Oh, my God,” the local kids shouted and giggled. One by one, they jumped into the water from the side of a concrete boat ramp and came to the surface, repeating what they had just heard us say as we did the same thing to cool off after a long afternoon of chart and boat briefings at The Moorings charter base on Raiatea, a gem of a destination in the Leeward Islands of French Polynesia. 

From the water, I watched their mothers chatting the late Sunday afternoon away in the shade of a stand of trees. To the north, I took in the unfamiliar shapes of the daymarks lining the channels, and the coral between our harbor swimming hole and the island of Taha’a, a couple of miles away. It was all but impossible to keep my eyes off the iconic rocky peak of Mount Otemanu, shrouded in tropical haze on Bora Bora, some 20 miles to the northwest. I’d seen it in pictures hundreds of times as I read South Pacific adventure tales. 

But now, oh, my God, indeed: Here we were. We were going sailing. In Tahiti.

It took three days to get there from ­wintry Boston, with an evening stopover in Los Angeles and a second night spent in a hotel in French Polynesia’s capital city, Papeete. From there, photographer Jon Whittle and I, along with the trip’s organizer, Josie Tucci from Sunsail, and one her friends from Florida took a morning flight on a small commuter plane to Uturoa, Raiatea’s main commune. Our travels ended with a short cab ride to the Sunsail docks nearby. For the next few hours, eight more sailing and golfing friends of Tucci’s wandered in, ready to help celebrate her big 5-0 aboard two roomy cruising cats: a Sunsail 505 for the birthday girl, and Magic Dancer II, a Sunsail 454, for Whittle, me and overflow guests.

Most of the sailing we’d be doing for the next 10 days would be around the large islands that sit inside extensive coral barrier reefs, so the chart briefing was quite detailed. A local skipper went over aids to navigation, points of interest, anchorages and the like. He stressed to us North American sailors that Lateral System A is used in this part of the world, with red marks left to port, not starboard, when entering passes from the open water. Inside the lagoons, square red daymarks designate dangers toward land; green triangles show hazards along the reef; and various configurations of triangles atop poles indicate whether to leave obstructions to the north, south, east or west. We took detailed notes on large paper charts and downloaded a cruising guide PDF that would be consulted frequently throughout the trip.

There are four main islands within the group. Two of them, Raiatea and Taha’a, are quite close and within the same barrier reef. Between them lie well-marked shallows and coral beds, so sailing back and forth is fairly simple. 

Bora Bora and Huahine are another story. To reach them, open-water passages of about 20 miles are required, with a long slog upwind either going or returning, depending on the island. Early-morning departures are required so that upon arrival, passes can be navigated while the sun is high. An eye on the weather is also recommended because conditions can get boisterous.

Midafternoon, the briefing formalities were put on hold for nearly an hour when a troupe of local musicians and dancers came to welcome us. They handed out leis and headbands made from colorful local flowers, including tiare apetahi blossoms, which grow only high in Raiatea’s mountainous interior. The men sat with their instruments and played Polynesian tunes while the dancers, a mix of women and children, twirled and shimmied their grass skirts in lively routines handed down from their ancestors.

It being a Sunday, all stores had closed at noon, so provisioning had to wait until Monday. Early in the day, a couple of us from each boat took a taxi to the Champion market in downtown Uturoa, a bustling urban area where the cruise ships dock. Though all of the islands in the group have grocery stores of some sort, we were advised to get the bulk of our provisions here. The market was well-stocked, but with all goods needing to be shipped in across the vast Pacific, prices were steep.

Back at the boats, we loaded supplies and topped off water tanks. By late morning, it was time for the adventures to begin. First stop: Passe Rautoanui, an opening through the reef on the northwest side of the island. 

As we approached, we picked out the cardinal marks indicating the opening. White waves crashed on the coral reefs to either side, but the water between them was dark blue and deep. Outside, we rounded up into an offshore breeze gusting to 20 knots or so. We went with a single reef in the main, unfurled the genoa, and settled in for an easy reach south to Passe Punaeroa, about 8 nautical miles away.

Ashore, the mountaintops disappeared into the haze and clouds. The colors—blue sky, green jungle, white breakers on the reef—were spectacular and everything I’d imagined French Polynesia would be.

Back inside the lagoon, Tucci’s boat led the way along a narrow channel around the southern end of the island to a tiny anchorage behind Motu Nao Nao. We’d been told during the briefing that there’s room for only three or so boats, and there was already a large monohull there, so we aboard Magic Dancer II opted for a mooring a mile or so away in deep water off another small motu, or island. We took the inflatable across to join the festivities underway aboard what already had become the party boat. Nao Nao was the perfect place to spend a hot afternoon with a cold beverage and snacks. A few of us took off snorkeling over the nearby coral heads. It was an excellent transition to island time. 

With evening approaching and the sky clouding over, I hopped into the dinghy alone, figuring I’d make better time motoring solo back to Magic Dancer. I didn’t make it far from the swimming hole, though, before the sky turned black. Time to turn back to the cat that stayed at anchor to ride it out? Nah. I pressed on and almost at once got gobbled up in a white squall that came rolling through with ferocious gusts, stinging rain, and lots of lightning. That was a dinghy ride to remember.

Tuesday, we continued the counterclockwise tour of Raiatea, the largest island in the Leeward Group. Late morning, we anchored in about 30 feet of water, deep in Baie De Fa’aroa, a fjord located about halfway up the island’s eastern side. From there, several of us took two inflatables up the Apoomau River. We were told that it’s the only river trip in all of French Polynesia, and we soon discovered spectacular glimpses of Mount Tefatuaiti with its towering rock walls and deep valleys shrouded with mist. Our destination was the botanical garden near the headwaters. 

It was slow-going, with many sunken trees and shallow spots to dodge. Along the way, we met a local man who, for a modest fee, paddled his faded orange kayak ahead of us and gave us a guided tour of the gardens. On the way back, we stopped at his camp, where his wife and daughter wielded machetes to cut up coconuts, red papayas, grapefruits and bananas for us. We ate so much fruit that we almost didn’t need the lunch of shrimp curry and rice that Tucci’s sailing mate, Paula, had cooked while we were gone.

Later that afternoon, we tried to visit the small village of Marae, home to an ancient Polynesian temple, but the holding was poor and evening was coming, so instead we found a sandy spot to anchor on the reef off Pointe Tamapua. The crew voted to go ashore for dinner at the Opoa Beach Restaurant, where the ginger tiger shrimp were indeed a delicacy, as ­promised on the menu.

Early Wednesday morning, the big-boat crew set off for the airport in Uturoa to pick up a late-arriving guest. We lingered a bit for a swim and breakfast before hoisting sails and reaching across flat water along the shore. At the top of the island, we found the marks for a channel skirting Grand Banc Central shallows, which lie between Raiatea and Taha’a, and crossed for a lunchtime rendezvous with the big boat in Baie Apu, an anchorage on the southern end of Taha’a. 

From there, we motored up the west side of the island until we spotted the Motu Tautau and a cluster of luxury bungalows built out over the water, the La Taha’a by Pearl Resorts. We anchored just south of them in a sandy spot with about 7 feet of water. The breeze was brisk, so I stayed behind to watch the boats while the rest of the crew took the tenders and motored past the resort to a channel between a pair of small motus. Once they secured the boats, they walked up-current along the shore of one of the islets, and then jumped in for a fast snorkel back to where they’d started. Everyone returned raving about the ride.

For me, the highlight of the trip came the next day, when our little armada set off for Bora Bora. After a brief motorsail south to clear the reef through Passe Papai, we killed the engines and started off on what would be our longest day of sailing. 

Out of the lee of Taha’a, Magic Dancer lived up to its name, slicing and surfing through big trade-wind swells. According to the chart, our desired heading was 293 degrees, but trying to steer that in a blustery southeast breeze of 15 to 20 knots proved nearly impossible because of the constant threat of an accidental jibe and the jib being blanketed. Instead, we crisscrossed the rhumb line on a series of broad reaches—each one bringing the towering peak of Mount Temanu more clearly into focus—until we finally spotted the iconic light that marks Pointe Te Turi Roa on the southeast corner of the reef surrounding Bora Bora.

Along the way, we spotted flocks of birds diving for baitballs roiled up by tuna and other big fish. Occasionally, an interisland freighter or fishing boat came into view, but for the most part, we were on our own, out on a great big sea, surrounded by whitecaps and having a ball. Or at least some of us were. The others, well, they spent the time nursing cases of mal de mer.

