It all happened because of what Steve Brodie describes as “a moment of weakness.”

His background was in commercial construction, mostly building primary schools, university buildings and churches. He had also worked in marine archaeology, diving on historical wrecks from the 16th century, Civil War and World War II. But by 2007, Brodie was once again looking for something new to do. He had young children at home in Washington, North Carolina, and he liked the idea of staying in the marine industry, but he wanted to be with his family at night instead of trotting all around the globe.

Brodie’s path ended up crossing with that of Pacific Seacraft, a boat brand that had got its start in 1975 in Southern California. Back in the day, self-taught designer Henry Mohrschladt had teamed up with builder Mike Howarth to create the company, which focused on smaller offshore sailboats. In the 1980s, noted designer William Crealock had started sketching the Pacific Seacraft models. “He designed everything from the 24 up through the 44,” Brodie says, noting the particular success of the 37. “These are all fiberglass boats. They’re molded hulls, molded decks, partially molded interior components—but a lot of custom woodwork in all of the boat interiors.”

The company did well in California, eventually growing to about 150 employees and building dozens of boats a year, Brodie says. But then, Pacific Seacraft went through a series of ownership changes after Mohrschladt and Howarth left to create what would become sport-fishing boat brand Cabo. By 2006, Pacific Seacraft was in bankruptcy. 

In 2007, there was an auction for the assets—all of the molds, tools and the like. Brodie, in that self-described moment of weakness, bought the more than 20 truckloads of items and proceeded to move the company across the country to the East Coast.

“We found a facility here in Washington, North Carolina,” Brodie says. “It’s a giant industrial building that at one time was a yarn-production facility, a textile facility. We’re in 60,000 square feet in the back of that building.”

Today, Pacific Seacraft is a lot smaller than it was in its heyday on the West Coast, but it’s still turning out models that fans of the brand love, and its craftsmen are making occasional yet meaningful improvements to those original designs. The range of new builds runs from 31 to 61 feet at price points from about $600,000 to $3.5 million, Brodie says, and the yard does a lot of refit work. 

Earlier this year, there were three new boats and about a dozen refits on the shop floor. Some of the owners doing business with the yard had been coming back to the brand for decades.

“A lot of our customers have stepped up from boat to boat to boat. One of the first boats that we did here in North Carolina was a 34 for two local doctors, and this was their fourth new Pacific Seacraft,” Brodie says. “We’re still offering most of the models that were being built in the later years in California, but we’re really trying to put more of a focus on larger boats.”

The improvements that Brodie and his team have introduced to the classic models came from lessons they learned in refitting the original hulls. 

“That’s something that Pacific Seacraft was not doing in California,” he says. “We learned a lot about the things that worked and the things that didn’t work. The boats had always been really well-built, so most of the changes we made were subtle. Some of them, you wouldn’t even notice on the surface.”

One example is that the yard started building the hulls in 100 percent vinylester resin to protect against osmotic blistering. Earlier versions had a layer of vinylester resin, “but we took it the whole way,” Brodie says. 

Another example is modernizing the fit-and-finish on interior woodwork, such as exclusively using hard-panel headliners instead of the soft-vinyl variety. “That was partially aesthetics, and partially to improve access to wiring runs and backing plates for deck hardware,” Brodie says. 

Yet another example is switching from 304 stainless to 316 stainless for all exterior and structural metal components. Previously, equipment such as chain plates had been fashioned by punching them out, making the final versions inconsistent. “Now we have a CNC waterjet that cuts out all of those components,” Brodie says.

Higher-end plumbing fixtures, Corian countertops, standardized undermounts—all of it makes the classic Pacific Seacraft 37 about an $800,000 build today, depending on the options an owner selects. 

And the brand keeps finding new fans, including on YouTube, where a couple posting as Sailing Project Atticus have been documenting life aboard their 1997 Pacific Seacraft 40. The channel has more than a quarter-million subscribers. 

“They’ve brought a lot of attention to the brand,” Brodie says. “They bought a boat that we’d done some work on here.”

Pacific Seacraft’s team has also been doing custom work at bigger lengths overall, and Brodie is developing a pair of catamarans—a 52 and a 38—with Josh Hodgson, owner of Anchor Yachts in Rhode Island. Those multihulls are being sold under the brand name Razor Cats.

“We learned a lot about the things that worked and the things that didn’t work. Most of the changes we made were subtle. Some you wouldn’t even notice.” 

“It’s definitely the fastest-growing segment of the sailing market. In fact, it’s probably the only growing segment of the sailing market,” Brodie says of the catamarans. 

