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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hurricane coming,” Ray Pentrack quipped as I passed him in the Cruz Bay grocery store. He was the manager at Cruz Bay Marina on St. John in the US Virgin Islands. I had just flown in from Maine, looking ­forward to a few weeks on my boat before hauling out for ­hurricane season. 

“What hurricane?” I asked.

“Hurricane Hugo,” Ray said. “It’s going to be a whopper. Category 3. We have our hands full. Can you take care of your boat?” 

Afaran, my Lord Nelson 41 cutter, had spent the summer on a mooring in nearby Great Cruz Bay. 

 “Sure, but when?”

“It should make landfall on Guadeloupe tomorrow, and then hit us sometime on Monday. Many of the boats are heading for Hurricane Hole at the east end of the island.”

This was the first summer I’d left Afaran in the Caribbean, on a rented mooring, instead of sailing back to Maine with the seasons. Now my mind went into hyperdrive. Was Afaran ready for this? Was I ready? 

I had an idea of what it was like to live through a hurricane. Two years earlier, in September 1987, Afaran and I had managed to ride out Hurricane Emily in Bermuda—barely—thanks to my 75-pound fisherman-style storm anchor. Afaran’s working anchor was a 65-pound CQR on 300 feet of chain. I had a 45-pound Danforth too. Enough?

The bigger question was whereto anchor Afaran. I’d just have to go look.

I loaded the shopping cart with extra jugs of water, bread, canned goods, frozen chicken, peanut butter, jam, UHT milk and cereal. By late afternoon, I was moving it all onto Afaran’s deck.

Next, I unlocked and opened the companionway, shoved back the hatch, and went below to inspect the bilge. It was dry. I then prepared the boat to get underway as the VHF radio’s weather channel droned in the background. 

“Hurricane Hugo will pass near or over Guadeloupe Saturday night. Winds are predicted to be in excess of 140 knots, seas to 20 feet, with a storm surge of 3 feet or more. On Sunday evening, we expect Hurricane Hugo to pass over the Virgin Islands as a Category 3. All mariners are urged to make all necessary ­preparations for a very dangerous storm.”

It was like listening to a judge hand down your life sentence. I seesawed between thrill and dread—excitement for the challenge and fear of the disaster—as I removed all the sails and stowed them below. 

 Eventually, I turned on the running lights and motored out of Great Cruz Bay. At the beach off the Caneel Bay Resort, I dropped the hook for the night.

Saturday, September 16

As Afaran rounded Privateer Point at the east end of St. John, I could see a few boats anchored in Hansen Bay. Up in Hurricane Hole, I saw dozens of boats squeezing in, bows riding to anchors, crews tying off stern lines to the mangroves and then rigging fenders. The scene looked like a boat show. It was too crowded. 

I motored over to Coral Bay Harbor, where the large anchorage was surprisingly unpopulated. With an eye on the sounder, I picked a midharbor spot in 15 to 20 feet of water. I dropped and set the CQR, then dived over the side to inspect. Sand had buried the plowshares, while the shank and chain rested on the seabed. No coral heads or rocks to foul the anchor lines or chain.

  With no breeze, it was hot, sweaty work. I rigged the 75-pound fisherman-style storm anchor, this time securing two nylon rodes to the 30 feet of chain. I let one line slack to take up the strain as the first one stretched out. I slipped the anchor over the side into the dinghy, motored out and set it, creating a V with the chain on the CQR. To mark each anchor’s position, I buoyed each with an empty gallon water jug. This, I figured, would alert others not to anchor between them.

Next, I spliced a thimble into one end of a 30-foot nylon snubbing line, shackled it to the anchor chain, slipped a 3-foot length of reinforced hose on for chafing gear, tied off the bitter end on the Samson post, and then let out 10 more feet of chain, allowing the snubber to take the chain’s weight. Now, before the chain became taut, the nylon line would stretch out, cushioning the CQR anchor. 

I rigged chafing gear on the two rodes that ran over the bronze rollers on the bowsprit to the fisherman-style anchor, then deployed a third anchor off the port quarter, just in case. I stowed all the deck gear below but decided to leave the dodger in place, giving me a place to hide out of the wind.

While wolfing down a PB&J sandwich at lunch, I listened to a commercial radio station on St. Thomas. Hugo would hit Guadeloupe that night with wind gusts up to 140 mph. We would begin to feel the effects of the storm the next evening. We could expect winds over 100 mph, with gusts to 140.

Toward evening, with little left to do, my concern turned to worry, and then anxiety. My mouth was dry. A knot grew in my belly. My mind raced with disaster scenarios. A chain link would part. An anchor would break out. Afaran would be driven into the mangroves astern. Another yacht would drag down on us, entangling its anchor line with mine. The hulls would smash, with the storm dragging both boats to the beach. 

 Then my rational brain spoke up. When in trouble, what do you do? Seek local knowledge. I needed to talk to someone.

It was happy hour ashore at Skinny Legs Bar and Grill. I pulled up a stool next to someone I knew: a burly Kiwi named Derek. He was the mechanic at Cruz Bay Shipyard who had worked on my boat. Seated on the opposite side were his wife and teenage daughter. They lived in Coral Harbor on their 50-foot ketch, which was anchored on the other side of the harbor from me.

“How can anyone expect to survive a hurricane like this?” I asked.

“It can be done,” Derek said, slowly nursing a Red Stripe.

“It blew 115 knots during Hurricane Emily two years ago when I was in Bermuda,” I said. “It lasted only two hours, but that was enough for me. It’s supposed to blow 140 knots, and for 10 to 12 hours. I don’t see how any boat can survive.”

“Go forward every half-hour and inspect the chafing gear.”

“How can you see anything when the wind blows rain in your face at 100 miles an hour?”

“Use a mask and snorkel.” 

That sounded reasonable. 

He added: “Most of the damage done to boats at anchor or on a mooring during a storm comes from lines that chafe through.”

I had one more question, as I glanced at his wife and daughter: “Are you staying on your boat or going ashore?” 

“Stay with your boat,” he said. “Protect your boat—it’s your home. Just check the chafe gear every half-hour. It’s the one thing you can do to ensure that you have a boat the next day.”

I ordered Derek another Red Stripe, and all four of us tucked into a dinner of conch fritters and fries at the bar.

Later, under an almost full moon, I removed my dinghy’s outboard engine, secured it in the cockpit, and hauled the dinghy on deck, deflated it, and packed it in its bag, securing it to the life raft just forward of the mast. Then I crawled into my bunk. 

The night was full of dreams—huge waves, pounding surf—and the feeling of being underwater, rolling around.

Sunday, September 17

The day was still and hot. There was nothing more I could think to do. I sat on the foredeck, reading Tom Clancy’s The Cardinal of the Kremlin. As more boats arrived, I shooed away those ­attempting to anchor in front of me.

In the afternoon, high, thin clouds began to cover the ­eastern sky. The land-based AM radio stations were full of news. Hugo had crossed over Guadeloupe the night before, with winds over 140 miles per hour, 20-foot waves and a 2- to 3-foot surge. A dozen people were killed. Hugo’s expected path would bring it directly over the Virgin Islands from that night until the next morning.

By dusk, more than 50 boats were anchored all around me in Coral Bay. Some people dropped a single anchor, left their sails on, jumped into their dinghy, and went ashore. Few stayed aboard. 

As dusk arrived, so did the tendrils of wind, sweeping down from the sky to hit the water at the far edge of the moored fleet and then shoot across the harbor, tearing up the water, kicking up spray and knocking boats flat. It went roaring up the hillside, stripping leaves from the trees. It left a brown path of snapped trees and torn-up brush in its wake. 

This went on as darkness fell. I sat on the life raft and watched.

Then the rain began—not all at once, but in fits and starts, along with the wind that came and went. I went down and stuffed a can of warm beef stew into my stomach. I put on my foul-weather jacket, pulled the hood over my head, and strapped on my dive mask to keep the hood in place. I was not about to leave my bald head unprotected. 

I would be spending the entire night on the foredeck, crammed in between the windlass and the bulwarks, out of the wind.

By 10 p.m., we were in it. The winds initially came from the east, then gradually shifted to the south as Hugo’s eye slowly moved northwestward, passing just 30 miles south of us, over St. Croix.

Gusts blew well over 100 knots. By 2 a.m., we had 5- to 10-foot swells entering the harbor. Afaran rose to meet each swell, only to plunge into the steep troughs. I worried that we might hit the bottom, but the surge had increased the water’s depth. We bottomed out only twice, with a thud.

I lay on the deck, in the dark, the wind shrieking through the boat’s rigging, the air full of rain and spray blown off the tops of breaking waves. A gust would hit the boat, and it would rear back like a horse trying to shake the halter. With my flashlight, I watched as the nylon lines stretched out. Then, when the gust retreated, Afaran would surge forward, the stretched-out nylon rodes acting like rubber bands. The lines hung limp off the bow rollers until the next gust drove us back. 