The birthday boat was ahead of us at the light, but by radio we called them back so that Whittle could launch a drone and get photos of the two cats sailing along the edge of the reef. It was a surreal scene: the boats side by side on a deep blue ocean, a long line of frothy white surf where the swells piled up on the coral, the tranquil lagoon just beyond with the lush green island in its center. Overhead, the white clouds had greenish-blue bottoms because of the sunlight reflecting upward off the water. It was a lot to take in.

There is only one way in and out of Bora Bora: Passe De Teavanui, which is about halfway up the island’s western shore. It was midafternoon when we arrived, and once through it, we had a straight shot to the mooring field at the Bora Bora Yacht Club. We went ashore to the club for dinner and topped off the evening playing Boule, a bowling game, on sand courts near the bar.

Friday morning, a few of us walked the shore road to an ATV trail cut into the jungle-covered hillside. It was a steep climb to the top, but the reward was a stunning view of the lagoon below and a couple of cruise ships that had just arrived.

That afternoon, we got underway and followed a twisting channel inside the reef across the top of the island and down the eastern side. Though it was windy, the breeze was, for the most part, on the nose, so we motored. To be honest, it was a nerve-racking trip through shallow water teeming with coral heads. Off to port, numerous resorts were built on stilts over the water and reef. They were well-marked on the chart and helpful as we tried to keep our bearings straight. 

Anchoring is not allowed within the reef at Bora Bora, but mooring balls are plentiful all around the island. We grabbed ones off a sandy beach at the southeast corner of the lagoon and settled in for an afternoon of swimming that slowly faded into star-filled night. Overhead, the Southern Cross and Orion kept us company.

In the morning, a few of us jumped into the inflatables with snorkels and fins and went exploring in a marine park by two small islets a mile or so away. There were a couple of tour boats from nearby resorts when we arrived, but soon they cleared out and we had the place to ourselves. We found fish and coral aplenty in 10 to 12 feet of water.

That afternoon, the trip back around the island was simple: All we had to do was follow the track we’d laid down on the chart plotter the day before. Near the north end of the island, a kayaker fell in behind us as we motored by at 6 knots. He hitched a ride on Magic Dancer’s wake for 2 or 3 miles. It was an impressive paddling demonstration that the fellow put on.

For lunch, we made a stop at Bloody Mary’s, a popular shoreside bar and restaurant. As we ate, a band appeared on stage and locals started to wander in for what seemed to be turning into a Saturday-afternoon ripper. We took it in for a while, then headed back to the boats and went to find a mooring out near the reef on the western edge of the lagoon.

The original plan was to head back to Raiatea on Sunday morning, and from there, sail to Huahine for a day. To pull it off, we’d need to keep moving, and personally, I was looking forward to three more long open-water crossings. But some of the others who’d suffered on the way up weren’t so keen. On any charter, and especially one with a large contingent of nonsailors, keeping the crew happy is ­paramount. So, it only made sense to scrap the plan. Instead of spending Sunday at sea, we’d play. Hard.

The next morning, we explored ­nearby sandy motus. In the shallow waters around them, we swam with small blacktip sharks and searched for rays. After lunch, we all kicked back on the big cat, where a couple of techs from the charter company appeared with a motorboat and wakeboard. The scene only became more festive as more powerboats filled with locals zipped by, many of them pulling tubes loaded with screaming kids.

Along toward sunset, as a dinner of chicken curry simmered on the stove, Tucci’s friends decorated the boat for the birthday bash that turned into a ­laugh-filled night of music and revelry.

Monday started slow. We motored back to the mooring field by Bloody Mary’s and made a provisioning run for supplies to last us to the end of the trip. Then we took the tenders across the shallows at the southern tip of Bora Bora that keep big boats at bay. Besides seeing the southern tip of the island, we wanted to check out the good snorkeling area we’d visited earlier. It was a long, wet ride in the small boats, but well worth it once we got there. Visibility was better, and the fish were easier to spot and more plentiful.

The sea was glassy and the wind was initially calm for our return to Taha’a on Tuesday. As we passed the lighthouse on the corner of the reef, a breeze began to stir, so we raised the main and motorsailed closehauled, pointing as high as we could. Then, with 6 miles to go, the wind suddenly kicked up to near 20 knots on the nose and brought with it waves that made it a slow slog the rest of way to the pass back through the reef at Taha’a.

Inside, we motored north again along the island’s west coast and picked up a mooring in Baie Tapuamu, across from where we’d anchored a week earlier. The big cat arrived soon after, and following lunch, we headed ashore for a tour of Domaine Pari Pari, a local rum distillery. The white rum had a raw taste to it, not anything like the Caribbean rums most of us were used to. But it was ­drinkable enough, poured over ice on a hot afternoon.

Wednesday was our last full day aboard the boats. In the morning, we took our snorkeling gear and went by inflatable a short way up the coast, where we were told we might find rays. Just when I thought we’d been skunked, I watched a single manta ray come up from the depths. It had about a 6-foot wingspan and wild-looking markings on its back. Most everyone got a glimpse of it gliding along the shallows before it disappeared back into the deep.

Back in the tenders, we pushed a bit farther north until we spotted a dock and buildings where we thought we might find a spot for lunch. Instead, we’d landed at the Iaorana Pearl Farm, said to be the largest in French Polynesia. The farm manages some 2 million oysters in the waters surrounding the island. 

We were introduced to a man whose job it is to sit at a desk and implant small pebbles taken from the Mississippi River and sent to Taha’a via Japan into some 300 oysters a day. The oysters are then affixed to strings and returned to the water for 18 months, when the pearls are ready to be harvested. Several of the crew purchased necklaces and such. It was hard to pass up such unique souvenirs from an unexpected stopover.

Midafternoon and back at the boat, it was time for one last motorsail, so we set off for Raiatea, where we dropped anchor on the reef, not far from the charter base. There was still swimming to be done and merriment to be had, but I could feel my sense of island time slipping away as we checked plane reservations and packed. That evening, we went ashore to the Fish & Blue restaurant for a last team dinner. And of course, we sat up a little too late for a last glimpse of the Southern Hemisphere’s night sky. What else would anyone do on their last night in the Society Islands?

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor at large. 

If You Go

Our flights to Papeete, Tahiti, were booked on Air Tahiti Nui, which has regular flights from Los Angeles. From the US East Coast, it was easiest to plan an overnight at a Los Angeles hotel. Our flight across the Pacific was aboard a clean and comfortable plane, decorated in soothing tropical pastels. It’s a long flight but endurable.

From Papeete to Raiatea, we flew Air Tahiti. Flight time is just under two hours; a four and a half-hour ferry ride is a cheaper alternative.

Provisioning at the base in Raiatea is straightforward but expensive. Eating out is even more so: A $50 bill for lunch per person was common for our group, and a hamburger cost $15 to $18.

Most charter boats come equipped with chart plotters. Still, I found that having an iPad loaded with Navionics cartography was a great help within the reefs. It allowed us to have one chart zoomed out and the other zoomed in for details. When the onboard chart plotter stopped functioning one morning as we traveled along the south coast of Raiatea, we were able to carry on by iPad until I could reset the recalcitrant equipment. —MP

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A funny thing has happened in the evolution of cruising catamarans. The category, at the outset, was defined by straightforward simplicity. This was true going back to the double-hulled Polynesian voyaging canoes, through the iconic designs of the visionary James Wharram, on to the custom cats built on Caribbean beaches by Peter Spronk, and including the early production cats of the modern era from Fountaine Pajot and Lagoon. Cruising catamarans were basically a pair of narrow hulls with a rather minimalistic living and working space sandwiched between them. 

It wasn’t too long before builders and designers realized that if they added a bit of volume to those hulls and stretched them, they could fill them with comfortable double-berth staterooms, en suite heads and other amenities. And, thanks largely to the ­catamaran’s emergence as an excellent platform for bareboat charter, designers could also make them taller (the “wedding-cake effect”). That brought us not only upper-deck lounges with day beds, grills and refrigerators, but also dedicated flybridges with steering stations that were once the exclusive domain of trawlers and sport-fishing craft.

Everything’s gotten bigger these days. Certainly, here in my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island, and in nearby destinations including Long Island, Cape Cod and Nantucket, modest seaside homes have been razed to make room for garish mansions with gyms, pools and astronomical square footage. In contemporary cruising cats, I’m feeling comparable vibes. 

As a judge for the 2024 Boat of the Year awards, I was struck by the technology, sophistication and similarities of the contestants vying for Best Cruising Catamaran Over 50 Feet. Both were from French builders, both were 51 feet, and both had seven-figure price tags. The Lagoon 51 was a very different beast than the first Lagoon I ever stepped aboard, the compact Lagoon 37. And the winning boat, the Fountaine Pajot Aura 51, was a far cry from the basic Louisiane 37 that launched the company’s foray into cruising cats back in 1983. 