There’s certainly a good amount of competition in that multihull arena, he adds, but he struggles to name a competitor to the Pacific Seacraft hulls that are still in demand after nearly a half-century on the water. What’s coming out of his yard in North Carolina is a combination of classic design and modern construction with an unusual amount of staying power.

“Most of our direct competitors are gone,” Brodie says. “The one that we competed most directly with, head to head, was Valiant Yachts. Another was Cabo Rico. There’s really nobody else who’s building anything that’s quite like ours. I’m not sure what that says about us.”

The post Redemption Tour appeared first on Cruising World.

Take a stroll down the docks at any boat show, and you’ll likely hear the classic quip: “The two happiest days in a sailor’s life are the day he buys the boat and the day he sells it.” While that might get a chuckle or two, for some of us, it’s more cringe than comedy. 

Boat ownership is like parenthood—exhilarating, but with challenges. Sure, the day you buy your boat feels magical, but the real hocus pocus happens when you launch it. I’ll always remember the day we took our 31-foot Hunter, Ragtime, off its mooring for the first time: engine purring like a contented cat, sails popping open and filling with life, wood creaking and rigging shifting as we heeled over on a close reach.

Our first shakedown cruise was up the Connecticut River to Hamburg Cove, where we anchored under the stars on a sheet of glass, my family and I sharing laughs and lobster bisque by the light of an oil lamp. It seems like yesterday. That, friends, is what boat ownership is all about. 

Now, selling a boat? That’s another story. When we finally waved goodbye to Ragtime more than 20 years later, it felt like parting with a family member. Every imperfection told a story—like the not-quite-white patch of cockpit nonslip where red wine was spilled one fuzzy evening on the hook in Fort Lauderdale, leading to a strict “no red wine aboard” policy. Ragtime was a floating scrapbook of memories. 

The infamous quip about the two happiest days probably came from someone who bought a fixer-upper and expected smooth sailing. Newsflash: Boats need TLC. A boat owner often has to channel their inner MacGyver to plug leaks, protect the gelcoat, keep the sails and rigging in good working order, and ensure that the engine runs smoother than a Steely Dan guitar solo.

Upkeep can be pricey if you’re not handy, and a boat’s initial charm can mask a lot of hidden issues. Excitement can quickly become frustration as maintenance costs soar. I get that. You probably do as well, which is why most of us learn to love the smell of marine grease in the morning and to find joy in every successful DIY repair. (If you know, you know.) 

If you’re already a boat owner, or are thinking of becoming one this fall boat-show season, the September 2024 issue of Cruising World has you covered—starting with marine industry veteran Ralph Naranjo’s guide to boat-show shopping, intended to help you navigate the often-overwhelming experience on the docks and ensure that you end up not just with a boat that you love, but also with one that meets your needs and dreams.

Also in the issue, off-grid adventurer Hilary Thomson’s “The Bricolage of Boating” delves into the art of DIY projects and how they bring sailors together as a vibrant cruising community. Cruising legend Jimmy Cornell, in “Chasing Perfection,” describes his five attempts to build the perfect cruising boat, giving us all a masterclass in perseverance and passion. And, with an active hurricane season upon us, sailing veteran David H. Lyman’s “Riders on the Storm” is a must-read firsthand account of surviving Hurricane Hugo that offers vital insights and a sobering reminder of the power of the sea.

While the adage about the happiest days might ring true for some people on the docks this season, it misses the heart of the matter. For die-hard sailors, the happiest days are the ones spent on the water.

My advice? The next time you hear that saying, just smile and keep your eyes on the horizon. Because for us boaters, the real happiness lies in the journey—not just the destination.

The post Finding Real Joy in Boat Ownership appeared first on Cruising World.

Every voyage starts with a dream. For me, it goes back a long while to when I was a little boy and wanted to become a sailor. That dream came true a quarter-century later. I was working in the Romanian language service of the BBC. My wife, Gwenda, and I had two children, Doina and Ivan, who were 6 and 4. Life seemed settled. The BBC Yacht Club had a 40-foot Lion-class sloop. I spent weekends sailing off England’s south coast and across the English Channel to France. It didn’t take me long to decide that sailing was definitely what I wanted to do. 

The early 1970s were a time of great ­uncertainty in the world, and I felt that having a successful career could wait, whereas a world voyage with the family could not. Fortunately, Gwenda was a passionate traveler. To my surprise and relief, she fully supported the idea. 

Our main concern was the children’s education. Gwenda completed a two-year evening course in education and taught for one year in a London school to gain experience. Meanwhile, I took courses in seamanship and navigation, and started looking for a boat. We could not afford even a used boat, so—with a loan secured against our small property—we bought a 36-foot bare fiberglass hull. All the rest of the work I would have to do myself. 