Every 15 minutes, I turned on my flashlight and inspected the rodes and chafing gear. I was gratified to watch the bronze bow rollers as the rodes and snubber line stretched out. This ­minimized friction compared with stationary chocks. 

Occasionally, the night was ablaze with light. Derek, on his boat, had fired up his big searchlight and was sweeping the harbor to see what was happening. I raised my head above the gunwale to follow the light. Each sweep saw an increasing ­number of yachts piled up on the beach.

On deck, the noise was deafening, like standing on a New York City subway platform as the express roared through. Every hour or so, I crawled back to the cockpit to check the ­windspeed. Steady at 100 knots. 

Descending below, I found the cabin alarmingly serene compared with the hell up on deck. I’d drink water and tap the barometer. The needle would jump down—the hurricane was still advancing on us.

By 3 a.m., things were at their worst. Derek’s spotlight revealed that more of the anchored boats were missing. The 90-foot Bermuda yacht had taken two others ashore with it.

By 5 a.m., it was getting lighter. At 7 a.m., I could stand on deck. I removed my mask and snorkel, and looked around. 

There had been 55 boats anchored in Coral Bay. I counted only five of us still riding to our anchors. The mangroves and the beach road were lined with boats, two and three deep.

At 9 a.m., it was all over. The wind stopped. The sun came out. 

It had been 12 hours. Hurricane Hugo had left the building.

 My boat never lost electrical power, refrigeration, music or a working stove. As Afaran and I cruised from island to island, we were alone. For a week, I saw no other boats underway. It felt as if we were the last boat left in the world.

Editor’s Note: Six years after Hurricane Hugo, Lyman rode out Hurricane Luis aboard Afaran at anchor in Mayo Bay, in St. John, USVI, before Hurricane Marilyn finally took Afaran, leaving behind only the mast, engine and pieces of the hull no larger than a refrigerator door. Lyman was not aboard during that storm. 

The post Riders on the Storm appeared first on Cruising World.

Now here’s an intriguing idea for anyone in the midst of a satisfying career who loves their job—and wants to keep it—but who also cherishes sailing and would greatly relish the opportunity to push pause on the rat race, take time to obtain and prepare an awesome boat, get that work situation in order, lay out a six-month plan to cruise the Caribbean, and enjoy a sabbatical. 

All of which is precisely what Brad Read, the executive director of the Sail Newport community sailing center in Newport, Rhode Island, and his wife, Cara, recently did. 

The Read family is Rhode Island sailing royalty: Patriarch Bob is a longtime stalwart in Narragansett Bay racing circles; brother Ken is the president of North Sails and a veteran of the America’s Cup and Volvo Ocean Race; and, like his older sibling, Brad was an all-American college sailor and has won multiple world championships in classes such as the J/24 (where, it must be said, both Reads have kicked my butt). 

Aboard their Bruckmann 47 cutter, Althea, Brad and Cara set sail from Newport in fall 2023 and returned—refreshed and rewarded—earlier this year. Afterward, I sat down with Brad to get his views on the voyage, and to seek his counsel for anyone else contemplating such an adventure. 

Breaking Away: “Cara and I looked at each other—we’re still in fairly good shape, we’re good at sailing our boat doublehanded. I wrote a letter to the executive board of Sail Newport and asked if they’d back a six-month sabbatical as long as it wasn’t during a year where we have a major event. They were very supportive. I wouldn’t even have thought about it if I didn’t have such strong, dedicated and organized department heads.”

The Secret Weapon: “We got a new mainsail and worked really hard with the North Sails group to see how to make the rig and sail plan more flexible because we really wanted to go with a truly cutter rig. We made the inner forestay permanent, and Kenny was like, ‘You don’t want to do that. What about when you tack?’ I said, ‘We’re not short tacking; we’re not ­racing.’ And the new staysail was the best. It’s literally the best sail on the boat.”

Changes in Attitude: “We had a wonderful time in the US and British Virgin Islands, as always. But it took me a while to get out of the charter mentality, where I was comfortable just hanging out in a pretty place for five days. At first I was like, ‘Let’s go, let’s go!’ And Cara asked, ‘Can we just stay in one spot for a while?’ It’s not like you’re on a weeklong vacation. It took some time to appreciate that.”

Doublehanding: “Cara and I are good at preventive maintenance, and we had lots of spares. We know when the loads are right and not to overtax things. And we reef early. We got very good at it, just the two of us. It’s actually easier that way, because when you have a lot of hands involved, it gets very distracting.”

The Route: “We left Newport and went to the Caribbean after a stop in Bermuda. I think we got the itinerary just right. You have only six months, you start as far east as you ever want to go. And then work your way downwind through the islands. A lot of people do it the other way, down to Florida, then it’s a beat to the Bahamas, Turks and Caicos, and Puerto Rico. We were smart enough not to do that.”

The Advice: “I learned something in college sailing: Your strategy is one thing, but your tactics completely rely on your own assessment of your ability to execute. You have to go out and practice. You’ve got to get ready. So take a safety-at-sea course. Get the professional version of PredictWind, which is fantastic. Get Starlink—it’s a game-changer. Then practice. A friend told us that not everyone is willing to do the work to actually pull the trigger, like we did. It’s hard. In the end, there’s always something else you could do, another upgrade. Then, at some point, you just have to say: ‘Let’s go.’”

The post The Read Rules appeared first on Cruising World.

It was, in fact, dark and stormy on that night in September 2023. The sunset had been extraordinary, shining orange and pink on breakers pounding the headland of Great Wass Island in Beals, Maine. Spray leapt 20 feet into the darkening night until the lasting image was foamy fangs of white against the gloom. 

Hurricane Lee had sent these waves as shock troops before the true impact. The wind was fitful at first, and then it steadied from the northeast. Our 43-foot cutter, Gusto, moved against its anchor, pulling slack and then settling into the center of the deep water. 

Then it was full night. The clouds moved in. The only lights were our own. 

When the storm hit, our initial experience was not through sight, but through the ears and the body. Our eyes were locked out by cloudy midnight and sheets of rain, but our ears magnified the creaking anchor rode. Our bodies felt the rattle of halyards and pounding rain on the deck. 

As the big blast arrived and the first big tug on the anchor held, I was up the ­companionway. The spotlight showed trees raving wildly around, catching the wind and holding the worst gusts above us. The water was coated in pine needles and dust. This hurricane harbor was like a foxhole, and we were down there getting religion. 

This was the first time that I had ever been on board in a place where the National Weather Service predicted a hurricane would hit. For most of us, hurricanes happen to other people. This one was about to hit me, my wife, Whitney, and our Gusto. 

When a hurricane is headed in your direction, what decisions need to be made? Which ones do you absolutely need to get right? The first attempt at most anything is tricky, whether that’s changing the impeller or docking the boat. 

The biggest lesson I learned from Hurricane Lee? The psychological challenges are as big as the physical ones.

At the Start

The National Hurricane Center advisory for September 13 was that Lee would remain a large and dangerous cyclone while it approached eastern New England and Atlantic Canada. Hurricane conditions and coastal flooding were possible in eastern Maine, southern New Brunswick and western Nova Scotia, and a Hurricane Watch was in effect.

It was an unusual advisory. Most years in Maine, these systems spin out to sea. Hurricane Lee made it personal by coming straight for us. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Lee was supposed to fade east, and we were supposed to enjoy Down East cruising from Roque Island to Eastport before coasting on to Nova Scotia. 

Cell coverage is not what it could be on that bold coast, so, after a placid phone-free weekend, it was bracing to sail into cell service and see the phone light up with texts: “Look out!” “Plan for Lee?” “You might be in the bull’s-eye” “Pull the boat and move ashore!” 

There was the bright-red pinwheel passing Bermuda and tracking by Cape Cod, Massachusetts, toward this cul de sac where Maine ends and Canada begins. This storm wasn’t blowing itself out to sea. It was blowing itself right up Gusto’s wake like a big, bad wolf on our scent. 

Whitney and I sailed to nearby Jonesport to make our plan.

Today, you know that Hurricane Lee landed as a tropical storm, and that winds merely blew 60. In the pause preceding impact, we had only alerts and imaginations. For most cruisers, when the storm has passed, it is easy to assert a confident storm strategy. But the days before, while a sinister swell rocks the sea, we all feel ambivalence. I know that I did. At that time, those of us afloat between Schoodic Point and Cape Sable had three days to ponder just how violent our tropical visitor would be.

That interval interests me: the time between innocent summer cruising and the deadly named storm. Given how warm and stormy the Atlantic has become, we should all get better at this process of preparing for impact. 