Fountaine Pajot has certainly placed a big bet on the Aura 51, as it’s replacing the Saba 50, of which some 300 hulls were sold. Describing the overall aesthetic by Berret-Racoupeau Design is no simple task. The lines are actually pretty sweet for a gargantuan 51-footer with a beam of more than 25 feet. As with all contemporary cats, the waterline is maxed out, with a plumb bow and an extended boarding step in the squarish transom. The hull windows and the wraparound window treatment in the coachroof complement each other well.

Clearly, the goal was to optimize comfort at anchor. There are cushioned seats in the forward deck, just abaft the trampolines. What the company calls the “sky lounge” is topside on the roof of the Bimini hardtop over the cockpit, with a 2,000-watt array of solar panels sharing this space.

The steering wheel is to starboard, a few steps up from the cockpit, putting the skipper in a strategic location to communicate with mates on the lower or upper level, which is another four steps up from the wheel. Everything’s a compromise when it comes to boats, and the drawback here is that there are blind spots to port, particularly if coming along a portside berth. You’re going to want a mate calling out the distance. (There is no flybridge wheel.)

That said, I’m actually a big fan of the split steering station, with the wheel, engine controls and Garmin instruments on a pedestal under a canvas Bimini top, and a trio of Lewmar self-tailing electric winches, a pair of Spinlock rope clutches, and all the running rigging led to a dedicated pod just forward of the helmsman. This is a signature Fountaine Pajot feature on several models. Frankly, with imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, I’m surprised more builders have not adopted this layout. It really does allow for solo sailing; the driver can put the boat on autopilot, slip a couple of steps forward, and trim and reef to the heart’s delight. 

Unfortunately, for our sea trial on Chesapeake Bay, we didn’t have the double-digit windspeeds needed to put the Aura 51 through its proper paces, but the boat moved well in the 5- to 8-knot northerly, making over 4 knots closehauled, and an even 4 when cracked off on a beam reach. A company rep suggested that in better breeze, the boat would generally make speeds about half that of the true-wind pressure. There’s an optional bowsprit arrangement with all the associated hardware to set a code-zero-style headsail.

There certainly is no lack of sail area, particularly the square-topped full-battened mainsail that’s set off a whopping 76-foot spar. We see quite a few sails from French sailmaker Incidence on French-built boats, like the ones on our test ride, and they are always top-notch. The boat we tested also had optional twin 75 hp Volvo Pentas with saildrives (60 hp engines are standard). The boat galloped along at over 8 knots at 2,400 rpm. Decibel-wise, it was one of the quietest in the entire 2024 Boat of the Year fleet. The composite construction is a rather straightforward combination of resin injection and infusion with balsa core in the hulls and Divinycell foam in the deck.

All of which brings us to the vessel’s true raison d’être: the open floor plan with condolike cabins and accommodations, which are impressive. 

The sliding doors separating the main cabin and cockpit can be fully opened. The main dining table is in the cockpit and can be fully enclosed with canopies. The straight-line galley is inside and to port, bordered by an island that doubles as counters and a workspace for the cook. There’s plenty of seating, and the views through the coachroof windows are terrific. Surprisingly, there is no dedicated navigation station, which to me seems like an oversight on a boat of this size.

Several layouts are available. Our test model had the “double maestro”: a master stateroom aft in each hull, accessed from the interior or through a pair of gullwing doors in the cockpit. Guest staterooms are forward. Boat of the Year judge Mark Pillsbury noted that this could be a nice setup for two owners to share, whether sailing separately or together. Regarding our choice of the Aura 51 over the Lagoon for Boat of the Year, our panel collectively felt that both boats would do well in charter, but that the Aura was better suited to real cruising as opposed to being aimed more toward vacation sailing. 

No pun intended, but there’s a definite aura to this rangy cat that separates it from the other models that Fountaine Pajot produces. This is a boat meant to be lived on and in, for extended periods, in high comfort bordering on true luxury. Bring friends and family. On the Aura 51, there is definitely room for the whole gang. 

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

Did You Know?

■ Fountaine Pajot is pioneering a “zero-emission energy system” in the Aura 51. The Smart Electric version of the boat incorporates electric motors, folding props, solar panels, a generator, and a pair of lithium-ion battery banks capable of storing 54 kilowatt hours. Under sail via hydrogeneration, the system can recharge the batteries in 48 hours. 

■ Founded in 1976 by a quartet that included Olympic sailor Jean-François Fountaine and offshore racer Yves Pajot, Fountaine Pajot specialized at the start in racing dinghies and IOR-rule monohulls. The company later delved into large, record-setting transoceanic catamarans and trimarans. It wasn’t until 1983 that the yard pivoted to cruising cats, beginning with the Louisiana 37. 

■ During the past four decades, Fountaine Pajot has produced more than three dozen models, many named after the destinations or islands that inspired them: Tobago 35, Saba 50, Eleuthera 60 and so on. Today, the company also includes Dufour Yachts, a range of power cats, and eight cruising/sailing cat models from 40 to 80 feet.

The post Sailboat Review: Fountaine Pajot Aura 51 appeared first on Cruising World.

My old college buddy Tad called out of the blue this past spring. He and a bunch of his pals were rolling into my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island, in a few weeks. He asked if I could take them for a sail, which wasn’t unexpected, as I’d offered him an open invitation long ago. 

Way back when, I somehow finagled entrance into academically elite Williams College almost solely thanks to my knack for catching a football. And somehow, in spite of myself, I managed to acquire a fine education. More important, I made many lifelong friends, several of whom were now coming to town after an early June reunion in Williamstown, Massachusetts. 

I asked Tad how many, and he said, “Three or four.” Fine. My 22-foot-6-inch Ensign has long cockpit seats. 

Subsequently, I received this series of texts: “Looks like five or six.” “I’m thinking eight or nine, and I’m still waiting to hear from some guys.” “Going to be more like a dozen.”

With that, I borrowed that famous line out of Steven Spielberg’s classic film Jaws: “Bro, I think we’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

Luckily, in Newport, there are many to choose among. But the boys deserved a treat, and what better than a sail aboard one of the graceful 12-Metres that once vied in these waters for the storied America’s Cup? And of those, which one better than Intrepid, the famous Olin Stephens design and two-time Cup winner, in 1967 and 1970? A local outfit, America’s Cup Charters (americascup
charters.com), operates a small fleet of the classic Twelves, including Intrepid. Which just happened to have an open date on the day in question. Yes.

As always with sailing, a lot would depend on the weather. Our day dawned clear and bright, and by midmorning, the prevailing southwest sea breeze was already pumping. I’d of course checked the forecast the night before and informed the lads that we were going to enjoy fairly ideal conditions. But I had no clue just how sweet.  

There were whitecaps in the harbor as we got underway. Intrepid’s tight regular crew, under the able command of skipper Mike Patterson, hoisted the reefed main, and we were off. Among our contingent, there were only a few actual sailors, but one was a ringer: the self-professed “shrink” Peter Davidson, who ran another Twelve, Weatherly, way back when. 

We hardened up on the breeze, which was a solid 15 knots and building, and it was clear that we wouldn’t be venturing out to Rhode Island Sound, where the Cup races were conducted. That was more than fine. You can’t beat Narragansett Bay, and for the next few hours, we ranged all over it. I enjoyed a long, delightful stint at the wheel closehauled with the rail down as the wind built into the low 20s and the boatspeed flirted with 9 and 10 knots. I was in a daze, surrounded by my schoolmates from decades past. Most of them didn’t really understand how special this sail was, but I sure did. 

It was a pretty accomplished crew, this bunch, across many professions: lawyers, doctors, businessmen. Some were retired, while some (like me) were still going at it hard. There was a common denominator here as well. Sure, there’d been some setbacks with health, marriages, kids, the whole disaster, but the bottom line was also quite clear: In the tenuous game of life, we’d all drawn lucky hands. 

As we bore away and settled into a course toward the Newport Bridge, everyone who wanted one got a chance to drive. The phones came out, pictures were taken and shared, (mock) insults were hurled, and there was plenty of laughter. 

There’s no getting around it: We’re relatively old men at this stage. The road behind us is surely longer than the one ahead. But there, on the water, despite the wrinkles and gray hair, all the years melted away. My friends looked exactly like they used to. We were all kids again.