In spring 1973, it was wheeled into a shed at London’s Royal Albert Dock. I looked over the side into the void and saw the magnitude of my undertaking. Many unfinished hulls, mostly ferrocement, were spread about the shed.

Still, it was a friendly atmosphere, and I could always get help or advice from someone who knew more than I did, which was most people. This was by far the greatest challenge I had ever faced, but I was determined. Using every spare hour and weekends, slowly, I saw Aventura start to take shape.

The First Aventura Launches

In July 1974, I launched the boat, partly finished, for a test sail in the English Channel. That maiden voyage showed all the mistakes I had made, but I could easily put them right. By the following spring, we were ready to leave. I went to resign my job but was able to continue my weekly shortwave program. Also called Aventura (“adventure” in Romanian), it was a mix of adventure stories and pop music, and was a great success among an audience living under a communist dictatorship. I was thrilled with the weekly income of about $60 because the boat had swallowed all our savings. The BBC World Service also let me send recordings during our trip about interesting subjects and local people.

That was the beginning of my freelance career. It marked a significant turning point in my life. Looking out for original material became a permanent quest. 

After a year in the Mediterranean getting used to this new life, we crossed the Atlantic, spent a year exploring the Caribbean and US East Coast, transited the Panama Canal, crisscrossed the South Pacific from Easter Island to Papua New Guinea and Tuvalu to Australia, cruised the entire Indonesian ­archipelago from Torres Strait to Singapore, and crossed our outward track via the Suez Canal.

Our planned three-year voyage stretched into six. We would have spent even longer had Doina not reached the age of needing to resume her formal education. In 1981, we returned to London, the children returned to school, and we reintegrated into life on terra firma. We sold Aventura, and I rejoined the BBC.

We could not afford even a used boat, so—with a loan secured against our small property—we bought a 36-foot bare fiberglass hull. All the rest of the work I would have to do myself. 

Throughout our 58,000-mile voyage, Aventura proved the best choice I could have made. Despite the boat’s modest length, it was a comfortable and safe home. The hull was strong, as I found out when we ran aground on a reef in the Turks and Caicos Islands. After the rising tide helped us off, there were only scratches.

Aventura II

When the time came to choose a successor for another world voyage, I had many ideas, in no small part because of surveys I had conducted among sailors we’d met. Nothing on the market came close, so I had a naval architect turn my ideas into a basic design. I contacted Bill Dixon, who was already known for his original approach to boat design. He produced the plans for the Aventura 40, a revolutionary design that included all the essential features I wanted. 

During the three years we had spent in the South Pacific, I had heard of several boat losses due to navigational errors, groundings or collisions. I wanted the new Aventura to be as strong as possible, and in those days, that meant a steel hull. I also wanted good cockpit protection. An overall length of 40 feet is what I regarded as ideal.

Since I believe that a shallow draft is an invaluable advantage when cruising, we included a retractable, hydraulically operated keel. It passed through a box that ended at deck level. Inspired by the Australian victory at the America’s Cup, I asked Dixon to add two large wings, which greatly improved the boat’s stability. The draft with the keel fully down was 5 feet, 10 inches. Twin rudders helped with the keel retracted; I believe this was something that had never been attempted on a cruising boat of that size before.

The most revolutionary feature was my idea of having two engines. Besides redundancy, the main advantage was that one engine, fitted with a powerful alternator, acted as a generating unit. Both of the 28 hp Perkins engines had Max-Prop folding propellers, which, combined with the two rudders, significantly increased maneuverability. 

Our rig was a standard cutter with a Hood in-mast furling mainsail, which was popular in those days. An eye-catching feature was the hard dodger, which not only provided perfect cockpit protection, but it was also attractive. 

The interior was quite unusual: The main cabin was in the stern, where a table and U-shaped settee were on a slightly raised platform with a good view to the outside. Two staterooms, separated by the keel box, occupied the center of the boat. The starboard one had a double berth, while the port one had bunks with high sides. A passageway through that stateroom led to the forepeak, which had submarine-type clamps and was a sacrificial collision zone. This was a service area with a full-size workbench, a dive compressor and gear, two inflatable dinghies, spare anchors, lines, and fenders.

Sadly, this highly functional boat had one great disadvantage: It was designed to have a displacement of 12.5 tons but came in at 17 tons. The builder had fulfilled my request for a solid boat by creating a mini battle cruiser. 

It was slow in light airs but stable and gentle in a strong breeze. Its versatility proved a great advantage in the first round-the-world rally. By the time I sold it in 1995, it had sailed over 40,000 miles. 

