There are folks who like a casual sail from time to time. There are sailors who own boats who enjoy them frequently, but who are not necessarily deeply committed to the sport or lifestyle. And then there are flat-out maniac mariners, guys who’ve sailed since they were kids, and who live and breathe every facet of it: cruising, racing and chartering. And everything in between.

Dudes like Californian Ron Boehm, the skipper and owner of the twin-hulled 52-footer Little Wing, one of the cooler vintage catamarans you’ll ever see. 

I first crossed wakes with Boehm and Little Wing during the 2016 Conch Republic Cup, a memorable regatta from Key West, Florida, to Cuba and back. It included a trio of inshore races, and a pair of wild-and-woolly Gulf Stream crossings of the Straits of Florida. I was sailing a pretty flash 60-foot offshore cat myself, but Little Wing cleaned our clock, winning all five races in the series to completely dominate the multihull division. Let’s just say that it made an impression.

Happily, however, in this past February’s Caribbean Multihull Challenge in St. Maarten, I had the chance to hop aboard Little Wing on a sweet sail from Simpson Bay to Orient Bay while it participated in the rally portion of the annual event. From the perspective of the boat and its rather fervent but laid-back captain—a potent combo—I now have a much better understanding of exactly how we got waxed in Cuba. 

Boehm has enjoyed a successful career in business and publishing, but in essence, first and foremost, he’s a sailor. He got his start racing prams as a junior sailor in Santa Barbara, California; graduated to skiff sailing as a teen in the highly technical and competitive International Fourteen class, in which he still campaigns; eventually took up more one-design racing in Santa Cruz 27s, where he became a national champ; and got into catamaran sailing with the purchase of a couple of charter boats from Leopard and Fountaine Pajot. When he decided to buy a dedicated cruising boat that he could still occasionally race, he knew he wanted a cat. “No ­heeling, which my wife likes, and so much more room,” he says.

He found what he was looking for in Little Wing, a story in and of itself. In 1994, a young Microsoft exec commissioned the cat from, of all people, renowned naval architect Bob Perry. He was not exactly known for multihulls, but he was ably assisted by someone who was: engineer Jim Antrim. The Perry/Antrim 52 was built in the Pacific Northwest by Shaw Boats with generous helpings of surplus carbon sourced from another local manufacturer by the name of Boeing. The cat changed hands several times in the ensuing years before Boehm bought it in 2015. 

Since then, it’s been driven hard and fast, from the United States to the Caribbean, and is now based in St. Croix, in the US Virgin Islands. There, Boehm’s mate, Steve Sargent, often stacks up the trampoline with prams and sails local kids over to St. Thomas for regattas. Little Wing is nothing if not well-sailed and cared for.

“It’s not a light boat, but it’s rock-solid and so safe to sail offshore,” Boehm says. “There’s no flexing whatsoever. We hit 18 knots coming down the back side of a wave off St. John’s. It’s a lot of fun to sail.”

The breeze started light on the day I sailed Little Wing—its original name, after the Jimi Hendrix song—and even though we were in a rally, Boehm had us tweaking things as if we were in the America’s Cup. As the day progressed, the breeze filled into the low teens, and we sliced along at an easy 8 knots jibing downwind with the code zero. The sailing was absolutely delightful. 

At day’s end, as we approached the anchorage, I snapped a picture of Boehm at the wheel and said, “Now there’s a man in his element.” 

And while he loves his cat, he laughed me off. “No,” he said with a smile. “I’d rather have a tiller.”

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large. 

The post Winging It appeared first on Cruising World.

The only thing worse than overused machinery is underused machinery, and a sailing vessel’s auxiliary engine is likely, perhaps hopefully, already underused under normal circumstances. One of the most familiar refrains I hear from boat owners, after a failure is, “It was working fine.” Indeed, most equipment won’t telegraph a warning in advance of its failure.  

It’s not uncommon for engines to develop issues after the offseason layup, shortly after being placed back in service. Fortunately, many of these can be avoided with regular inspections and preventive maintenance.

Raw-water pump impellers are among the most common post-layup failure items, and this is very easily prevented by religious annual replacement at spring commissioning. Impellers are relatively inexpensive, the peace of mind afforded by their annual ­replacement, regardless of hours accumulated, is well worth the price. When replacing your impeller, be sure to closely inspect the cover plate for signs of wear. Visible discoloration usually isn’t an issue, however, any surface defects that can be felt mean the plate needs to be replaced (or turned over provided no embossed or debossed writing is present). Also, inspect the cam; if it is worn, then the pump capacity will be reduced. Some are replaceable, others aren’t. If the latter, the pump would need to be replaced.

Belts are the next most common post-commissioning failure, and they too are relatively inexpensive. If your goal is maximum reliability, go ahead and replace them every two to three years—again, regardless of use. They do age and deteriorate even while sitting idle. When carrying out the replacement, look for signs of uneven wear, which is indicative of misalignment. Many V belts I encounter are overtensioned, which leads to premature circulator-pump and alternator-bearing failures. Even many professionals don’t get this right. If you are in doubt, use a Gates Krikit belt-tension tool.