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Before he became a cruising sailor, Aussie yacht designer and boatbuilder Richard Ward was a surfer. Yes, the driving force behind Seawind Catamarans for more than four decades now was already more than a little familiar with the abundance of inviting point breaks up and down the coast of New South Wales. His surfing experiences have played a major role in his design career. He creates clean, straightforward lines that translate into easily driven hulls. His innate love of the ocean, also informed from the nose and rails of a surfboard sluicing down waves, is icing on the cake. 

Seawind’s latest offering, the 39-foot Seawind 1170, is a compact package that combines well-tested features from previous models with a fresh helping of new technology. In spirit and layout, it is expressly geared toward cruising couples. Cruising cats seem to be getting larger and rangier; delivering all the necessary amenities and performance in a vessel under 40 feet is a challenge—one that the 1170 addresses quite nicely. 

In profile, the cat looks sleek and contemporary. The bows are raked slightly aft, and the generous freeboard is accented by a reverse sheerline. There’s a fixed carbon bowsprit for setting a code-zero-style screecher forward, and there are molded-in steps from the deck to the waterline in the transoms. A chine in the hull that increases the interior volume in the belowdecks staterooms extends almost the length of the waterline, and is aligned with the parallel windows in the hull. The solid coachroof extends aft over the entire cockpit, offering protection from the elements. The visuals all come together nicely. 

The first two boats off the line, including our test boat for the 2024 Boat of the Year contest, were built in Seawind’s longtime Vietnam facility. Going forward, the boat also will be produced in the company’s new boatyard in Turkey. The infused hulls and deck are vinylester with a PVC foam core that is cut with kerfs to accommodate the curved surfaces. The bulkheads are composite laminates, and there is carbon reinforcement in high-load areas. Molded ­channels in the coachroof serve as a gutter of sorts for catching rain, and a hose with a filter can be led directly to the water tanks to get topped off in the squalls.

The test boat we inspected had a CZone digital switching system, a set of lithium-ion batteries, and a full suite of coachroof-mounted solar panels (all options). A company representative said that this arrangement offers the juice necessary to power an air-conditioning unit overnight. 

The owner’s stateroom occupies the entire port hull, with an island berth forward and an en suite head with a walk-in shower aft. To starboard, the straight-line galley is sandwiched by a pair of double staterooms fore and aft. This galley-down plan opens up the main cabin, with a wraparound settee whose port side doubles as a day bed and the bench for the navigation station. An offset table can be spun around to seat guests or dropped down to make a double berth—a good option for the off-watch crew to stretch out on passage but still be close to everything. The coachroof windows can be raised to let plenty of fresh air course through. 

Topside, the features will be familiar to Seawind fans, including a trifold door that can be raised to the underside of the coachroof to integrate the cockpit and main cabin into an open space. The twin wheels are mounted well outboard and on the same level as the cockpit sole, providing terrific 360-degree visibility of the entire boat when sailing or docking. The mainsheet and traveler arrangement is overhead on the coachroof to keep the cockpit uncluttered. All the gear is top-shelf, including the Harken furlers, Gori propellers and Maxwell windlass. 

We sailed the boat on a pleasant fall Chesapeake Bay day with a breeze between 8 and 12 knots. The 1170 acquitted itself well. With the self-tacking Doyle jib employed sailing to weather, we touched almost 6 knots. When we stashed the jib and swapped over to the screecher, things got lively. On a tight reach sailing at about 60 degrees apparent, the boat zipped along at more than 7 knots. Cracked off to a beam reach, the speedo notched up to nearly 8 knots. Steerage was sweet and light, and it was a lot of fun dashing from one helm station to another on tacks and jibes. 

All in all, the 1170 did ­everything we expected it to do, with style and panache. The seasoned surfer responsible for it wasn’t around that day, but his spirit and intent most certainly were evident.

Seawind 1170 Specifications

The post Sailboat Review: Seawind 1170 appeared first on Cruising World.

I’m feeling very uncomfortable,” my daughter said, midpassage, as we sailed through the Sir Francis Drake Channel in the British Virgin Islands.

Looking aft, I could see her standing, ­gripping the wheel, the sea behind her lumpy and tilted, the dinghy bumping along as we beat into the April trade winds.

I said nothing. We were aboard a Moorings 52, a powerful sloop, doing 6 knots as we passed between The Dogs and Virgin Gorda. Dutch, our instructor who sat nearby, spoke to her quietly, repeating steps he’d introduced just two days before. § She pursed her lips and paused. As I watched with admiration, she raised her voice to the crew.

“Ready about.”

Amy Carrier and I were in the third day of a promise made decades before: to teach her to sail. Life had intervened, with 42 years passing since we had lived in the same state. What prompted the trip were two big birthdays: my 80th and her 50th. With the caution that a father ought not to teach his child to drive—or sail—I proposed that we go grand and enroll in Colgate Offshore Sailing School’s Fast Track to Live Aboard Cruising, an intense eight-day course that, if passed, awards US Sailing’s Bareboat Cruising certification.

Our resumes were night and day. Amy was a Ph.D. consultant with a wall of degrees. Except for a week on my boat a dozen years before, she was as raw as a sailor could be. Her goal was to charter a boat with her husband. 

I had sailed for more than five decades, on and off, starting with a 12-foot Snark, a sailing school in Denver, a bareboat month in the Caribbean, and 15,000 miles on my 35-foot Allied Seabreeze yawl with stops at Key West, Florida, and Montgomery, Alabama, over to Cuba, and then across the Atlantic and Mediterranean. 

So, as I flipped through three assigned textbooks during the flight to Tortola, I said to myself, I know all this stuff. My biggest concern, frankly, was a mixed metaphor: feeling like a fifth wheel while biting my tongue.

Joining us in Tortola were Angela and Scott Ness, two 66-year-old Ph.D. cancer researchers from Albuquerque, New Mexico, who had done some Hobie Cat sailing in California’s Long Beach Harbor. Their goal was to bareboat with friends in the BVI when they retired in June.

Our instructor for all but the first day was Offshore’s branch manager, Folkert “Dutch” Jongkind, a native of the Netherlands with a ton of experience, including 25 weeks a year leading groups like ours. 

Colgate’s course slogan is “From couch to captain in a week.” As we spent the first two mornings of the course in a classroom, I watched my three well-educated colleagues madly scribbling notes, sketching little boats, and labeling parts while I ate birthday cake. We then moved aboard a Colgate 26, a specially designed open sloop with room for the instructor on the stern, and began to put into practice what we had previously learned on the dry-erase board. 

Tacking, jibing, running, beating, person overboard, picking up moorings: Seeing all of it shoveled into one week made the details of sailing seem astoundingly granular. Maneuvers that I took for granted, when they were broken down into steps, dwarfed instructions for a houseful of IKEA furniture.

We then moved aboard Glad 2B Here, a sleek monohull with four air-conditioned staterooms, a galley and salon, and twin helms and electric winches. We took the first quiz, and I was mortified as all three shipmates scored 100 while I, the grizzled know-it-all, got 94. That night, I got up at 3 a.m. and crammed for two hours, just like I did in college to squeak out a bachelor’s in psychology.

Sailing with Dad is an origin story for many sailors. One of my favorites is My Old Man and the Sea by David and Daniel Hays. You’re on a boat together, learning not only how to sail, but also life-living skills, passing on wisdom and ways of being in calms and gales and moments of stress just by watching, imitating, osmosis.

Tacking, jibing, running, ­beating, person overboard, picking up moorings: Seeing all of it shoveled into one week made the details of sailing seem astoundingly granular.

The dreams, the expectations of time with Dad can fall short because they’re weighted with old chafing and might-have-beens. “If you don’t do it right, then there can be judgment, and that is an energy that leads to friction,” Doris Colgate, who heads Offshore, told me. Widely honored for opening the sailing world to women, she said: “Women love to learn with other women because there’s absolutely no judgment involved. Everybody feels they’re on an equal basis, and they’re much more relaxed.”

Women also learn differently, she said. “They want to know what they’re doing and why they should be doing it. When it doesn’t come out, I’m much more willing to say: ‘I don’t get it. Please show me again.’ Most guys wouldn’t do that.” 

The worst thing a man can do when things get wild is grab a line or tiller from a woman. “Oh, God, I hate that,” Colgate said. “There’s something called chivalry, and if I see one more coat thrown into a puddle, I think I’ll scream. Even today it happens—even with our instructors. I get on the boat, and they take the helm away. Seriously.”