Aventura III

The annual ARC and various other rallies, both trans-Atlantic and around the world, kept me busy in the late 1990s, but the temptation of a new world voyage became irresistible. The choice of the next Aventura was quite simple because I knew exactly what I wanted: a fast boat that was easy to sail shorthanded, and that would take me safely anywhere.  

An obvious choice was the French-built aluminum OVNI range. All OVNIs shared a hard chine, flat bottom, integral centerboard and folding rudder. I set my eyes on the OVNI 43, which had a displacement of 9.5 tons and was known for good sailing performance. 

After my previous experience, having a proven design produced by a reputable builder was a great attraction. And, because of the maintenance frustrations and costs of the previous Aventura’s steel hull, Aventura III had an unpainted hull. Besides its strength, aluminum’s greatest advantage is that it naturally forms a durable oxide layer on the exposed surface that prevents further oxidation.

In 2010, when I sold Aventura III, having sailed 70,000 miles and 13 years, it took me fewer than a couple of days to bring that hull into pristine condition.

Aventura III is still close to my heart. A highlight was our voyage with Ivan from Antarctica to Alaska. That was followed by my third circumnavigation. At that point, I could say that I had sailed to all the places I wanted to see. 

Aventura IV

There was, however, one location missing on my list: the Northwest Passage. Three years after having sold Aventura III, and fortunately still in good shape at 73, I felt that I should attempt to achieve this most challenging goal.

It also would be my last chance to create the ideal cruising boat. While each of my previous boats had original features, this boat could bring them all together and add new ones. I knew precisely what I wanted: a strong, fast, comfortable, functional and easily handled boat, for all seas and all seasons.

Still convinced that only aluminum could be the answer, I contacted French boatyard Garcia, at that time regarded as the best builders of aluminum boats in the world. I was fortunate to work with Stephan Constance, its CEO, and Olivier Racoupeau, one of France’s top naval architects. I told them that I wanted to keep the best features of my previous Aventura but add the nearly all-around visibility of a catamaran. As far as I knew, a deck salon had never been attempted on a yacht with an integral centerboard because the added height and weight might affect its stability. The designer solved this problem by settling for a low profile. I got a spacious salon with 270-degree visibility, and without compromising the stability or the looks of the new Exploration 45.

Safety, however, was the top priority. The hazards of sailing in high latitudes meant that the hull had to withstand collisions with ice. It should also have watertight collision bulkheads fore and aft. The two aluminum rudders, protected by skegs, should have a crumple area in the upper section of each rudder blade. If the rudder was pushed upward in a collision, the sacrificial section—made of light composite material—would absorb the shock and avoid any damage to the hull.

Because of my concern for the environment, I wanted the new Aventura to have as low a carbon footprint as possible. Unfortunately, none of the hybrid engines available at that time were suitable. I made up for that by using a combination of solar, wind and hydro generation. 

On the advice of the designer, I agreed to a fractional rig with a full batten mainsail and Solent jib, a setup that he assured me made for a more efficient configuration. I also had a staysail for stronger winds. Occasionally they were used together, as on a cutter, usually with the Solent partially rolled up. The mast was also much better stayed than on my previous boat. Because of the swept-back spreaders, the lower shrouds did not obstruct the side deck. 

Ice conditions in the Northwest Passage in 2014 stopped us from completing our attempt at making a transit from east to west. Rather than wait until the following summer, I attempted to do it from the opposite direction. We headed south from Greenland, transited the Panama Canal and, in summer 2015, passed through the Bering Strait and transited the Northwest Passage.

Aventura IV fulfilled all my expectations, and I doubt that I could have done the passage so safely and easily in any other boat. In a critical situation, we got caught in ice, and the boat behaved like a mini icebreaker. It was, however, just as much in its element when we cruised the Bahamas. A boat for all seas and all seasons, indeed. My quest for an ideal cruising boat had been achieved.

In 2017, with no plans for any more voyages, I decided that Aventura IV was not the kind of boat to spend the rest of its life sitting idly in some marina. I sold it to a sailor who was planning a similar Arctic voyage. 

As for me, sadly, I had to admit that it was the end.

Or so I thought.

Aventura Zero

Historic anniversaries have always had a fascination for me, be it the 500th anniversary of the voyage of Christopher Columbus to the New World or of Vasco da Gama’s trip around the Cape of Good Hope. I celebrated by organizing rallies along their historic routes. The approaching anniversary in 2022 of the first round-the-world voyage was an opportunity I was not prepared to miss. I wanted to do something special for myself. 

The first circumnavigation continues to be attributed to Portuguese navigator Ferdinand Magellan. In fact, the person who should be credited is Basque sailor Juan Sebastian Elcano. He sailed with Magellan from the start, took over the leadership of the expedition when Magellan was killed in the Philippines, and completed the voyage. 