Into this countdown, every skipper packs weighty decisions that can’t be undone. Your choices about location or anchor or boatyard accumulate into a storm reckoning. You wrestle with uncertainty, hesitate to make definite decisions from indefinite information, strain your brain while sharing evolving ideas. I suppose I’m saying that storm preparation is physical and mental, and it’s worth acknowledging that the story of tying lines and setting anchors can look far too straightforward. 

The truth is, Lee kind of wore me out. The maritime museum in Castine has old photos of schooner captains. They look careworn, stern and preoccupied. Now I know why. 

Analyze, Think, Repeat

Today’s sailors have weather information that the skippers of yore would have drowned their mates for. Yet, we have so much information from so many sources that we get overwhelmed—salty paralysis by analysis. We’ve all become anxious supercomputers processing web pages and storm videos and weather routing and insurance disclaimers and Weather Service alerts. Surely you’ve seen the cruisers at one marina or another circling around and around the forecast with decision anxiety.

And why not? That storm strategy might be the most important decision any of us make, and we have to make it in soggy shoes, considering places we’ve never been, obliging crew with travel plans, and waiting for new forecasts. The old-time sailors sniffed the breeze and tapped the barometer. Whitney and I reloaded updates in far-flung harbors with spotty cell service, holding our devices skyward like pagans propitiating sky gods. 

The first question for any storm is: Where do I put this boat? From our anchorage off Roque Island, Jonesport was close and attractive. We motored there through fog denser than lobster bisque. Then we wedged into a man-made affair that crowds four-score lobster boats between town and breakwater. 

Too bad that it was open to the northeast, and too bad that the northeast was where Lee would blow the hardest. Whitney wondered, “Would a mooring get us through?” 

The generous folks at the Jonesport Shipyard thought theirs would, even though Gusto was the largest of four sailboats in the harbor. Staying there and hoping for the best was certainly tempting but, deep down, felt like the ostrich option where we put the pennant on the cleat and hope. This forecast had so much northeast in it and these boats were so close together that we were tempted to do this easy thing, but we decided to find another plan. 

“I’d put her up on land,” the dockhand said. “Safe as going to church.” 

Around us, lobstermen hurried to pull their boats. I asked Whitney, “What about hauling?” Doable: Haul Gusto at the shipyard, put a bunch of jack stands around her, cinch down everything, rent a room on high ground. She joked that it was like my Sharktivity app that spots great whites and warns: “The only way to avoid sharks is to stay onshore.” 

But hauling your boat on short notice in a small harbor is not simple. As we talked it through, I concluded that I didn’t want to see Gusto stilted precariously above some parking lot by people I barely knew. Could they even schedule us? We didn’t want to pester these generous folks about scheduling and extra jack stands and tie-downs and space from other boats. And, if we weathered all that, then we’d have to get her launched amid all the fishermen hungry to get back to work. No, those deficiencies were real, and sufficient to focus my mind on hurricane holes.

Our third option was to anchor Gusto somewhere with good wind protection, sufficient room to swing, and shelter from waves. We wanted a hurricane hole. 

The Plan

I’m glad to say that what Down East Maine lacks in luxury amenities, it overachieves in steep-sided coves. A hurricane hole is a secure anchorage, a natural refuge from a storm’s wind, waves and surge. The chart showed a snug shelter not far from Jonesport called Mud Hole. A promising title for our heavy anchor.

Mud Hole looked to have the requisite characteristics for surviving Hurricane Lee: wave protection from all sides; wind protection from most directions, and especially the north; good holding; and room to swing. 

The morning of September 14, we untied from our Jonesport mooring and felt the rising tide lift us toward Mud Hole on Great Wass Island. We motored through cloying fog with only a few lobstermen for company on the radar, and we hoped that this decision would be the right one.

Mud Hole is basically an Olympic-size pool reached through a crooked passage and hemmed in by 50-foot trees atop 20-foot cliffs. That’s a lot of shelter.

The long axis is a half-mile of east to west, and the short axis is 400 feet of north to south. You enter on a rising tide and then place yourself in the center of the muddy pool that gives the place its name. Hurricane holes turn out to be like music clubs in New York: The harder it is to get in, the better it is once you’re there. Sheltering banks north and south, mud flats to the west, and a sinuous maze of ledges to the east. A fjord? Whitney’s Norwegian ancestors probably wouldn’t call it a fjord, but it was close enough for our purposes.

Obviously, it felt good to be there because the protection was profound, but it also felt good to be there because we had decided to live with our decision. No more studying storm videos or wondering about Travelifts. It was time to get into the physical process of storm preparation. 

My own punch list is probably shorter than many sailors would make, and probably more than a few others would complete. In this case, my attention went to anchoring, windage, chafe, scuppers, dinghy, sleep and food.

These are mostly self-­explanatory items, but a couple merit discussion. First is my choice to put out a second anchor. I’ve read anchor theory about two anchors on one rode (tandem anchoring), and I’ve sailed in the Bahamas enough to know about the Bahamian moor, but my approach in Mud Hole was simpler than both, and it worked. 

Basically, the primary Rocna went in toward the north side of our muddy pool, and we set it well. That’s 73 pounds of Rocna and 120 feet of chain in the mud. Then Whitney and I fished out our trusty Fortress, attached its chain to line rode, and motored at a 60-degree angle west of the Rocna. We tossed the Fortress over, set it well, and then adjusted that rode to complement the primary. 

This V theory trusted that the primary would hold us when the wind hit. If we dragged the primary at all, then our Fortress would get involved in holding us against the north wind. As the weather backed west late in the storm passage, I wanted the Fortress to keep us off the new lee shore to our east. So the two anchors were set to compound their holding in the primary blow, and then to guard against dragging east when the wind backed gusty to the west.

Of course, swinging room is paramount to any anchor plan. We had our choice in lonely Mud Hole. In Gusto’s days there, we had not one other visitor—not a fisherman , not a powerboat, not a sailboat. It’s important to have space to anchor away from others whose gear might fail, so I felt glad about that security. 

At the same time, Whitney and I couldn’t help but wish for one other salty craft, an experienced skipper to say, “You’ve chosen well.” Some ancient mariner with a tale of great storms weathered in this perfect spot. 

Instead, it was just me and my swinging room to ponder what would come next.

Preparations

The anchors performed even better than I’d hoped, with the big Rocna holding tight and the sturdy Fortress doing its part against the west wind. It was easy to adjust the rope rode on the Fortress because Gusto swung on the ­primary, so I could fine-tune that other scope within inches of my goal. 

Our sturdy bow pulpit and anchor roller made it straightforward to pad the rope rode for chafe and set the primary chain on my burliest snubber. The only real complication for these dual anchors came the day before Lee arrived. That day’s mellow calm let the tide swing Gusto in a lazy circle that tangled the rodes. Solving that was much easier than most boat projects: I walked the dinghy forward, undid the rope rode from its cleat, passed it in a bundle the correct way around the chain, and cleated it again. 

Obviously, that’s not the sort of unweaving I could do in 50 knots of wind, but they tangled only because there was a calm and a 12-foot tide in those hours before the system arrived.

Windage was on my mind when Lee was reported gusting 100 in the Gulf Stream. Whitney and I took down the genoa, flaked it, and brought it below. Our mainsail furls into the Schaefer boom, so we tucked that in as snugly as it would go and then tied off the boom. We removed the sides of the dodger but left the canvas over the top because we felt so well-protected by the Mud Hole topography. We removed loose cockpit items and prettied all the running rigging with any slack.  

OK, so that was wind. Whitney pointed out that if we were going to get drenched under 6 inches of rain, we’d better think drainage. 

Kind woman at the grocery store: “You on that sailboat? You take your pretty wife and come stay with me. You’ll both get killed out there.” 

The scuppers were clear of obstructing lines. The cockpit drains I snaked clean before any flying debris would clog them. The hatches and dodger would just have to do what they were made to do. 

As it turned out, Gusto drained well. Indeed, we used galley pans to gather water for cooking in the deluge. The only problem was that our gallant dinghy gathered so much rain so fast that I had to bail her with a bucket in a momentary lull. 

And, yes, the dinghy trailed aft instead of being hoisted aboard. Others might have deflated their dinghy, but we thought that our little inflatable could be as content trailing there as on a daysail towing behind. And it was…except for collecting 50 gallons of rainwater.

Finally, we set the intention to make extra food, eat regularly, and get plenty of rest. I figured I’d be up all night during the storm, so any extra sleep I could get would be money in the proverbial bank. And it was.