Amy’s mother and I divorced when she was 8, so I missed her growing day to day. I called nearly every night from across the country but often imagined her rolling her eyes at any discipline or wisdom. Our times together were big trips around my work: camping in Yellowstone, boating through the Grand Canyon, rounding up cattle on a ranch.

Even if we had found the time to sail, there was so much to impart. I had learned from millions of waves, hundreds of nights at anchor, decisions good and poor, moments of bliss and beauty. I wanted to teach all that while protecting her from mistakes I’d made.

What I really wished was for her to sit alone in a beadboard Snark with nothing but a daggerboard, tiller and lateen sail, and learn to feel the ballet of sailing. Or time on a J/22, a real sailing boat, feeling the line in her hands, watching telltales and the Windex. Those were the best sailing schools, I felt, if only because that’s how I had learned.

At Colgate, we had a week. I could only watch her try her first jibe, first oversteer. Lines, winches, clutches—it was ­confusing to her, she later admitted. Moving on to the 52 after two classroom days was, I felt, a leap to meet the minimums. But right beside us was Dutch, whose demeanor projected assurance that you were safe, that you could fail but not fall into trouble. 

Dutch also knew the islands, the bars, the restaurants and the best mooring fields, which we sampled. They fueled our drive to get on with learning. For me, the grandeur of the islands was background to the drama of our onboard classroom.

I could feel the anxiety from three high achievers to learn in a week what had taken me four decades. “I thought I knew how to sail,” Scott Ness said afterward. Angela added, “I felt I was on a hockey-stick learning curve.” The week entailed learning a new language, tying new knots, being visibly stressed while tacking the Colgate 26 through a mooring field. “I’m freaking out because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” she said. “I was not ready for it.”

By week’s end, we were able to josh about goofs made in front of one another. (That included my fall into the dinghy when my aging knees buckled while climbing onto the dock at Willie T’s—beforeI ordered my first Painkiller.) Through repetition, book learning and teamwork, everyone passed. We had a ticket to rent a bareboat.  But all three of my shipmates knew that they needed more time before chartering.

“I learned how to sail,” Amy said when we talked, back in the United States. “I couldn’t have gone sailing by myself ­before then. I didn’t know all the ­mechanics of a boat. I didn’t know what to do with sails and all that stuff.” 

After Dutch showed her the boat’s self-righting design, and how to control it, her fear of heeling dissipated. “I learned a lot,” she said. “It was exhausting. Intense. Am I ready to charter myself or with an unexperienced crew? No. If there was a little sporty boat available, would I take it out? Yeah, probably.”

The graduation certificate for US Sailing’s bareboat cruising course was, in reality, a driver’s license, in Dutch’s view. We knew the rules of the road, but not how to drive in all conditions. His job was to “open the door. A first step to sailing.”

Doris told me: “I always say about sailing, it’s 90 percent bliss and 10 percent terror—and you need terror. You need to be out there at some point where everything’s gone wrong and it’s pretty scary weather. But once you have that education, or you’ve had the years of experience like you have, it’s not alarming. You just buckle down and do what you need to do. And I think that translates into life as well.”

Ultimately, what Amy and the Nesses were learning was this: “They can do anything they want. They are empowered, emboldened,” Colgate said. “It’s a huge confidence-maker when you can make a boat go where you want it to go with wind alone. That’s pretty exciting.”

In our postmortem, Amy and I realized that we had long shared a philosophy imparted by Dutch. If you’re not enjoying it, something’s wrong. You should be able to relax out on the water. “That’s a stance you and I both have taken with jobs and everything else,” Amy said. “If it isn’t fulfilling, if I’m not enjoying it, f-ck it.”

Our last day in paradise, when we were supposed to take out the boat overnight and return it without the instructor, was canceled by a rolling series of fierce thunderstorms. I used the time to reflect. My usual melancholy at leaving Amy was brightened by the vision of her sailing into the morning sun, as I had done so many times. With little inheritance to pass on, I had given her something of me. Searching for the words to describe that gift, I asked Amy what she told her friends.

“I went sailing with my dad.”

A Daughter’s Perspective

Three days before Christmas, I received a text message from my dad: “Got time to talk?” 

He informed me that the Offshore Sailing School had spring 2024 availability in its Fast Track to Cruising course in the British Virgin Islands. We immediately had to decide whether to attend because the price would increase at midnight. 

I responded with a resounding, “Um, OK?” 

Up to that point, our idea of taking a sailing course together was just that: an idea. We had tossed around a few of them: chartering a bareboat in Europe (his proposal), chartering a captained boat in the Caribbean (my suggestion), traveling to Cuba (also mine). All of these were possible answers to the question of how we should celebrate his 80th birthday.  

Our conversations seemed like fun dreams until that December day, when I realized just how serious he was. 

Dad shared an email from the school’s coordinator with the details. I blanched a little at the cost, as well as at the time we would need to dedicate to this adventure: eight days in the BVI plus at least one more for travel. I had just started a new job.  

Luckily for me, my new boss loves to sail. I had dreamed for years of visiting the BVI. I longed to see the white sands of Anegada, the Baths, the Soggy Dollar.

What settled the matter was my acute awareness of the passage of time. I had lost my mother two years prior. She was a far-too-young victim of Alzheimer’s disease whose rapid decline and passing tore my world apart. Dad was turning 80. He exudes good health, but you never know. This was an opportunity for (perhaps) one last big trip together, and for him to share something he loved with me. How on earth could I possibly say no?

I served as travel agent, using miles and points to coordinate our flights from Ohio and Vermont to Miami a day before we had to be there. We were taking no chances. From Miami, we flew to Beef Island together with our duffels and boat shoes, then took a quick taxi to meet the ferry to Scrub Island. Dad chatted with a young couple celebrating their honeymoon and bought them celebratory Coronas as we waited.  

The resort was gorgeous, secluded and peaceful. Our rooms ­overlooked the docks. We could see two of the Colgate 26 keelboats, along with a variety of catamarans and one or two monohulls. Our first evening, we bought cheese and wine from the market and crashed early.

Class started the next day at 8:30 a.m. sharp, but with a surprise: Offshore had arranged a birthday cake for Dad. We, along with two other students, spent a few hours in the classroom before heading out on one of the Colgates. I was relieved to know that I wasn’t the only nervous one on board.  

Rain chased us back in, and we had a lazy lunch before repeating the morning’s structure.  That evening, we celebrated Dad with dinner and another cake. We begged our classmates to take some back to their room.

Our second day mirrored the first: more classroom, more sailing, and confusion interspersed with flashes of understanding and feeling—for just a moment—like we knew what we were doing. On Day 3, we boarded Good 2B Here, called dibs on staterooms, stowed our gear, and headed out to open-ish sea.

I remember the next few days as a blur. Tacking and jibing, learning to read a chart and use a compass, and understanding the magnetic variation caused by something as small as a smartphone. Stand-on rules and the exceptions, the complexities of the engine and the water system, how and when to use the marine radio. But there was fun too. We took a break one morning to visit the Baths, arriving early and having the park to ourselves. We sailed through sun and sudden downpours, and we threw that poor fender overboard again and again. We made checklists for raising the sails, putting the boat to bed, what lights to turn on at night, and how to use the navigation and sound systems.  

Our last night on board, Dad and one of our classmates made dinner: shrimp and pasta accompanied by wine and laughter about our newbie mistakes and our instructors’ endless patience.

Dad and I talked and joked, and snipped at each other when we got tired or frustrated. We’re both hard of hearing, which made the wind and waves an occasional nuisance. We shared memories of our many travels together and wondered aloud what it would be like to come back to the BVI and charter a boat for ourselves. We didn’t make it to Anegada or Soggy Dollar, which is all the more reason to return.  

Still, I watched him nap in the midmorning quiet and gave thanks that we had made this choice, that we had taken this time to spend together. 

Our last morning, he asked our classmates how they thought we did as father and daughter; he seemed taken aback by the answer: “You have different temperaments.” 

Maybe true, but we share a passion for the really cool things we’ve done together. Yes, Dad’s love for sailing was successfully passed down, just as he had hoped. Since then, my husband and I have relocated to Raleigh, North Carolina, and I started researching sailing clubs on the coast. I also persuaded my husband to enroll in the same course in the BVI. I plan to join him there.

Perhaps, to celebrate Dad’s 85th birthday, he and I can charter our own boat and finally make it to Anegada, with a stop at the Soggy Dollar for a well-earned Painkiller. Until then, I’ll treasure the memories of our week together and look forward to the next text I receive that asks, “Got time to talk?” —Amy Carrier

The post Passing the Tiller appeared first on Cruising World.