This is how the idea of my Elcano Challenge was born: to complete a circumnavigation along the same route by a fully electric boat. ElCaNo: Electricity (El), carbon (Ca), No.

The aim was to conceive a sailing boat using no fossil fuel for propulsion or electricity generation, and to rely exclusively on renewable sources of energy. The essential factor of electric propulsion on a sailing boat is the ability to generate electricity not just by passive means (solar and wind), but primarily by the boat’s movement. That means a potentially fast boat under sail, whether monohull or multihull. Ideally, such a boat should also have enough surface available to display several solar panels. 

Because the time was too short to start such a project from scratch, I did it on an Outremer performance cruising catamaran. Xavier Desmarest, the CEO of Outremer, agreed to make all the ^­necessary modifications to the yard’s standard Outremer 45.  

The most important element was to generate electricity efficiently while underway. This desire led me to the Finnish company Oceanvolt, which had developed an ingenious system based on its ServoProp variable-pitch propeller. The software-controlled propeller could automatically adjust the pitch of the blades to provide an optimal level of regeneration or power output.

With a ServoProp capable of generating an estimated 500 watts at 6 knots and 800 watts at 8 knots, plus Aventura Zero’s solar panels with a capacity of 1300 watts, all my electricity needs would be covered. Under normal sailing conditions, it would be enough to charge the two propulsion battery banks of 28 kWh each, as well as a 2.4 kW service battery. 

Outremer insisted that I install a backup diesel generator, but I refused. I hadn’t had a diesel generator on any of my previous boats. On my return from the Northwest Passage, Aventura IV’s engine failed, and we managed to sail more than 2,000 miles to the UK relying primarily on a Sail-Gen ­hydrogenerator that covered all our requirements: autopilot, instruments, communications, electric winches and toilets. We arrived at Falmouth Marina with fully charged batteries.

At my request, the sail plan of Aventura Zero had performance features, such as a self-tacking Solent jib and a ­rotating mast. The boat was launched in La Grande-Motte, in the South of France, in September 2020. Within a month, we were on our way to Seville and the formal start of this special voyage. 

The night after our arrival, a thunderstorm of apocalyptic force broke over the city. Lightning struck the dock behind us and put the entire Oceanvolt electrical system out of action. It took two weeks to have it all replaced. By the time we got to Tenerife in the Canaries, COVID was raging, and several countries on our route were closed to visitors. My crew was reluctant to continue, and I agreed. 

Still, the 3,600-mile North Atlantic maiden voyage had put Aventura Zero and its concept to a rigorous test, and we completed each of our offshore passages with zero carbon emissions. On the last leg, from Tenerife to France, I carefully monitored the systems, keeping a record of the rate of regeneration and overall electricity consumption. On that 10-day nonstop passage, all our electricity needs were covered by onboard regeneration. We left with the battery bank at 95 percent capacity and arrived with 20 percent, enough for an emergency. 

Our 1,500-mile winter passage had been the perfect opportunity to put the concept to a proper test because we encountered a full range of weather ­conditions, including three gales with sustained winds higher than 40 knots. On that level, the test had been successful, ­albeit at the cost of a sustained effort to keep domestic consumption to a minimum. I was pleased that the concept itself had been proved right.

With no plans for any more ­voyages, I decided that Aventura IV was not the kind of boat to spend the rest of its life sitting idly in some marina. I sold it to a sailor who was planning a similar Arctic voyage. 

One area in which I now believe that a compromise would be acceptable is to occasionally charge the batteries when stopping in a marina. After all, this is what electric cars are doing, and they still claim to abide by the zero-emissions principle. Doing the same with a sailing boat could be an acceptable solution for anyone planning to sail in places where access to charging points is easily available. 

Conceivably, the future is electric.

Offshore cruising veteran Jimmy Cornell is the author of several books, including Sail the World With Me, a riveting recount of his voyages on the boats named in this story. 

The post Chasing Perfection: A Quest for the Ideal Bluewater Boat appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, off we went.

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

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

We, in an instant, had no steerage. 

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

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

Hamm had no better luck than I did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This went on for many, many, many hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The post Lost Rudder Blues appeared first on Cruising World.

Two teaspoons. Just 2 teaspoons of seawater can ruin your engine forever. That’s why I pay ­careful attention to my exhaust system, particularly pre- and post-gale. 

It doesn’t matter if we’re on the way to New Zealand or heading across the Indian Ocean or rounding the Cape of Good Hope—I run my engine for an hour or two. Why? To dry it, its wires and my entire engine room. To get all its bearings lubricated (an engine that was run yesterday cranks quicker, easier and with less electrical drain than one that hasn’t run for 10 days). To monitor its operation and gauges so that I know it will crank if needed. And to ensure that my battery banks are fully charged and operational. 