And then… 

After all of that preparation, Hurricane Lee became Tropical Storm Lee. To be honest, the real work was the mental processing of all those storm tracks and the constant shifting of all those variables between Gusto and shelter. In this sense, the expectations were the hardest part because they kept changing, while the storm preparations in Mud Hole were simple physical actions we’d performed dozens of times. Each small chore made us feel more in control of our destiny while the clock counted down to impact. 

The grind for skippers is surely the mental pressure to make clear choices from fluctuating inputs about storm track, timing and direction. This means that hurricane planning should include storm psychology. To me, it seems crucial to allow time and energy for that mental element, recognizing that once you have selected your storm strategy, enacting it is a familiar series of seamanlike tasks. 

Of course, others might say that storms often miss, and that all these preparations are just nervous foolishness—unhealthy signs of an edgy disposition. 

Maybe. But remember, if the storm hits, all this preparation is the only thing between your pants and the cold waters of eternity.

The post Surviving the Storm: A Sailor’s Tale of Hurricane Lee appeared first on Cruising World.

When I first sailed the Lesser Antilles islands in the late 1970s, I listened to the morning weather broadcast from Radio Antilles. It came on every morning at 8:05, from an AM radio station on Montserrat. “Today’s weather will see winds south of east to north of east, from 12 to 18 knots, with higher gusts. Occasional showers. No significant change is anticipated over the next 48 hours.”

I swear, it was the same recording we heard every morning. 

The trade winds do blow, with predictable regularity, from the northeast to southeast all year long. There’s an occasional deviation: the passage of a hurricane or a few days of calm. There is a wet season in the summer, a dry season in the winter, and short periods of stronger winds—the Christmas winds—in late December through early January.

Still, after 25 years of sailing here, here are my words of warning: You can get lulled into complacency amid these islands. It’s part of their charm. But then you pay for it when the winds kick up.

Christmas Winds

A few years ago, at the end of a delivery from Antigua, I had anchored off the charming village of Sainte-Anne on Martinique. Something awakened me at first light. Still half asleep, I plodded to the companionway.

When I emerged into the cockpit, the weather was blowing like stink. I looked through the dodger window to see hundreds of whitecaps marching toward us. They were only a foot or so high, but they were steep, deep and sharp. They didn’t really bother the 54-foot sloop I was on, but the dinghy astern was dancing a jig.

Then, I heard the surrounding noises. There was a hum throughout the boat as the wind strummed a tune in the rigging, rising in pitch as the wind increased. Other noises mixed in: the snapping of the ensign astern, the flapping of the sail cover, the high-pitched whine of the wind generators above the aft arch.

I switched on the nav instruments. The wind indicator hovered between 20 and 25, then scooted up to 30 as a gust hit. This is a moderate gale on the Beaufort scale.

It was late January. The Christmas winds had arrived—late.

I thought it would blow like this for a few days, but rarely a week. It’s all academic, I told myself. What were the practical implications? Getting ashore in the dinghy would be a wet ride. I was reluctant to leave the boat on its own.

By the time I looked again, the RIB tied off astern was bouncing like a pony trying to throw its halter. The painter couldn’t take too much more before it would tear the ring out of the boat. I had elected to anchor way out at the edge of the field, for privacy and an unrestricted sunset view. That means the easterly wind had a longer fetch to build up these nasty waves.

I hauled in the RIB and tied on a longer painter, figuring more scope might reduce the snapping. It didn’t. Closer in? That didn’t work either.

Other boaters had come to the same conclusion. We all needed to haul our RIBs out of the water. Some had davits; others, like me, had to use a halyard or stow the thing on deck. 

That done, I checked the anchor chain. As the boat was driven back in a gust, the anchor chain straightened out, and the snubber came taught and stretched out. I had dived on the anchor when I first set it and was confident it would hold, but I wondered if I might awake one morning on my way to Honduras.

I watched as two French bareboats attempted to re-anchor. It didn’t go well. The wind was driving them sideways so fast that the anchors never had a chance to set.

The Christmas winds—we’d all just have to sit tight.

Island Effects

The tall mountains of the larger Caribbean islands block the trade winds, creating a wind shadow to leeward. These shadows can extend out to sea for 10 to 20 miles, which means a lot of motoring as you make your way south or north along the island’s flank. It can be a welcoming experience after bashing through the open Atlantic between the islands.

As I was sailing north from the Grenadines up to Antigua last April, I was aboard Richard Thomas’s Reliance 44 cutter. We’d left Prince Rupert Bay on Dominica that morning and were sailing north, west of Îles des Saintes. It was mid-afternoon when we ran into Guadeloupe’s wind shadow. We were about 5 miles offshore and had to proceed under power.

Then, I spied three sailboats, close in with the shore, sailing north, their sails full. Could there be a westerly sea breeze at play? 

“It is possible to make way under sail in the lee of the High Islands?” Don Street writes in his Transatlantic Crossing Guide (my copy is from 1989). “Most sailors assume there will be a total lull close to shore, so they pass 3 to 4 miles off—which is just where you find absolutely no wind. But there is a way to skirt along the lee shore of these high islands, which I discovered in a book of 18th-century sailing directions. There are three recommended ways of passing the islands: at seven leagues (21 miles offshore) or else close enough to be within two pistol shots of the beach.” 

The historian Dudley Pope explains that a pistol shot was a recognized term of measurement in those days and appears frequently in accounts of naval battles. It’s the equivalent of 25 yards.

“So stay within 50 yards offshore,” Street continues. “Which may be a bit closer than you want, but not by much. You stand a good chance of enjoying a smooth, scenic sail the length of the high island. The best time to try this is between 1000 and 1600. After 1600, the breeze falls off rapidly.”

He continues: “During the day, as the land heats up, you’ll sometimes pick up a westerly onshore breeze right up to the beach, counter to the trades, which continue to blow to the west higher up. Alternately at night, the cool air falls down off the hills, often providing a beautiful moonlight sail along the beach.”

This is one of the tricks savvy sailors use when sailing along Hispaniola and Puerto Rico’s north coasts.

“Dawn and dusk are the only times when there is absolutely no wind in the lee of these islands.” Street goes on. “I would say that, except for these times, you’ll be successfully sailing the lee shore about 75 percent of the time. Of course you can always sail up and down the islands, passing to windward of them.”

Night Winds

It’s those night winds Don writes about that concern me most.

Anchored in the delightful harbor of Deshaies on the northwestern tip of Guadeloupe, I’ve experienced these night winds numerous times. All is fine as you nestle in at anchor, and then the winds begin around 2 a.m. Easterly blasts of cool air traveling at 30 knots barrel down through the mountain valley, and through town and the harbor, testing your ground tackle and anchoring skills.

I lay awake in the cockpit, one eye on a fixed light ashore to see if we were dragging. 

“These are katabatic winds,” Chris Doyle told me recently. “Heavy cold air at the mountaintops slides down the slopes in the valleys and out to sea, resulting in a westerly airflow at the sea surface.”

Island Wind Refraction

Refraction is the phenomenon by which waves—light, radio, sound and sometimes ocean waves, currents and wind—bend when meeting an obstacle and curve away from their original path. That obstacle can be an island.

When sailing south one season on Searcher, my 57-foot Bowman ketch, we motored down the lee shore of Dominica with plans to anchor in Saint-Pierre on the northeast tip of Martinique for the night. As we approached the southern tip of Dominica, we began to experience a south-southeast wind, and I fell off to the west southwest. Swells were behaving the same way.

Five miles later, the wind and waves started to come back to the east, and we corrected our course to the south. By this time, we were too far west and in no position to fetch Saint-Pierre. Then, I figured we’d experience the same effect, in reverse, as we reached the northern tip of Martinique. The winds did bend to the north, and we were able to correct our course and make it in.

This effect occurs around many of the islands’ northern and southern tips. Tides also play a part. Even if only a foot or 2, a foul tide can also kick up a nasty chop when running counter to the prevailing wind. 

During last April’s voyage, north up the coast of Guadeloupe, we decided not to duck into Deshaies for the night. We could make the anchorage off Jolly Harbor on Antigua by midnight. As we were rounding the northern tip of Guadeloupe, we encountered confused seas and strong, gusty winds. It was frustrating and uncomfortable.

I’ve experienced this before; the winds get channeled between the main island landmass and two small islands off the tip of Pointe Allegre. After a while, things settled down, and progress could be made. By the time we got the anchor down off the beach in Jolly Harbor, it was 2 in the morning.

No Wind

Occasionally there are days of no wind at all. Larry Tyler, owner and skipper on the charter yacht The Dove, has been sailing these islands for more than 30 years. Recently, he told me, “The only thing that comes to mind is that every year once or twice, the winds die down completely and then suddenly you get a westerly wind blowing you on to beach, if you are anchored too close.

Last April, during the Antigua Classic Yacht Regatta, the first day’s race was a drifting competition in calm conditions. The sea was like a mirror.