When I think back on my bareboat chartering experiences, certain comparisons naturally come to mind. Compared with the boats of yesteryear, modern charter boats are marvels of design and engineering, with best-in-class comfort and convenience. These vessels, especially the popular catamarans, have spacious staterooms, fully equipped galleys and luxurious furnishings. Features such as air conditioning, watermakers and efficient refrigeration are now standard, ensuring a consistent level of comfort anywhere you book.   

The guest experience is king, often as important as the destination itself. This trend has raised the bar for charter operators around the globe to meet customers’ high expectations. Peter Jones, broker at Voyage Charters, says that just five years ago, his company was renting out boats with manual pump toilets and no air conditioning. Today, the fleet includes the luxurious Voyage 590, which won Cruising World’s 2022 Boat of the Year. It has six guest staterooms with en suite heads and state-of-the-art accoutrements.  

 Cool. But beyond the plush interiors and deluxe amenities remains the broader appeal of chartering—the escape itself. Bareboat chartering isn’t only about the boat; it’s about the adventure. Each trip is a chance to discover hidden coves, vibrant marine life, uninhabited islands and more. The thrill of plotting your own course with two or 10 of your best mates can turn a vacation into memories of a lifetime.  

Charter is also about embracing the unexpected. Three years ago, with some friends and my wife, I chartered a nifty new power cat with all the bells and whistles in the British Virgin Islands. Sure, because of the pandemic, ours was a vastly different experience from the typical BVI charter. We couldn’t have cared less. We dived the RMS Rhone wreck, sipped Painkillers opposite a plexiglass shield at the Soggy Dollar Bar, explored the stunning Baths on Virgin Gorda, and danced with waves of colorful fish around the reefs of Anegada. Despite the travel hassles, the freedom of cruising in such a beautiful place made it all worthwhile. The boat was perfect, the memories unforgettable.

 Earlier this year, I joined a rally in the Leeward Islands aboard a scaled-down sailing charter catamaran. We discovered stunning new-to-me destinations, including Orient Bay, Anse Marcel and Ile Fourchue. 

Mother Nature got in on the action, giving us a rare ridge of high pressure that completely stole our breeze, but the adventure became more than just sailing. It was about the camaraderie, the beautiful anchorages and the simple joy of being on the water. Our boat, even with its modest mainsail and self-­tacking jib, provided the perfect vessel for this laid-back expedition, proving that sometimes the best adventure is found in the journey itself.

Even the most experienced charterers can face unexpected challenges. Just last month, a reader shared a story of chartering off Florida’s Gulf Coast. Despite having more than 30 years of sailing and chartering in his wake, his carefully planned itinerary was disrupted by equipment failures and unexpected weather conditions. 

A tropical storm brought high winds, heavy rain and lightning, testing the crew’s resilience and adaptability. His experience highlights the importance of flexibility and preparedness in chartering. It also stresses value in the option of hiring a professional captain, especially in unfamiliar waters, so you can relax and enjoy the journey.

To me, always, the joys of chartering far outweigh any difficulties. It offers the chance to explore new destinations, try different boats and create unforgettable memories. 

If you’re a current subscriber, as you read through our August 2024 Charter Special issue, you’ll find stories and insights from fellow sailors who have embraced these comforts and thrills. I hope it all inspires you to book your own charter adventure. 

No charter is perfect, nor is any one charter experience the same. That’s the whole point. Dive in. The water’s fine. —Andrew Parkinson, editor-in-chief

The post For Bareboat Bliss, Embrace the Unexpected appeared first on Cruising World.

Canvas was once the common thread that sailors used for shade. Today, it has evolved into superfabrics such as Sunbrella and WeatherMax. There’s now an artful blend of ergonomics, careful stitching, and recognition that when it comes to the crew soaking up sunshine, less is better.

Designs vary, and coming up with the right-size dodger, Bimini top, awning or full cockpit cover takes careful consideration. Racing sailors embrace small, collapsible spray hoods that shield little more than the companionway. A more expansive covering could hinder sailhandling and add windage that might carve 0.042 of a knot off boatspeed. At the other end of the spectrum, cocoon advocates maximize their canvas footprint. 

Most cruisers find the right compromise to be a medium-­size dodger and Bimini top combo. The latter can easily be folded, minimizing windage in heavy-weather situations.

Dodgers and smaller spray hoods also improve ventilation, a feature that’s as welcome in the galley as it is in a quarter berth. In colder climes, the person on watch can tuck up under the dodger and still maintain 360-degree visibility. This type of spray hood won’t interfere with sail setting, reefing, steering or other vital aspects of boathandling. The addition of zippered windows guarantees ventilation in light air. 

Another useful attribute associated with a well-made dodger can be the series of handholds leading in and out of the cockpit. Fabric covers can be snapped over the windows when the boat is at rest, protecting the clear plastic and greatly extending its life span.  

A dodger works in harmony with a sailboat’s deck layout. In many cases, a canvas pro will modify the standard design to cope with halyards that have been led aft, and with winches and rope clutches linked to the line handling. While a one-shape-fits-all approach can hamper winch-handle rotation or make rope clutch clusters harder to operate, a good canvas loft will take these issues into consideration and design the dodger accordingly.

Bimini tops, named after a particularly sunny spot in the Bahamas, can add shade while welcoming the breeze. These tops can be quickly raised or lowered via a set of wicketlike bows hinged at the base. 

However, sailing under such a large cover has a few challenges. The first is mainsail handling—setting, dousing, reefing and trimming. Bimini tops with built-in, overhead “sail trim” windows often fail to provide enough of a wide-angle view to keep tabs on leech telltales and those near the luff. Things get even more complicated with a summer thunderstorm or an offshore cold front, when the need to reef sails in a hurry is the priority, and an oversize Bimini top spells trouble. 

The best solution, especially for those making offshore passages, is a smaller Bimini top—one that works in concert with a dodger and can be easily secured before a heavy-weather encounter.

A full cockpit enclosure might appear to offer greater protection from wind and sea, and a well-supported structure can withstand substantial wind gusts, but when the onslaught includes breaking waves, the “Florida room” is likely to lose its appeal. However, it remains a legit option for inshore cruising during the shoulder seasons or while wending down the Intracoastal Waterway. Remember that in a gale or storm at sea, the extra windage and large surface area become a significant hazard.

Another key consideration involves the stainless-steel tubular arch geometry. It adds shape and structural support to the canvas cover, and determines where the crew enters and exits the cockpit. The best dodgers and Bimini tops take advantage of pathways where nonskid surfaces prevail, and where handholds are abundant. A major problem with many full cockpit covers is their extreme rail-to-rail design and how outboard the entry and exit points become.  

Hardware used to secure the canvas and the bows must be carefully attached to the deck. In many cases, the sailboat’s designer never envisioned anything being attached in such locations, and the core material, sandwiched between the top and bottom FRP skins, was not meant to be penetrated. It’s important to seal the core with epoxy and carefully bed hardware with marine sealant. Major support stanchions should be through-bolted, and might require topping and backing plates.    

If you’re in the market for canvas-work, note that most lofts develop skills building covers that are appropriate for their local waters. Sailors who intend to cross oceans should look for rugged, heavily reinforced, lower-profile dodgers with mounting hardware that’s ready to shrug off breaking Gulf Stream seas.

Do It Yourself

Many cruising sailors enjoy spending time guiding canvas under a sewing machine needle as they stitch their way to a new awning, dodger or Bimini top. Those with a machine might find lee cloths or a mainsail cover to be the best starting point, but for sailors ready for more of a challenge, a DIY dodger or Bimini-top project awaits. 

There’s lots of guidance, kits, tools and sewing machines available from Sailrite. Check local sailing and seamanship schools for how-to courses in marine canvas-work.

Measure carefully, create paper patterns, and then set up the stainless-steel tubing framework that defines the cover’s shape. Do a fit check of the top and side panels. Add assembly info with tailor’s chalk. Terms such as top, bottom, forward, aft, port and starboard, along with marks where panels attach, will prevent assembly snafus. They’ll also ensure that hardware and fasteners will be mounted in the right locations.   

Tubular stainless-steel bows define the shape and size of the dodger or awning, and the most noticeable characteristic is defined by the radius of these bows. Hard bends deliver more room under the dodger, while a smooth radius creates a spray hood with less windage, a lower profile, and less room for crew seeking shelter. 

One value of a kit dodger is that the dimensions are set, and the curve of the bows matches the cut of the fabric. Sailrite provides meticulous directions, and its online videos make DIY projects user-friendly. You can reuse existing stainless-steel bows and make a new, identical cover. The old fabric will act as a pattern and be instructive for assembly. 