It’s not enough that my engine functions in calm and moderate conditions. I sail in the Pacific Islands. I cross the Atlantic. I’ve been in gales while crossing the Gulf Stream. I want my boat and all its gear to be ready for any condition that it might realistically encounter. This takes hard work and continual attention to detail. 

Example: Most of us world cruisers have a wet exhaust system. My exhaust hose is 3 inches coming out of my Perkins M92B diesel. To lower backpressure, it’s also 4 inches coming out of my wet muffler and exiting my hull. This means that a small cat could swim up to my exhaust port, crawl into it, swim through my muffler, and end up pawing at my cylinder ports inside my manifold. 

My point is, that’s a fairly large hole. That hole is always fully open as I circumnavigate. And if 2 measly teaspoons of seawater manage to make the same journey as that cat, I don’t have an engine and I’m financially sunk. 

I know, I know, we blow-boaters don’t like to think about stuff like this. We prefer to pray, chant, burn incense, and hold seances over our engines instead of maintaining them. But we must stay reality-based if we want our gear to work under adverse conditions. 

A wet muffler is called wet because it mixes raw (sea) water with exhaust gases as the engine runs. Big mufflers cost more than small ones. Space is at a premium in most engine compartments, and unrequired weight on a sailing yacht is a no-no. Thus, many production boats come with minimal-size wet mufflers. 

Now, if your muffler and exhaust hose are directly in the middle of your boat, when you stop your diesel, the water in the short intake hose and the longer exit hose drains back into the muffler. This is a lot of water. But, truth be known, your muffler probably isn’t on the centerline. Neither is your exhaust hose, nor your exhaust port through-hull. And let’s not forget that your boat heels. Occasionally, it heels a lot. You might be motorsailing and shut off your engine as the breeze puffs up. The result will be much more water in your wet exhaust than normal. 

My Wauquiez 43, for example, exhausts amidships on its starboard side. I’ve had this setup for 40-plus years. If I’m on port tack, that huge, long, 4-inch hose drains quickly. Alas, exactly the opposite happens on starboard tack. If I’m rail down, that hose contains much water that might overfill my wet exhaust more than my designer, builder and mechanical propulsion engineer would prefer. After all, they design these things in warm, safe, dry offices, and I occasionally use them in 28-foot seas off the coast of Africa when a sou’westerly bluster opposes the Agulhas current. 

Now, running downwind in mature breaking sea while lying to a Jordan Series Drogue results in a fair amount of corkscrewing. And streaming a Para-Tech sea anchor under the same conditions guarantees an extreme hobbyhorse effect. 

And, while I never sail for long at more than 45 degrees angle of heel—usually far, far less—I do heave-to with my lee toe rail awash for days on end. 

The result is that I have a brimming pot of sloshing salt water just a foot below my engine’s open, 3-inch exhaust manifold—while large, breaking seas are picking up my boat and violently tossing it around. 

This, dear reader, is why so many engines don’t crank up a week after a gale: because 2 teaspoons (or 2 gallons) of seawater managed to work its way into the cylinders. 

Remember: The waves hitting a vessel during a mature gale weigh tons. And, occasionally, the boat gets almost airborne and then smashed down onto the water (with a force of over 15 tons, in Ganesh’s case). The spray in a 45-knot gale is traveling at 45 knots. Think “fire hose” in terms of force and speed.

And there I am aboard a boat with a hole in it that a cat can crawl through. Hell, it’s a miracle that my engine survives any gale.

There’s another consideration—this time on the cooling side of the equation, not the exhaust. Raw water comes in via a through-hull, passes through a strainer, goes to the raw-water pump, the heat exchanger and perhaps the oil cooler, and then makes a long loop upward. There, at its apex, resides a siphon break before it heads down and joins the exhaust gases just aft on the exhaust manifold. 

The above process requires dozens of hoses, hose clamps and gizmos for an engine to run. If its siphon break doesn’t open, then the engine back-­siphons and drowns. 

Now, a number of times during a full gale, I’ve opened my engine room, turned on the light, and watched. There’s a lot of dynamic force involved despite the engine not running. The engine sways on its bed. Hoses, wires and fuel lines chafe. Generally, it’s an extremely damp environment. All recreational boats leak during gales (with the exception of steel yachts sans any openings, something I’ve personally never witnessed).

What to do? Well, probably the best, most practical advice is to do nothing unless you’re a storm-strutter or plan to sail in the high latitudes. 