Hurricanes

Every summer and fall, from June through mid-November, these islands are visited by a series of tropical waves. Before some of these waves reach the islands, they may turn into tropical storms with winds as high as 70 knots. As they accumulate energy and build strength, they turn into hurricanes, with winds in excess of 70 knots.

The whirling winds, rain, surges and waves pass through the island chain quickly, normally moving along at 12 knots. They come and are gone in less than a day, but the devastation they leave behind can be extreme. 

Hurricane Beryl came through the Grenadians last July, destroying 70 percent of the homes on Carriacou and Union Island, and severely damaging the remaining 30 percent. The peak of hurricane season is September, after the summer sun has heated up the Atlantic surface water, leading to enhanced evaporation, the fuel that drives a hurricane.

Thankfully, these days we have excellent sources to find out what’s coming.

The post Understanding Wind in the West Indies appeared first on Cruising World.

In 2020, our friends purchased a 1980 43-foot Hans Christian, Remedy, that had a compromised bowsprit. My husband, Chris, had reinforced it for the previous owner, but it was time to replace it entirely because it was suffering from severe termite damage and was the weakest link of the rig. Chris was asked to tackle the replacement job too, based on his reputation here in Southern California for delivering excellent results, even if it means putting projects aboard our own Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet, on the back burner. 

Hans Christians are pretty easy yachts to spot; many of the designs have a substantial bowsprit, carrying the lines of the large bulwarks that make for a stout bluewater cruiser. The rigs differ from ketch, sloop and cutters, but they all get as much sail area as possible, utilizing the bowsprit. For example, the 33-foot Hans Christian has a relatively small footprint on deck but sports the rig and sail area of what you might see on a 40-foot yacht, to compensate for the heavy displacement.

Forty-one-year-old Remedy had never had the bowsprit removed and inspected—hence the termites, along with wood rot at the base, where water pooled easily. 

There also was the issue of the samson posts (the physical stopping point for the aft end of the bowsprit) having separated from their lateral support underneath the deck. And we noted a classic case of stainless-steel crevice ­corrosion that had claimed all of the bowsprit hardware, which had hairline cracks, pitting and bent tangs. 

A total rebuild was necessary, and there was a lot to consider about the way to go about it, given how much materials and technology have improved since Remedy splashed decades ago. We could stick with wood and re-create what was there, or make something like a fiberglass bowsprit. Using the old bowsprit as a mold, we could build something that was impervious to rot, and that was stronger and lighter than its wood counterpart. Or we could build one out of aluminum. It wouldn’t sport the exact same design, but it could be better in many ways. 

Our friends decided to stick with traditional wood, which led to new considerations. Since materials like old-growth wood are simply not available these days, we couldn’t carve a new bowsprit out of a single piece of timber like the original. Instead, we would have to utilize techniques such as laminating. Having just finished our bulwark aboard Avocet, we knew that we liked cumaru wood (sometimes called Brazilian teak) for its strength, but finding a piece that was a minimum of 8½ feet wide by 14 feet long, and kiln-dried, turned out to be more difficult than we anticipated. 

Remedy’s owners found a lead on sapele, a type of mahogany with higher tensile strength than teak and better gluing adhesion. It lacks the oils that teak has for fighting off rot and bugs, but given the general lack of wood on the West Coast, we decided that sapele was our best option. 

With the wood ordered, Chris set out to translate measurements from the old bowsprit to paper so that he could dimensionally see how Hans Christian had done it, and where he could improve the design. 

Hans Christian had made the original bowsprit quickly and efficiently, leaving details such as perfectly straight lines, 90-degree cuts and appropriate spacing as an afterthought. Chris added notes where material needed to be added and taken away to create an upgraded version. He then laid out his tools and got busy turning the 5-by-5-foot boards into a bowsprit. 

This was a messy project. Not only were we dealing with a large amount of dripping resin, but there was also a fair bit of dust and shavings that wouldn’t be appropriate to manage dockside. Fortunately, our friends at Ventura Harbor Boatyard allowed us to set up shop there. Chris created a workspace encapsulated with a tarp to control the dust and temperature. Inside, we used box fans for air circulation.

 From the initial concept, we knew that the hardest part of building the new bowsprit was going to be cutting an 8½-by-8½-foot cube with a taper. So, instead of trying to cut an entire solid piece of timber, Chris instead cut 10 planks into the shape of the bowsprit, with the intention of gluing them together. When he cut the boards, he purposely left about a ¼-inch of extra material on all sides to act as a buffer while gluing everything together, and to allow for enough material to be planed away during the shaping process. 

Once the boards were cut into their desired shape, it was time to glue them together. 

This process of laminating wood with many layers introduces an incredible amount of tensile strength, if you can keep the layers well-bonded for the life of the beam. There have been horror stories about laminated beams on ships coming apart, but if the job is done properly, the result will be stronger than it could be with a single piece of timber. 

After speaking with a few experts about lamination materials, Chris used Smith’s Oak and Teak Epoxy Glue, which turned out to be by far the stickiest, strongest and goopiest epoxy we have ever seen. Chris did a quick run with the orbital sander to raise the grain of the wood, and then a wipe-down with acetone, before he and one of the boat’s owners began applying the glue with a 4-inch filler spreader. 

This was among the most stressful parts of the entire project—and not just because we needed it to work. At that time, there was a nationwide epoxy shortage, so we were trying to conserve epoxy at the same time that we were liberally applying it. And we were racing to make sure all the boards were clamped before the epoxy “kicked off” (entered the initial cure phase). 

When the last clamp was placed, the old bowsprit was placed on top of the laminated boards for more downward pressure. With the epoxy curing, we draped a tarp over the whole ensemble and plugged in three space heaters to increase the ambient temperature to 95 or 100 degrees Fahrenheit, to assist in the curing process. To be safe, we checked on the heaters continually, and we removed them from our workspace the following day.

Two days later, we removed the clamps to get a good look at what was now one cohesive piece of wood. We were pleased with the results (whew!). It was now time to shape the laminated wood into a proper bowsprit. 

The first tool Chris grabbed was his trusty grinder with a 5-inch sanding-pad attachment, to get rid of all the epoxy that had squeezed out between the boards. This step left a flat surface that was suitable for a hand planer. 

Chris struck a centerline and started marking the sides of the bowsprit where the final dimensions would be. The least amount of material he had to remove was about a ¼-inch, and the most was about 4 inches around where the bottom edge of the bowsprit tapered from the middle section up to the very front. This exercise confirmed that his initial cuts in the individual planks were correct, leaving enough material to shape. 

After lamination, the bowsprit weighed more than 300 pounds—yikes, indeed—but that figure decreased with every inch of material that Chris shaved away. The final weight was around 270 pounds. This is why a lighter material such as fiberglass, carbon or aluminum would be great to consider.

Once the bowsprit was between ⅛ and ¼ inch of the original spec, we relocated our project to the dock, where the final shaping would make a minimal mess. 

To say that we were ­nervous at this point was an ­understatement. Chris worried that the monster he had crafted might not gracefully replace the previous bowsprit, and his worrying made me anxious. There was only one way to put our nerves to bed, and that was to lift the bowsprit and see if it fit. 

At first, it didn’t—but that was OK. We had anticipated an improper fit, which is why Chris had left enough material to continue taking it away, finely tuning the bowsprit’s shape to the boat itself. Using his wood planer and contractor square, he shaved another ¼ inch off the sides. He repeated the process about three times, with the fourth time being the golden ticket. The bowsprit slid with no resistance into place, with a very rewarding thunk into the samson post notches. 

The bowsprit was at that point dry-fitted to Remedy,but the work was far from over. Chris had intentionally left the mating surface (where the samson posts and bowsprit made contact) proud so that he could strike a final line on the bowsprit once it was in place. This step in the process ensured that the bowsprit would be fully supported by the samson post while ­avoiding point-loading.

After this step was ­complete, it was time to install the hardware, which you might think would have been easier than everything else we had done so far. Nope. 

By far, the most intimidating part of this project was drilling for the fasteners. Chris had thought about using a mobile drill press, but the holes he had to re-create in the bowsprit needed to accommodate the original hardware (like the pulpit), and those holes were not all uniform in where they went in and came out of the sprit. 

For example: The two ½-inch bolts that go through the staysail chainplate went into the wood at about a 60-degree angle. So we took the process old-school and laid the hardware down on the bowsprit exactly where we wanted it. We then marked both sides of the hole, and used a handheld ½-inch drill to cut the holes in both sides until they connected in the middle. This technique ended up working pretty well—but there was a level of guesswork involved that, while it did not affect the quality of the finished product, just felt wrong to us after so much attention to detail in the project thus far. 