Next, look closely at the entire exhaust system. This includes the gasket under the mixing elbow, the mixing elbow itself (corrosion is its nemesis, even if it’s stainless steel), hoses (any cracking is too much), the muffler (the drain screw often corrodes), hangers or supports, and the transom outlet. Be certain to look carefully at the latter, with a flashlight, if necessary, both inside and outside, because these can corrode and perforate or crack. If it’s stainless steel and you see any brown “tea” staining, it’s a clear indication the alloy has gone from passive to active; i.e., it’s corroding.

One of the most familiar refrains I hear from boat owners is, “It was working fine.” Indeed, most equipment won’t ­telegraph a warning.

Carefully review your engine’s electrical system. Look for loose or unsupported wires. Small auxiliary engines are prone to vibration, and any wires (or hoses, for that matter) that are not well-secured will chafe. This, in turn, can lead to a short circuit. In the best-case scenario, a fuse will blow and something, including the engine itself, will stop working. In a worst-case scenario, no fuse is present, and the short will lead to an overheated wire and potentially a fire.   

Of all the positive DC wires aboard your vessel, only one is not required to have overcurrent protection (it is not prohibited from being protected; it’s simply not required for ABYC compliance), a fuse or a circuit breaker: the DC wire that supplies current to the starter. Therefore, the integrity of this wire is more critical than any other aboard. It must not make contact with any part of the engine. It should leave the starter—the post should be booted for insulation against short circuits—and the next securing point should be the vessel itself, typically a stringer.

For maximum reliability, replace your belts every two to three years, regardless of use. They do age and deteriorate even while sitting idle.

Finally, look closely over the fuel system for deterioration or damage, particularly any hose that enters the primary filter from the tank or manifold, and those that leave the filter and travel to the engine (once again, chafe is the key culprit). Then, pay attention to metal pipes that carry fuel from the lift pump to the injection pump, and from the injection pump to the injectors. Finally, inspect the return lines.

Metal pipes can rust. If they are missing their keepers, they can chafe against each other. This can be especially dangerous on a high-pressure line because a leak will spray high-pressure atomized diesel into the engine space. 

You simply can’t spend too much time looking over these critical systems before leaving the dock or mooring for the first time.

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

The post How to Prep for a Diesel You Can Depend On appeared first on Cruising World.

The French do it differently. I was reminded of this during a recent trip to the Caribbean to cover a regatta. On one of the race days, I hopped aboard a yacht competing with an all-French team. There was just a wonderful aura of joie de vivre engulfing the entire ­exercise. They loved sailing, it seemed like second nature to them, and their shared enjoyment of it all was infectious. It was a terrific experience. 

So what, exactly, does that have to do with this boat review?

Well, especially in recent years, in the boats delivered from the upper echelon of French boatbuilders (in both the monohull and multihull realms), this drive and spirit—this pure love of voyaging under sail—is more than apparent. It seems ingrained. French naval architects have become some of the most creative, innovative designers in the field. The hulls they produce are, almost without exception, slippery and fast, but they’re also voluminous. Abovedecks and below, there is so much going on. If you compare a midsize French performance-cruising boat of 2024 with any model from anyone from 1994, they are altogether different in nearly every way.

Cutting-edge production-­boat building was once the modus operandi of US manufacturers and designers, but that train left the station decades ago. Thankfully, filling this vacuum is a force committed to advancing the sport and pastime: the French. And during our Boat of the Year trials in Annapolis, Maryland, this past fall, our judging panel was presented with an excellent example of what I’m describing: the Beneteau Oceanis 37.1.

We’ll get right to the sailing, because that’s what made this such a standout vessel. In our Boat of the Year contests, oftentimes we get a far different impression of a nominee between our dockside inspection and our sea trial, which was certainly the case here. Thankfully, we had ideal conditions for such a performance-oriented yacht: 14 to 16 knots of solid breeze. And the Oceanis reveled in it.

Next Marine Spotlight
In addition to their ­forward-­thinking approach to design, French builders are embracing electric options for auxiliary engines. The Oceanis 37.1 is available with a 12 kW pod and 10 kWh lithium batteries.

Designed by yet another French naval architect with a sparkling offshore racing résumé, Marc Lombard (who, sadly, died this past fall), the boat featured a code zero headsail mounted on a permanent sprit. It actually increases the length overall to more than 39 feet, and we put it to very good use. On a deep reach, we slipped along at a tidy 6.7 knots, but when we eased onto the breeze in a tight reach, the boat lit up, easily making nearly 9 knots. With twin wheels and twin rudders, the steering was tight and accurate, with as balanced a helm as anything introduced in 2024. 

Closehauled, we swapped the reaching sail for the 105 percent jib with adjustable sheet leads (you can also get a smaller self-tacking jib on a track) and still registered a respectable 6.5 knots hard on the breeze. Slightly cracked off a bit, the speedo bounced up a full knot. I was rather astounded at the numbers, considering our test boat was equipped with an in-mast furling main. A traditional main with full battens and a square top is also available, and I can only imagine what sort of pep that setup would deliver. 