Some offshore boats have shut-offs on both the raw-water intake side and the exhaust side. Skippers simply close these as the wind gusts to 40 knots. I don’t recommend this because I’ve unexpectedly used my engine a number of times during gales when caught back, when something is jammed, and I need to remove the force ASAP so that I don’t lose the rig, or to avoid collision with another vessel. And, of course, we might need our engine during, God forbid, a person-overboard situation. 

All offshore sailors parse these details differently depending on their concern level. I installed a drain plug in the bottom of my wet muffler and a Gen-Sep under my deck between the wet muffler and the exhaust through-hull before heading across the Indian Ocean. Overkill? Probably. 

One thing we can all do without much effort is run our engine immediately after the gale abates. I first check the lube oil to make sure it’s not milky. Next, I listen as I crank it up. If it is slower, quieter or takes more time to crank, that’s a bad sign. The engine may have gotten wet inside. However, I pat myself on the back for having saved the engine by cranking it up well before it needed to be rebuilt or replaced. I then run it for a while to dry things out. 

Of course, if your vessel rolls 360 degrees, then all the water in your wet exhaust is going to flow into your engine almost immediately. This doesn’t happen often; however, I’ve talked to seven cruising sailors who have rolled their vessels during my 64 years of living aboard and ocean sailing. Yes, I would have spoken to more, but those unfortunates are no longer around to chat. 

And the sobering truth is that we offshore sailors not only want to be able to survive if our vessel rolls 360 degrees, but we also want our expensive diesel engines to survive as well. 

Am I paranoid? Of course, I’m paranoid. That’s why I’m alive and dry and on my fourth circumnavigation at age 72. Because I sweat these details. 

Numerous production boats that sail across the Pacific end up having engine problems on their way down to, say, New Zealand. This is because, during that notoriously rough passage, they sail through their first real kick-ass gale, and it reveals previously unknown flaws in their exhaust system. 

My exhaust guru is a man named “Diesel Dan” Durban. He helped write the excellent Please Don’t Drown Me booklet that Northern Lights published. He writes: “Just because your exhaust system hasn’t leaked yet doesn’t mean that it won’t in the future—given an extreme set of circumstances.” 

True. 

Now, the reason I write this column, dear reader, isn’t to needlessly scare you, but rather to expose you to the engineering considerations of one of your vessel’s most vital components: its mechanical propulsion unit. These problems aren’t theoretical. They’re practical, everyday considerations for offshore sailors, be they conservative fair-­weather sailors or the more ­thrill-seeking storm-strutters. 

Here’s the truth: The vast majority of premature marine diesel engine failures are directly related to improper exhaust engineering. 

Forewarned is forearmed.

The post Gale-Force Diesel Maintenance 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.’”

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When it comes to a discussion of the great European naval architects of contemporary times—and it’s a long list, indeed—certain names immediately pop to mind. Many are French. Philippe Briand made his mark creating boats for a roster of production builders (Baltic, Jeanneau, CNB) before pivoting to the superyacht set (Perini Navi, Royal Huisman). Jean-Marie Finot was more or less the father of an era of the best Vendée Globe solo round-the-world racers ever to compete in that grueling contest. Marc Van Peteghem and Vincent Lauriot Prévost (VPLP Design) are the current masters of offshore multihulls. The talented tandem of Jean Berret and Olivier Racoupeau are ubiquitous as the creators of many French brands, and sit at the forefront of their profession. 

To me, however, one of the more underrated European ­design mavens, and one who definitely belongs in that rarefied grouping, is Umberto Felci. While Felci was born in Milan and still operates from his base in Italy, I’ve always considered him a huge influence in French ­boatbuilding­—largely because of his longtime association with Dufour Yachts, where he’s been the principal designer for some 15 years. 

During that time, I’ve sailed many a Felci boat, as he’s been a consistent presence in Cruising World’s annual Boat of the Year contest. He has won multiple times with his Dufour entries, including the 560 Grand Large (2014), the 382 Grand Large (2015), and the 520 Grand Large (2018). All of these Grand Large boats shared a similar DNA, and the Dufour booths at the major boat shows were easily ­recognizable for their similar lines and matching beige canvas dodgers and sail covers. The only huge difference across the fleet was their respective sizes.

All that changed in a big way in 2019, after the Fountaine Pajot group acquired Dufour and decided to make each new offering a singular model in form and styling. Which brings us to Felci’s newest design, the Dufour 41. 