Once all the holes had been drilled, Chris oversized them slightly and inlaid G10 (prefabricated epoxy-based fiberglass laminate) tubes for the bolts to go inside. Adding this upgrade to the original design meant the hardware didn’t need to be bedded because the G10 was epoxied in place. This upgrade to the design also meant the bolts couldn’t oval the wood over time, a problem that would lead to water ingress and put our friends right back where they had started. 

After the tubes had been installed and bedded with thickened epoxy, the entire bowsprit was saturated in Smith’s Clear Penetrating Epoxy Sealer, and then finished with nine coats of Awlgrip’s Awlwood Clear Gloss. If we do say so ourselves, it looked quite lovely.

In the end—with all new hardware, a beautifully varnished bowsprit, and a bluewater cruising boat that was ready for adventure—our friends set a course south for Mexico in October 2021. 

When we last checked, Remedy had covered more than 1,000 nautical miles, with the bowsprit we created proudly leading the way.

Marissa and Chris Neely are currently refitting their Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet, prepping to cast off their lines and go cruising.

The post A Bowsprit Reborn: A DIY Renovation Story appeared first on Cruising World.

I sailed back to the dock ­after a good practice session and listened as a seasoned racing sailor asked the teams preparing for the evening session, “Why are the good sailors the ones who always practice?”  

All I could do was smile. Practice helps you improve at any sport. Listen to the postgame interviews of players on a winning team, and they will often credit their practice time for the team’s success. Practice can be fun and help get an entire crew motivated.  

I find that short-time-frame practices are the most effective. A practice session can be scheduled for an afternoon or for an hour before a longer sail. The goal is to help everyone understand boathandling functions, the use of equipment, and the procedures if the wind increases or if there is an accident. Practicing will make it easier to address problems that do occur, or simply help a crew sail a little more efficiently.

The first step is to schedule a specific time for a practice session. The next step is to make a list of things you would like to achieve. A word of caution: Do not exceed your scheduled time limit. Crews get grumpy when practices run overtime.  

I clearly recall a vigorous practice day some years ago on a grand prix racing yacht. Our crew had been on the water for six hours, and we were glad to be heading back to the harbor. Just as we were getting the dock lines out, the skipper announced, “Let’s show how tough we are and head back out.” By the time we finally returned to the dock, it was dark, and we still had a long list of items to repair. That unfortunate event never happened again. A valuable lesson was learned. 

A better idea is to stick to the plan. Before leaving the dock or mooring, brief the crew on the location of important equipment. Make sure everyone is involved in preparing the sails, sheets and lines. After heading out, take a few moments to review the plan. Assign each crewmember a task. 

Practice sessions can be ­organized with just one boat, with another boat or with a fleet. I suggest practicing near a buoy or channel marker that can be used as a reference point. If you use the marker as a turning mark, then the crew needs to be prepared for the maneuver by time you arrive at it. 

You might start by making a series of six tacks about one minute apart. Ask someone other than the helmsperson to specify exactly where the boat will be heading after the tack.

Then, make a series of six jibes. Again, ask one person to point to a specific point of land or object that the boat will be heading for after the jibe.

After the exercise, take a few minutes to talk about how it went. Discuss ideas for how to do it a little better.

Repeat the exercise with the crew switching positions. Everyone will get an appreciation for one another’s jobs.

If the boat has a spinnaker, set it and practice jibing.

One of my favorite exercises is to stop the boat dead in the water and then work to accelerate back to full speed. Backing the headsail for a few seconds will help turn the boat onto your desired course.

Try to sail the boat in reverse by holding the boom out while backing the headsail. Keep a good grip on the wheel or tiller so that the boat doesn’t make a sudden turn.

Since my earliest sailing days, I have practiced using two buoys spaced several ­boatlengths apart. I sail figure eights around the two buoys. In one rotation, you will tack, jibe, head up and bear off. The drill has been a big benefit to me.

If an approaching powerboat is making big waves, then use the opportunity to learn how to minimize pounding in the chop. What is the best course to steer to avoid stressing the rig? If you bear away from the wind, be sure to ease the sails. Sailboats increase speed if you bear only when the sails are eased. (And don’t shake your fist at an offending power vessel. My standard response is to ignore it.)

Ask crewmembers to read the wind. Let them recognize the puffs and light patches on the water. Get everyone involved. It’s great fun.

An important exercise is to reef the mainsail. You can do this in any weather condition. If the wind builds, it’s important for the crew to know how to shorten sail.

When I am around other boats, I try to maximize my speed. I believe that it’s human nature to want to sail faster than other boats, and I believe that a boat should always be sailed to its potential. At full speed, a boat is more comfortable and morale goes up. This is why it’s good to practice with another boat that performs similarly. You do not need to race, but simply sail alongside to gauge speed. Make one adjustment at a time to see if you can improve your boat’s speed. Experiment with sail trim, crew weight position, steering angle, or playing the sails in puffs and light patches of wind.  

You will quickly learn how to sail better when you compare your performance with another boat’s. Agree in advance what drills you plan to practice. At the end of the session, compare notes. The goal is for everyone to improve. 

When practicing in pairs, you can start by sailing upwind for a specific period. Spacing should be about three ­boatlengths apart, with both boats sailing with clear wind. If one boat gets ahead, stop the exercise and start again. Speed tests should last 10 minutes or about 1 mile. Two or three speed tests are usually adequate to judge your performance.

Repeat the exercise when sailing on a reach or downwind. Both boats need to have clear wind for the drill to be helpful.

Sail in opposite tacks or jibes for five minutes and then head back toward each other’s boat. This will help you understand which side of the body of water has more wind. Switch sides, and repeat the drill by sailing on the opposite side of the body of water to confirm which side is better. The goal is to find an area with more wind.

In as little as one hour’s time, you can hold an effective practice session. When you finish, the whole crew will be more confident and relaxed while sailing.

The post Practice Makes Perfect appeared first on Cruising World.

Not you too, Son,” my father said sadly. 

It was the late 1950s, and the crew of the schooner Elizabeth, wearing rags, were lined up for a dressing down on the foredeck. We’d been heading into a setting sun in the Florida Keys and had run hard aground on a shoal. We’d then attempted to kedge off—with a large anchor, a clinker-built rowing dinghy named Lil’ Liz, and a stiff, tarred-hemp anchor rode that handled like unruly razor blades. 

Father wasn’t happy. Our schooner had a 52-foot length on deck and a 64-foot length overall. This Alden-designed schooner weighed three times more than a modern vessel. She drew 8½ feet. Her iron keel was long and narrow. Our anchor windlass was manual and inefficient. Darkness was only two hours away. A northerner was coming. There were building swells too. 

All of this was bad, but what happened next was far worse. Carole, my oldest sister, made a sound. It was kind of a yelp but strangled in mid-cry. All of us became wide-eyed at her insolence until Mother, aka the Sea Siren, began to laugh. Gale, the middle child, also began to giggle, chuckle, and then outright hoot and guffaw. Jerry, our ship’s dog, let go a howl or two to show her solidarity with the sisterhood.

I’m loath to point out the petty sexism of male sailors back in the day, but all this made unfortunate sense to my provincial father. To him, women were the weaker sex. This was an emergency. They should be dutifully following orders, not giggling or openly mocking their captain. 

I, a mere lad of 8 years, stood off to the side, leaning toward my beloved father’s view. But then, for an instant, I saw the absurdity of what was happening—a sun-bronzed, freedom-crazed skipper dressed in a Tahitian pareo aboard a dilapidated schooner that had somehow sailed out of the 1920s was yelling at his cowering family because he’d failed to have the sun over his shoulder as he entered a tropical port.

I realized that nothing can turn an easygoing man into a drill sergeant faster than a tiller in his hand. And that was when I too allowed a giggle of amusement to escape, causing my betrayed father to utter those fateful words: “Not you too, Son.”

Yes, we learn as we sail. I’ve sailed a lot, so I can claim­­—however falsely—to have learned a bit. This little episode taught me that, on any pleasure cruise, there’s the skipper who sweats the details and a crew who doesn’t—nor should they be asked to. If you assume the mantle of captain, you have to accept the responsibility and the realization that your guests shouldn’t (and can’t, really) share the burden. 

Let’s back up a tad. I’ve been scribbling about boats for 50 years now. I’ve written a lot of how-to articles. This column, though, is about how not to. Put another way, it’s about where I fall short as skipper. 

One place where I fall short is failing to appreciate the shore-centric reality of my guests. For instance, we were in Vava’u, Tonga, and sailing to the capital city of Nukualofa, where our San Francisco guest would fly out the next day. This was an adult who had traveled the world on land, graduated from an Ivy League university, and had the smarts to buy Apple stock when Jobs and Woz were still in the garage. 