I’ve grown quite fond of sewing Sunbrella and WeatherMax fabrics. Sunbrella is a bit easier to work with, while WeatherMax is a top performer when it comes to strength, durability and longevity. Double-sided tape, spring clamps and a staple gun help to hold panels in place while sewing.

The post Made for Shade: Cockpit Cover Options appeared first on Cruising World.

With  a bright and inviting interior, numerous on-deck places to relax or socialize, good sailing manners, and a versatile array of layouts for couples, families or chartering, the Lagoon 51 does a number of things right.

The 51, designed by Lagoon’s longtime naval architect collaborators at VPLP Design, replaces the Lagoon 50, which was introduced roughly five years ago. The new model lands dead center in the company’s lineup of cruising catamarans that range from 40 to 77 feet. The Lagoon 50 is the largest model intended for an owner-operator; starting with the Lagoon 55, there’s likely to be a captain and/or crew involved.

The company, which builds some 275 boats a year, projects that it will build 45 to 50 hulls of the new 51, with about a third sold for private use and the remainder going into charter. With that in mind, it makes sense that the interior design of the 51 includes multiple accommodations layouts. 

The four-stateroom version is more likely to appeal to a private owner, whose suite takes the entire starboard hull. It has a queen-size berth aft that’s adjacent to one of three rectangular ports in the hull, providing a tremendous view of the world outdoors. Amidships, there’s a desk and seating area outboard with a view. Opposite are hanging lockers along with a walk-in closet/dressing room. A head and shower are forward, and are kept bright in daylight hours with natural light.

Three guest staterooms occupy the port hull. The aft stateroom has an en suite head and shower. The remaining two staterooms—one ­forward and the other located inboard and amidships—share a head and shower. 

A four-stateroom, ­four-head version is also available, and there’s a charter-friendly six-stateroom, four-head option as well.

The 51 is built in Lagoon’s yard in Bordeaux, France, on the same production line as the Lagoon 55. Lagoon infuses its balsa-cored composite hulls and decks, a process that helps to control weight during construction. The Bimini top over the flybridge is injection-molded. The 51 has a 12-volt electrical system.

On recent Lagoon models, VPLP designers placed the mast farther aft than on older models, employing a shorter boom and high-aspect main, a trend made popular on big racing multihulls. On those boats, race crews rely on a quiver of headsails, often set on furlers, to quickly power up or down the sail plan to match conditions. Most cruisers and charter boats, though, are rigged with a single jib or small genoa, a setup that can affect performance in light conditions. On the 51, Lagoon returned the rig to a more forward position, and the mainsail will be cut for a bit more power. This should mean better performance in light air. Moving the mast ahead also opens up space in the salon. 

Another interesting design choice on the 51 is the placement of large transoms on either side of a swim platform that can be lowered into the water at anchor, or be raised and used to store a tender underway. The oversize transoms extend abaft the sides of the hull, making it easier to step aboard from a dock or tender. And they make a good place to sit and dangle your feet in the water. 

There are essentially four places to congregate on the 51. A padded, U-shaped seating area is on the foredeck, with a window abaft it that opens from the salon, and through which snacks can be passed. That window also provides increased indoor ventilation.

The open salon has a galley aft with L-shaped counters on either side of the sliding cockpit door. Stove, oven and sink are to port; fridges and freezer drawers are to starboard. There is a side-facing nav desk in the forward starboard corner, adjacent to a dining table with seating all around. Visibility is great forward, aft and to either side, thanks to Lagoon’s signature vertical windows.

The cockpit offers a second alfresco dining option, with a table to port. A sun lounge is opposite, and more couch-style seating is across the stern between transom stairs. There’s an outdoor sink too, along with a fridge and ice maker.

The real party place, though, is one level up, on the flybridge. My guess is that’s where people will hang out most of the time. 

There is access to the ­flybridge from the cockpit below via steps on the port side next to the outdoor dining table, or from the starboard deck. The helm station with a bench seat is forward; abaft it is U-shaped seating surrounding a cocktail table. A pair of sun pads is forward of the helm on the cabin top, on either side of the mast.

I know there’s debate about whether flybridge steering is better for chartering than long-range cruising, when a helmsman might prefer to be more protected from the elements, but on the 51, I really liked the flybridge setup. First off, there’s good all-round visibility. Second, the person driving has space to work but can still be part of the conversation. 

Three Harken electric winches are within an arm’s reach of the wheel, and all sail-control lines except for the traveler are led to them (there’s a Harken side-wind winch for the traveler nearby). During my trick at the wheel, I found that tacking the boat singlehanded was quite easy. Underway, a window overhead in the Bimini top gives the skipper a clear view of the square-top mainsail. That’s a nice feature when trimming or hoisting sail. One caveat, however: The combination of flybridge and Bimini top means the height of the boom is fairly high off the water.

Though it was not available on the boat that our team got aboard in Annapolis, Maryland, a unique roller-­furler boom is available for the 51. Lagoon developed it in conjunction with Wichard and Incidence Sails. Buyers can watch a video of it in action.

As I said at the start, the 51 has good sailing manners. In 10 to 14 knots of breeze, we saw speeds in the low 6s closehauled and nearly 7 knots on a broad reach. The top speed of the day that I jotted down in my notebook was just over 7.5 knots. In these conditions, it would have been fun to roll out a big reaching sail, if we’d had one. The boat is set up for it with an aluminum sprit.

With the 51, Lagoon has what I might call a Goldilocks boat: not too big, not too small, capable for cruising, and comfortable for chartering. In a lot of ways, it’s pretty much just right.

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor at large and was a 2024 Boat of the Year judge.

Toward a Green(er) Machine

From resin and cloth to solar power and more-efficient systems, the Lagoon 51 takes advantage of ongoing development work that Groupe Beneteau employs across its many brands to make boats cleaner to construct and operate.

Let’s face it: While the act of sailing might be considered a green pastime, building boats definitely isn’t. A lot of resin, fiberglass, adhesives, and sealants are required to build a structure that’s 50 feet long, nearly 27 feet wide, and three stories tall—and strong enough to hold its own in a bluewater environment.

A boat that size needs a pair of beefy (80 hp) diesel engines for motoring. And it has numerous energy-gobbling systems and appliances such as air conditioning, fridges and freezers, a washer and dryer, and the like, all of which need to be fed.

Any steps toward greater sustainability are strides in the right direction. With the 51, Lagoon began to add bio-sourced resin when laying up nonstructural small parts. In place of fiberglass cloth, the company is experimenting with natural fibers such as hemp and linen. And for years now, Lagoon has infused its hulls, which allows better control of the resin while reducing vapors released into the atmosphere.

An array of custom XXL solar panels—more than 3,400 watts’ worth—line the perimeter of the flybridge and its hard Bimini top, helping to reduce (or eliminate, if the air conditioner is not on) the amount of engine (or diesel generator) run time needed to keep the battery bank topped up. Adding to the power equation is the use of more-efficient cooling units and LED lighting.

Throughout the boat, Forest Stewardship Council-approved Alpi wood is used, and upholstery is made from 100 percent recycled materials. New Lagoons come with eco-friendly cleaning products. Starting this year, the boats also will be equipped with UV water filters to reduce the need for single-use plastic bottles for drinking water.

“In a nutshell, Lagoon is committed to sustainability through various initiatives such as using FSC-certified wood, recycled materials for upholstery, and bio-sourced resins,” says Lagoon Americas director Andre Hernandez. “Our production sites are ISO-certified for environmental management. We incorporate XXL solar panels on our boats and offer biodegradable maintenance kits. Lagoon also invests in hybrid-propulsion research and supports projects such as Anima Mundi and Escape to Nature to promote environmental conservation.” —MP

The post Sailboat Review: Lagoon 51 appeared first on Cruising World.

Not long ago, I inspected a vessel under construction and was pleased to see that the builder had made the holding tank from fiberglass (also known as fiberglass-­reinforced plastic, or FRP). Essentially, it was fabricated with the same materials and techniques as the hull, which relied on a solid laminate and vinylester resin. FRP tanks, if manufactured correctly, can last the life of the vessel. On this boat, all plumbing fittings were reinforced nylon, another excellent choice that is impervious to the corrosive effects of effluent.

However, the installation’s design went awry when it came to design and hoses. The discharge fitting was installed on the tank’s bottom, ostensibly to harness gravity but in reality ensuring that the hose connected to that fitting would always be filled with effluent. The tank’s bottom fitting also lacked a valve, making hose replacement a difficult, unpleasant job.  