Aesthetically, it’s safe to say that the bright-blue Dufour 41 at this past year’s Annapolis Sailboat Show in Maryland was one of the more distinctive-looking yachts on display. It has a rounded bow, ample beam, and not one but two chines, both carried almost the entire length of the boat—one just above the waterline, another just below the reverse sheer line, which is accentuated by prominent molded bulwarks. This boat looks and feels much larger than its 41 feet length overall. Forward, an integrated bowsprit for the ground tackle and the tack point for the asymmetric kite heightens the futuristic vibe. As does the series of three sleek windows in the hull (along with the additional pair of windows overhead in the coachroof). There is not a stick of timber to be found anywhere. 

Topsides, the ­combination of wide side decks and outboard shrouds makes for easy egress when moving forward or aft. The emphasis on “outdoor living” is underscored by a generous cockpit with twin wheels (but, as with all Dufours, a single rudder, which makes backing down easier and with more control). There’s also wraparound seating, including a cushioned daybed, as well as a drop-down transom, which doubles as the porch/platform for the barbecue well aft. All this is revolved around a table—a pretty sweet, comfortable layout that lends the impression of lounging aboard a much bigger boat. 

All the related equipment is first-rate. There’s B&G instrumentation, including the chart plotter and autopilot; a Quick vertical windlass with helm controls for the Delta anchor; and a Side-Power (Sleipner) bow thruster, which I reckon is a luxurious touch on a 41-footer. Our test boat was set up with a nice set of Elvstrøm sails, including a traditional mainsail (an in-mast furling mainsail is available) with a cool stack-pack arrangement that tucks into itself and is secured with shock cords. For our Boat of the Year trials, we test all the emergency rudders, and the one on the 41 was exceptional. 

Construction is straightforward and robust. The hull is vacuum-infused with solid glass below the waterline and a foam core above. There are a pair of molded-in channels for the plumbing and electrical wiring. The plywood bulkheads are laminated to the hull. The keel is cast iron. And, as with every Dufour going back to the company’s origins, a wine rack is stashed under the floorboards. 

Ardizio Design is ­responsible for the belowdecks accoutrements, accommodations and floor plan. Its team used those aforementioned chines and, more specifically, the voluminous interior that the chines created, to wide advantage. As with Dufour’s other models, there are three packages of features, trim and equipment—on the 41, these are labeled Adventure, Ocean and Performance—depending on how the boat will be used (basic sailing, dedicated cruising or racing). With the 41, there are also two interior options: either three or four staterooms. Both have a straight-line galley to starboard, with the dining table and wraparound settee to port.

Our test boat had the three-stateroom layout, with a spacious master forward and a pair of double-berth staterooms aft. It also had three heads, which, to be honest, seems like a bit of overkill on a 41-foot boat. The second head, in the center of the boat, can be replaced with stowage, which is the setup I’d prefer. 

The 41 sports a double-­spreader rig with swept-back spreaders and a self-­tacking jib. The double-ended German-style mainsheet, anchored at midboom, is easily trimmed with a pair of electric winches (an optional electric winch for the mainsail is ­available). There’s no traveler; after all, this is a cruising boat. 

Under power, the 50 hp Volvo Penta with a saildrive configuration had us zipping along at better than 6 knots. This was one of the quieter boats, decibel-wise, in the 2024 fleet. But we were all itching to hoist the sails, and we were not disappointed. At first, in a fitful breeze that was just filling in, we still made over 5 knots in 6 to 8 knots of wind. Soon enough, the pressure built into the 10- to 12-knot range, just in time to hoist the boat’s big asymmetric kite. On a tight reach, we made an effortless 7.5 knots, and the helm was just delightful, with only a light three-finger touch required for full control. 

Those Grand Large prizewinners from years past were, of course, all Felci designs. While this new Dufour looks absolutely nothing like its older siblings, it sails just as well, if not better. Felci may have changed the recipe under the company’s new regime, but he hasn’t forgotten that what we really want is pretty simple: We want to go for a fine sail.

Dufour 41 Specifications

Did You Know?

French boatbuilders were pioneers in fiberglass-sailboat manufacturing. Naval architect/engineer Michel Dufour joined their ranks in 1964 with the launching of the Sylphe, a radical (for its time) 21-foot pocket cruiser with a masthead rig and fin keel with attached ballast bulb. More than 400 were built in a 10-year production run.

Dufour has ramped up its introduction of new models in the past five years, and now has nine in production ranging from 37 to 61 feet, with a 44-footer on tap to be introduced in the United States this fall. Of that collection, the company’s 41, 470 and 530 are all available with electric auxiliary-propulsion options.

Dufour has laid out an aggressive growth strategy, planning to introduce two models each year for the next several years, and replacing its entire fleet within four years. As for the 41, a company representative said that about a third of the run will go to private owners, a third will be purchased by charter operators, and a third will go into charter-management programs.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large and was a 2024 Boat of the Year judge.

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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.