Everything was fine. It was a perfect sailing day in paradise. Ganesh, our 43-foot ketch, was rail-down and broad-reaching in 24 knots of breeze. The water was gin-clear. The verdant islands slid by like a Winslow Homer watercolor. 

Our guest was utterly beguiled by our lifestyle for more than an hour. Our decks were dry. Everything was going fine until our guest awoke after a nap, looked around, blinked, looked around frantically, and then began to cry aloud. 

I’m not talking about a whimper. I’m talking about a full-on I-don’t-want-to-die scream. “Oh, my God! Where’s land? Point to land! Oh, God! Take me back! Take me back to land right now!”

I was not terribly compassionate. 

“What?” I sneered. “You didn’t realize that islands 40 nautical miles apart had water in between? Or that from the deck of a small vessel, you can’t see too far?”

My wife, Carolyn, ­cautioned, “Berating a blubbering lubber who may have just been mentally scarred forever and consequentially sentenced to therapy for the rest of their natural life isn’t going to help.”

The truth is, I’m sea-centric. I view the world through the keyhole of a sailor, not a rock-hugger. I remember being in a severe Pacific gale with Mexico on my lee. While I desperately attempted to claw off the coast to get sea room, that guest asked me without guile, “Think we can make it into safe harbor before the worst of it?” 

Land is the danger, I thought, not the solution.

I’ve spent decades in the Caribbean. A guest once asked me, while transiting the incredibly deep Puerto Rican trench, if we were going to anchor after dark so that we could get some sleep. 

“How much scope do you think that requires?” I mused. “Thirty-thousand feet times five?”

Having headquartered out of St. John in the US Virgin Islands for two decades, I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been asked if the islands go “all the way to the bottom.”

“Nah,” I always say. “They just drift around, which isn’t a problem unless they bump into each other, which is probably what sank Atlantis.” 

Yes, numerous charter guests have brought tiny vials with them to collect samples of “all the different colors of the seawater.”

We’re currently on our fourth circumnavigation. While we have friends who have completed the Big Fat Circle in a quick two years, we usually take five to seven years, while enduring dock lizards who constantly ask us, “How many days does it take to sail around the world?”

What, they’ve never spun a globe? Never compared the speed of a modern jet in relationship to a half-tide rock such as Ganesh?

Yes, dirt-dwellers are set in their ways. The last time we were in Thailand, I was forced to shut off our water-pressure pump because a stubborn guest insisted on run-run-running his shower. The result wasn’t me being mad at him as much as him being mad at me. “Come on, Fatty,” the fellow said. “This is 2020, not the 1600s.” 

Yes, as expected, he was a tad busy sightseeing when we repeatedly ferried out the jugs to refill our 80-gallon tanks. (Occasionally, our 3-gallon-per-hour desalination unit works, but only if we can afford the amperage.)

But speaking of electrical issues, I was between Bermuda and St. Maarten when a guest came into the cockpit with a hair dryer and asked where they could plug it in. 

“Puerto Rico?” I replied. “St. Barts, maybe? Argentina?”

The same answer applies to the question, “Where is the shower’s hot-water valve?” 

Of course, during the first few decades of my offshore career, we used celestial navigation. When asked if I knew our location as we cruised the Caribbean in the 1970s, I could honestly reply: “Sure. South of North America and north of South America.”

Oh, those were good ol’ days. You could tell folks on St. Thomas that you got there by sailing south until the butter melted, then banged a left.

Seriously, I used to clear Sandy Hook and square away to a point well west of Bermuda, then run down my latitude with noon sights (which didn’t require accurate time) and finally turn to port. Just to be sure, I’d switch on a transistor radio. If the AM signal got louder, I was dead-on course.

Easy-peasy, right? Why make it difficult?

In the 1970s, I had a Bulova Accutron wristwatch with a tuning fork. I could walk aboard any vessel with my sextant in one hand and with my HO publications and nautical almanac in the other, and I could guide that vessel anywhere on the planet. If I wanted a big tip at the end, I’d leave sheets of paper around, filled with scribbled equations to “figure out the continental drift,” I’d say mystically. 

Oh, there are lots of little tricks to make life easier offshore. In late December, it can be extremely difficult to beat 2,000 miles against the reinforced trade winds from Florida to the Lesser Antilles. The seas are large. Falling into the troughs is like hitting concrete. And this boat-­jarring crash doesn’t happen one time, but rather a million times. The results are predictable. 

Thus, whenever the bilge of a vessel that I was sailing eastward across the Thorny Path would suddenly fill with water, I’d just dip and taste my finger, and then smile while the rest of the crew tried to find the leak instead of checking out the ill-chocked, split-open white plastic freshwater tank under the V-berth. 

I know, cruel.

Often, of course, I’d just be delivery crew. Once, off Bermuda on a custom Little Harbor 83, the skipper came up to relieve me just before dawn. I noticed that his clothes were inside out. He’d dressed in a dark cabin and hadn’t wanted to turn on a light to disturb his sleeping wife. Knowing that a captain is always right, I quietly informed the crew. It wasn’t until lunch that it slowly dawned on the poor fellow why his entire grinning crew had their clothes on inside out. 

Then there were the liveaboard parents of a girl. They couldn’t refuse her anything, not even a small aquarium, which they wedged into a bookshelf while offshore. Alas, in the Indian Ocean, they got into a gale that pounded their three-masted sailboat. One wave struck them so hard that the aquarium was dislodged above the sleeping mother. She was doused with salt water, sand, small rocks and a couple of flopping fish. She screamed at her husband, “Honey, we’re aground!”

On a similar note, I installed a burglar and bilge alarm on my Endurance 35, Carlotta, when I built her from scratch in Boston in 1971. This fire bell was super-noisy. Carolyn’s sister and her boyfriend flew in from Chicago to visit us in Bequia, and I soon had them offshore in heavy weather. It was rough. The motion of the seas was so violent that the boyfriend chose to sleep on the cabin sole between my wife’s bunk and mine, to prevent him from being thrown around the main cabin.

Somehow, around midnight, Carlotta hit a pothole (an empty space between waves). Our bow plunged, and the force of the crash bounced our bilge alarm on. 

I’d never heard the alarm under battle conditions, and was sure our hull had broken open like an egg after being struck by a rogue wave. I jumped out of my bunk and was horrified to discover in my grogginess that not only were we sinking, but also that the hole in the hull was so freaking big that I was standing on the back of whale.

The boyfriend’s point of view was a tad different. 

“There I was, scared out of my mind offshore, when a loud noise went off—so loud and so terrifying that I couldn’t think straight,” he recalled. “It was pitch-black inside the swaying cabin, and all my rationality had fled. Next thing I knew, 175 pounds jumped on my stomach, whooshing the air completely out of my chest. Before I could manage to suck back in any oxygen, a bare foot jammed down my exposed neck, cutting off my air supply and preventing me from breathing in. As I began to black out and see the approaching white light, my only thought was that I was certainly hearing the last bell, for sure.”

He never visited again. Last we heard, he’d purchased rural property in Indiana and puked each time he saw a picture of a seascape. 

I know, I know. I should have more compassion, right? 

And this isn’t mentioning Joker, our cat, whose favorite thing during night crossings of the Anegada Passage was to catch flying fish on the foredeck and then proudly deposit them (wet, alive and wiggling) onto the chests of our sleeping guests below. 

Oh, the screams as they levitated.

All of which is why Carolyn often slaps her forehead as she informs our guests, grimly, “I’ve made only two mistakes in life: Saying ‘I’ and ‘do’ were both of  ’em.”

The post Fatty Goodlander: Where I Fall Short as Skipper appeared first on Cruising World.

Stories about being becalmed are legendary in literature of the sea. Wars have been lost because flotillas of warships were unable to advance.  

For modern-day sailors, a lack of wind is usually only frustrating. Schedules are ruined, the engine is used more than it should be, and morale sinks when sails flap. Recently, during a 37-mile passage on Chesapeake Bay, we were about halfway to our destination when the wind died—and then my electric motor came to a stop after 30 minutes. The only option was to keep sailing. The next six hours required patience, not only for me, but also for my two new-to-sailing crew, who feared the prospect of drifting at night.

Drawing on many years of racing in very light or nonexistent wind, I approached our situation methodically. The first step is to adjust your attitude and accept the fact that it is going to be slow-going. 

I set short-term milestones. For example, I asked one crew to set his stopwatch to see if we could reach a channel buoy in 30 minutes. Happily, we arrived at the targeted mark with two minutes to spare. Progress. I repeated the pattern by setting new goals, and everyone was happy as we made each target. 

In light wind, sails need to be adjusted by easing everything out to create more shape in the sail. I eased the outhaul a generous amount, let up the downhaul, and slacked the halyard a few inches. I adjusted the headsail halyard so that the luff had some slack. (It is OK to have wrinkles in the sails.) I also eased off the backstay to allow the headstay to sag about 6 inches. The idea is to create draft, or curvature, in the sails.  