Fittings located anywhere other than the tank top are an invitation to leakage. All holding-­tank plumbing fittings should be glass-reinforced nylon, FRP, PVC schedule 80 or bronze. Under no circumstances should stainless steel, regardless of the alloy, be used for conveyance or containment of effluent. As durable as it might be in weather-deck applications, it is susceptible to crevice corrosion when exposed to stagnant, oxygen-depleted water and effluent.    

Ideally, sanitation-system hoses should be arranged to avoid entrapment of effluent. They should be sloped to ensure drainage. Where traps can’t be avoided, hard PVC pipe can be used because it is impervious to permeation and odor. Where PVC pipe transitions to hose, ­purpose-made barbed PVC pipe adapters should be used, rather than slipping hose directly over smooth pipe sections.

The hose used for holding-tank vent plumbing should carry the same rating as hose used for conveyance of liquid effluent. Most manufacturers of PVC sanitation hose (which has a smooth, shiny appearance) prohibit the use of solvents and alcohol, which include nontoxic antifreeze used for winterizing. If your vessel lives in a seasonally subfreezing climate and it gets winterized, then the sanitation hose should be EPDM-based, which is black or white and rubberlike. Or you must avoid the use of antifreeze. While EPDM hose is stiffer and harder to install, and typically more costly than PVC-based hose, it might be worth it. Some brands offer as much as a 10-year no-permeation warranty, and it carries no restrictions on chemical exposure.

Holding-tank vents (there should be two) should be large, at least three-quarters of an inch, but 1.5-inch is ideal, with one plumbed to each side of the vessel’s hull. This setup will facilitate cross ventilation through the tank, ­discouraging the formation of anaerobic ­bacteria that produce the foulest odors.  

The tank on the new build that I saw did have two more appealing details: an inspection and clean-out port, and a removable pickup or drop tube for the deck pump-out. Holding tanks—and all tanks, for that matter—should have access ports for interior cleaning. Ideally, removable drop tubes are made from PVC. They let the user clear a clog, or replace the tube should it become dislodged or perforated.

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

The post Blackwater Wisdom for Holding Tanks appeared first on Cruising World.

If you are planning to do any cruising that takes you away from your dock or mooring for even a single overnight, there are five things that you simply must know how to do on your diesel engine.

1. Replace the Fuel Filter

Diesel fuel is prone to contamination and water accumulation, especially in the marine environment. Diesel fuel, unlike gasoline, can actually support microbial growth, often incorrectly referred to as algae. That black slime is a microscopic goo of “bugs” that can thrive in a boat’s fuel tank. Typically, they live right at the line where water in the fuel and the fuel itself meets. 

The water will always settle to the bottom of a filter assembly. It is imperative that a diesel engine be equipped with two fuel filters: a primary and a secondary. You need to know how to service these filters when the worst happens, should they become waterlogged or clogged with contaminants. 

Filter elements are among the mandatory spares you need to keep on board. I highly recommend the Racor brand, preferably those equipped with a water alarm system, as primary filters. These have a clear fuel bowl that lets you actually see water and/or contamination in the fuel. This is a major improvement over the solid metal filter housings that are typical as secondary filters with diesel engines. 

Swapping out these fuel-­filter elements is easy. You’ll need the correct size spanner wrench to loosen the single nut that holds the element into its housing. You’ll also need a drip pan to catch fuel that spills as you remove the filter housing assembly. 

Make sure to replace the sealing gasket at the top of the filter housing assembly. Also make sure the new filter is a match for the one you are replacing. These are rated in micron size. Typical micron ratings are 5, 10 or 20, but they could be as small as 2 microns for the secondary filter. 

Once reassembled, your filter assembly will be full of air. This is going to need to be bled out before running the engine. 

2. Bleed the Fuel System

Air in your engine’s fuel system will occur when you replace your fuel filters, or if you run out of fuel in your tank. Either way, you are going to need to bleed the air out of your fuel system. 

The method will vary depending upon the type of primary fuel pump. It gets the fuel from your tank to the engine.

If your boat has an ­electric pump, things will be easy. Simply crack open the fuel line that connects to the high-pressure injection pump on your engine, and then turn on the electric pump. Once you see fuel spitting out of the fuel-line connection, tighten the nut. Next, go to the engine’s fuel injectors and crack open the hex nut on the fuel line at the injector farthest from the injection pump. Tighten the connection when you see fuel spitting out of the line at the injector. Repeat this process on each fuel line, moving to the closest to the ­high-pressure injection pump. 

If your engine has a ­mechanical primary fuel pump, then it will most likely have a small lever to let you activate the pump manually. Once all the air is bled out of the system, the engine should start up as normal. 

One extremely important exception is if you have a newer electronic common rail injection system. Never, ever attempt to bleed these ­systems. They are self-­bleeding, and they run at extremely high pressures that will cause personal injury if fuel sprays you.

3. Replace the ­Water-Pump ­Impeller

Add to your minimum spare parts list a raw-water pump impeller and cover gasket. 

If you maintain your boat religiously, then you will rarely have to replace this impeller on an emergency basis. I replace the impeller on my boat every two boating seasons and have never had one fail. That said, it does happen, and replacement intervals will be dictated more by engine run time versus monthly intervals. 

A clogged seawater ­strainer in the line that supplies water to the pump could cause an emergency failure. The impeller is made of rubber and is self-lubricated by this seawater. No water means no lubricant for the impeller, and premature failure will ­happen. It’s always best to follow your engine manufacturer’s recommendations as to service intervals. 

To replace the impeller, remove the screws holding the pump housing cover. Typically, you’ll find a super-thin cover gasket. This will need to be replaced. 

The rubber impeller can now be removed. Typically, prying it out with a pair of small screwdrivers will do the trick in sliding the rubber impeller off its driveshaft. A plethora of YouTube videos demonstrate how to service a raw-water pump. I recommend viewing several before you attempt this task.

4. Change the Engine Oil and Filter

Your engine manufacturer will specify change frequencies, along with oil type (American Petroleum Institute rating) and viscosity levels. It is imperative to use only the ­viscosity and API service rating recommended. Not all 30W oil is the same. 

Even though your engine may have a conventional drain plug at the low point of the engine sump, in most marine installations, you won’t be able to access it effectively with a drain pan to catch the old oil as it drains out. So, the most common approach is to draw the old oil out of the engine through the dipstick hole. West Marine offers pump kits ranging from about $45 to $200, depending on how fancy you want to get. 

Run your engine to warm things up before you begin the oil-change process. It’ll make things much easier because it will thin out the oil a bit.

Oil filters today are by and large of the spin-on variety. You might want to acquire an appropriately sized filter wrench to help with removal. Depending on the filter’s location on your engine, you might need a small catch basin to collect oil that leaks out as you remove the filter element. 

Once it’s off, double-check to be certain that the gasket seal for the filter came off with the filter. The seal can stick on the engine. Remove it if it did remain in place. 

Next, apply some oil on the gasket on the new filter, and screw it onto the engine. Hand-tighten only. Don’t ever use the filter wrench to tighten the new filter.

Next, insert the thin tube that came with the new oil-change pump into the dipstick hole on your engine until it bottoms out. Activate the pump (electric or manual), and suck the oil out of your engine.

Once all the old oil is removed, add the new oil in the amount specified in your engine manual. Start the engine, and look for any sign of leaking at the filter. Then shut down the engine and recheck the oil level. 

5. Shut Down a Runaway Diesel

Although rare, having a “runaway” diesel is a terrifying experience for the uninitiated. You shut off all the engine controls, but your engine continues to run at full speed. 

A number of things can cause this: excessive oil consumption that leads to oil accumulation in the combustion chamber, crankcase oil vapor entering the combustion chamber, turbocharger failure, damaged turbo seals, and fuel-system faults.

The good news is that all of this is unlikely on fairly new, well-maintained engines. But there are plenty of 20-year-old diesels in service today, and they are vulnerable. 

Your diesel needs three things to run: air, fuel and compression. To stop a runaway, remove the easiest thing on that list to eliminate: air. Most diesels have some sort of an air breather protecting the air intake on the engine. It looks like an air cleaner on most engines but might not have a filter element installed. (Air filters are pretty useless at sea, where there’s not a lot of dust flying about.) 

Keep a small block of wood on board that will give you a handhold, and block the air intake on the engine. Hold it in place, being careful to keep any and all body parts away from the air-intake hole. The suction will be extreme. 

Expect the engine to continue running for a few minutes, depending on the size of the air-intake manifold. Eventually, the engine will smother itself and shut down. Then comes the hard work: finding the exact cause of the runaway.

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