water out of the bay; by morning the depth sounder read 8 feet, the water having been blown down 2 feet. Eventually the northwesterly eased and gave us an easy run southward under power and genoa, all the way to Oriental, at the western border of Pamlico Sound.

Oriental is a place famed among veteran cruisers. The harbor being too shallow for our draft, we took advantage of a calm, anchored outside the breakwater, and dinghied in. Ashore we slipped a couple of available bicycles from the rack in front of the Inland Waterway Provision Company, a marine hardware store, to tour the streets. Oriental has an irresistible atmosphere with lovely homes and a port with sailboats in the majority, but a few salty trawler yachts and three shrimp boats remain to remind us that this little town began as a fishing village.

The deeper navigable waters of Neuse River, which joins Pamlico Sound off Oriental, end at New Bern. The community was once yet another capital of North Carolina (1776 to 1794) and the hub of commerce during colonial times. Surprisingly for us today, the merchant sailing ship traffic from Europe once reached New Bern through Ocracoke Inlet, then a deep, straight channel leading toward the resources of the New World. On the south edge of the town, a friendly bridge operator let us through to Trent River, with its two large marinas; filled with local craft, both keep a few slips open for transients. And like other coastal towns of North Carolina, New Bern maintains a free wharf and a floating dock in the waterfront park by the swing bridge.

Ashore, this town of 30,000-plus inhabitants is like nothing else on the East Coast. The skyline is right out of a Grimm Brothers fairy tale, with solid brick buildings —churches, banks and schools — that soar into towers that could belong to the castles in the medieval Swiss Alps or German Black Forest. The town founders, religious misfits from Switzerland and Germany who escaped persecution to England, made themselves such a nuisance that Queen Anne granted land in the Carolinas to their leader, a bankrupt Swiss baron. The town celebrated 300 years in 2010 and, since the word bern means “bear” in old German, challenged local talent to create bear sculptures. Now bears — hundreds of them — shaped in all manner of styles and materials dominate the town. A large mosque, complete with a giant onion dome, is such a surprise that one may easily miss a sign nearby commemorating a local chemist who concocted the Pepsi recipe in the 1890s.

We dropped down the Neuse River to Adams Creek, which leads south toward Beaufort, and soon the boat slowed down; the tides were back.

Beaufort would be our last stop on the Great Hatteras Bypass route. From there, we’d head back offshore, the next stretch of ICW being plagued with extremely shallow waters. Strong tides flow through Taylor Creek off the Beaufort waterfront, where a score or two of yachts try to anchor each afternoon. Add a strong wind against the current, and the place gets exciting. Taught by experience, we timed our arrival in Beaufort for late morning. By then, large numbers of moderate draft boats had left to continue on the ICW south of Morehead City.

If you stop in Beaufort, while ashore don’t miss a visit to the North Carolina Maritime Museum, with its unique presentation of traditional shoal-draft craft and a very complete library of maritime literature on yacht design and adventure under sail. A couple of full-service marinas and four boatyards in the immediate vicinity help prepare yachts for their offshore destinations ahead: either crossing the Gulf Stream on the way to the Caribbean, or sailing south along the East Coast to the many other winter destinations that await.

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Tom and Nancy Zydler cruise the East Coast of the United States and Canada aboard their Mason 44, Frances B.

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