To help keep the sails set properly, heel the boat over by asking the crew to sit on the leeward side. The sails keep their shape better when ­heeling to leeward. This ­strategy also helps to keep the crew sitting in the widest part of the boat. Pushing down either the bow or the stern slows the boat.  

A helpful test is to sail with an angle of heel that allows you to let go of the tiller or wheel. If the boat is balanced, it will sail itself. If the boat heels too far to leeward, then you will create windward helm where the boat wants to round up toward the wind. Conversely, if you heel to windward, the boat will create leeward helm and will bear away from the wind. If you hear water slatting under the transom, then your weight is likely too far aft. The goal is to keep crew weight centered to reduce the wetted surface of the hull, thereby reducing friction.

Steer as little as possible. Every time you move the rudder, you slow the boat. And sit in a comfortable position so that you can see the wind on the water and the approaching waves. I ask my crew to hold the boom in waves to keep the sail from flopping around. This helps maintain a boat’s momentum.  

If there are other boats in your vicinity, try to sail faster than they do. Experiment by changing course, adjusting your sails, or moving your crew to heel more. Make one adjustment at a time, to tell what works and what doesn’t. I find weight on the bow to be particularly slow. Small adjustments can make a big difference. 

When sailing to windward, sail a slightly low course to almost a close reach, to get the boat moving. Once you have some speed, you can sail a higher course. 

If you are sailing on a ­downwind course, reach up to create apparent wind in your sails. Once a boat starts moving, it creates its own (apparent) wind, and speed increases. 

To help build momentum and steer straight, head toward an object on land or an anchored vessel. References on land and a compass are useful tools. 

Stand up in your boat to study the wind patterns on the water. If you see a dark patch, this indicates more wind. You can feel the slightest zephyr on your neck or the back of your hand. Look around at other boats to see if any have some wind and are moving. Steer for a set of clouds—often, there is wind under a cloud. 

Avoid maneuvering when the boat is stopped. The best moment to tack or jibe is when the boat is sailing at full speed and you are in a relatively strong puff of wind. And turn the boat slowly. The faster you turn a boat, the slower it’ll go.  

Keep everyone comfortable, and try to protect the crew from the sun. Dehydration saps energy. Make sure everyone is drinking water, is wearing a hat and sunglasses, and has applied sunscreen. Periodically ask crew to switch jobs or positions. Ask each person to tell a story. I’m always amazed by the stories people share when they are on the water. One leads to the next, helping time to pass and spirits to improve.

During our sail to my dock in Annapolis, Maryland, we were able to make 16 miles in five hours. The final mile seemed to be the slowest. We tied up the boat just as the late-afternoon sun dipped the horizon.  

We all slept well that night. And I bought a new engine the following week.

The post When the Wind Goes Light appeared first on Cruising World.

Why were we in French Polynesia during cyclone season and an El Niño year? Well, our plan was to sail to New Zealand after six months of cruising in Tahiti, but we fell in love and stayed. So, we ran into cyclone season, which is from November through April in the South Pacific.

The behavior of cyclones changes during El Niño because of differences in sea surface temperatures and atmospheric conditions, influencing the frequency, intensity and paths of the storms. El Niño started in 2023 and continued into 2024, giving the central and eastern parts of the Pacific Ocean warmer sea surface. This can shift the cyclone formation zones eastward. Islands that are typically less affected by cyclones, such as the Southern Cook Islands and French Polynesia, have higher risk.

The Marquesas Islands are outside the typical cyclone belt; their only close call was Tropical Cyclone Nisha-Orama in February 1983. It developed north of the Marquesas during an El Niño year and had sustained winds of 115 mph in the Tuamotus. Areas more frequently affected by cyclones include Australia, New Zealand, Vanuatu, Fiji, Samoa and Tonga—but it is not impossible for cyclones to affect the Marquesas if conditions are right, such as during El Niño years.

Preparation in Tahiti

After a wonderful time diving with humpback whales in Mo’orea, we went to Tahiti to prepare the boat for the journey east to the Marquesas. Wanderlust, our Seawind 1600 catamaran, is equipped with daggerboards. It adeptly sails upwind. This feature, combined with the robust design and comfortable living space, has made it the ideal vessel for us in our long voyages across challenging waters.

In Tahiti, we inspected the rigging and systems, and unfortunately found cracked wires in the cap shrouds and the cross-beam cable (the martingale). The good news was that there are excellent riggers in Tahiti, but the bad news was that the cable had to come from Australia with a lead time of at least two weeks that turned out to be a month. By then, the easterly trade winds would be in full force and on our nose.

Meanwhile, we stocked up at the island’s markets, which are brimming with fresh produce. At every visit, we packed our bags, ensuring our boat was ready to face whatever the ocean had in store.

Papeete Marina

Papeete Marina is on the northwest side of Tahiti, which means it’s open to northern wind and swell. Large waves enter the basin, creating a significant commotion, chafing and breaking dock lines, ripping off docks or surging them over the pilings. In cyclone season, when the northern swells are more frequent, boats are often asked to seek shelter at anchor. As the inclement weather was approaching, we could already feel some of its effects. The monohulls started to behave like bucking broncos.

Finally, our cables for the repair arrived, and Wanderlust was ready.

Strategy

We tossed the lines on December 4 with a plan to sail to Fakarava, setting us up for a good angle to the Marquesas, but the next round of squalls was hot on our tail so we decided to pull into Tikehau, 150 nautical miles to the northwest. The atoll’s sparse population and natural beauty provided a serene backdrop and time to plan the journey ahead. We were held by the weather, but it wasn’t bad at all.

A couple days later, the weather changed, and we had a spectacular sail during the day. Wanderlust chugged miles quicker than expected, and we realized we would arrive in darkness—when it is unsafe to enter the atoll. We furled our screecher and set the jib to slow down a knot or two. A few hours later, the wind disappeared and was replaced by torrential rain. We had to motor and arrived at the atoll’s pass almost two hours after the desired slack tide. Not a real problem with two 80 hp engines, but it could have been with a smaller boat.

Fakarava greeted us with the rare convenience of a fuel dock. However, we did not make use of it, thinking we would be fine with the fuel we had. Rookie mistake. This amenity would have allowed us to bypass the cumbersome process of ferrying fuel in 5-gallon jerry cans, saving time, effort and my rotator cuffs, which I later destroyed in Hiva Oa by shlepping more than three dozen of them.

Fakarava hosts a vibrant underwater world and UNESCO-protected status, with unbelievable diving at the south pass, the famous wall of sharks, and the grouper spawning under a full moon in July. We were fortunate enough to enjoy that during our previous stay. This time around, the squally weather continued, and we did not even take a dip in the water.

Final Leg to Fatu Hiva

With a northwest wind, we sailed close-hauled for three days. Then the wind disappeared, and we motored in flat-calm waters that are unusual for that time of the year. The silver lining was that we were able to land a 143-pound yellowfin tuna that fed us and our friends delicious sushi and tuna tartar for months. And we learned another important lesson: While trying to lift the tuna using the main winch, I may have used the wrong size rope (I admit nothing). The winch stripper arm broke. It was a most expensive tuna, too.

On day four as the sun was starting to set, the southernmost island of the Marquesas, Fatu Hiva, presented its rugged landscape: the perfect gift on Christmas Eve. Giant clouds resting on jagged peaks, the sun’s evening light casting a golden hue on its face. A distant squall reminding us of what we’d been through. We had navigated Wanderlust about 1,000 nautical miles from Tahiti, upwind, to this Jurassic-like sanctuary for cyclone season. In the day’s final light, we anchored in the stunning Bay of Virgins, a spot already marked on the chart plotter from our previous visit.

Fatu Hiva

This land boasts a rich cultural heritage, friendly people and breathtaking landscapes. After spending some time on the island, we found ourselves reverently walking paths surrounded by raw beauty. Eventually, we stopped trying to articulate our awe, and we became part of the larger tapestry of life and nature. Gently running our fingers on the leaves of holy basil to release the magical scent, inhaling the pungent whiffs of drying copra, and bowing over gardenia flowers to take in their exhilarating aroma. Long-tail tropical birds circled above us in the backdrop of lush volcanic peaks.

Kahoha was the greeting we exchanged with the locals. Even Yoda, our dog, became a beloved figure on the island, responding joyously to calls from across the river. We made friends, bartered rope and other items for fruits, and for wild pig and goat meat. We felt a profound connection to this island.

Getting there was worth every bit of effort it took. We lived an unforgettable adventure that brought us closer to each other.

The post Dodging Storms, Chasing Thrills in French Polynesia appeared first on Cruising World.