Likewise, there are two keel options available: a shoal draft of just over 5 feet, and a deep fin of nearly 7 feet, which is certainly the way to go if you wish to truly optimize performance. 

Next Marine Spotlight
All of Beneteau’s new ­models are also available with a mobile app called Seanapps, which lets owners monitor systems and plan routes with their smartphones.

Make no mistake, however: This is not a flat-out race boat by any means. I could imagine it doing some serious damage as a club racer, though. There’s no traveler, and the mainsail trim and angles are adjusted by the so-called German style of twin mainsheets and a solid boom vang. All the running rigging leads aft to a set of handy winches near the helmsman, making it a fairly easy boat to sail solo. The double-spreader rig has deeply swept-aft spreaders. (These will have a definite say in how far you can ease the main on a reach or run, which usually means sailing hotter angles.)

The profile is clean and contemporary, with a low coachroof and a pair of hull windows to port and starboard. There’s easy egress through the set of steering wheels to the drop-down swim platform, which is controlled manually with a block-and-tackle. It’s a modern-looking craft in every way. 

The Oceanis 37.1 replaces the 38.1, which was one of the more-popular Beneteau models, with a production run of more than 900 units. So that’s a tough act to follow. But with ample beam of nearly 13 feet, much of which is carried well forward, it’s one very roomy boat.

Next Marine Spotlight
Two sail plans are available: a standard version with a self-tacking jib and furling main, and the “First Line” package with a traditional square-topped mainsail and overlapping genoa. 

The interior layouts are from Nauta Design. Furniture and fittings are rendered in iroko—a light, sustainable African hardwood that ­accentuates the airy, open ­nature of the accommodations plan. All three of the available layouts have the same central salon, with a dedicated ­navigation station and dining area to port, opposed by a straight-line galley to starboard. The differences come in the ends of the boat: The three-­stateroom, two-head layout has an offset double berth forward to accommodate an en suite toilet and shower arrangement, with a pair of double-berth staterooms aft. The other two optional floor plans have a single head and a more traditional double-berth stateroom forward; the choices here are the aforementioned pair of aft staterooms, or a single aft stateroom to port and a stowage room (that can also be accessed through a cockpit locker) to starboard.

Personally, I would choose the last of the three options. You can never have enough stowage for sails, tools and toys, especially in a boat smaller than 40 feet.

I’m currently living on a boat of similar length: a mid-1970s Pearson 365 that was a state-of-the-art cruiser in its day. In fact, I’m writing this review aboard it. The differences in space, form, and function between my boat and this new French design are astounding.

Someone once said that when it comes to boat design, there’s nothing new under the sun. That someone never sailed the Beneteau Oceanis 37.1.

Enduring Brand, Rich Legacy

Founded by a fisherman named Benjamin Beneteau in the coastal commune of Croix-de-Vie, France, in 1884, the Beneteau brand represents one of the oldest and most enduring boatbuilders still in operation. Today, Groupe Beneteau is a global marine conglomerate that includes not only a host of sailboat manufacturers (Jeanneau, Lagoon, Excess and Delphia), but also a full stable of powerboat brands (including Four Winns, Wellcraft and Scarab). 

But for most of its long history, it was a family-run business. Benjamin’s first boats—luggers and smacks—were of course powered by sail, but in 1909, he introduced the first engine-driven fishing boat to the region. The company went through fits and starts through both of the World Wars, and by the early 1960s, it was once again a going concern, run largely by Benjamin’s granddaughter, Annette, who was better known as Madame Roux. Starting in 1965, when Beneteau introduced its first fiberglass recreational fishing boat at the Paris Boat Show—an instant success—she became the face of the company.

Beneteau pivoted into manufacturing production sailboats in 1976 with the introduction of the First 30, a racer/cruiser that was selected as the boat for the Tour de France à la Voile from 1979 to 1981. This national regatta series put the boat and its builder on the map. Six years later, the First 345 was launched, followed in rather rapid succession by another five models that established the First line as a leading force in performance cruising boats.

In 1986, Beneteau opened a new chapter in the company’s history with the first model in its new Oceanis line, the Oceanis 350, which was expressly aimed at cruising sailors and the ever-growing bareboat charter fleets. During the next few years, several more vessels were added to the line, including the 320, 390 and 370.

The Oceanis 400/411 represented the second generation in the Oceanis range, and more than 1,000 units were built in a production run that lasted from 1992 to 2004. Overlapping this same period of solid growth, Beneteau launched what was arguably its most successful model in the First lineup: the First 40.7. It was offered from 1997 to 2005. Designed by prolific New Zealand naval architect Bruce Farr, it was a popular inshore and offshore racer in one-design contests and handicapped events, and it notched a victory in the grueling Sydney Hobart race.

Now the Oceanis 37.1 is the concluding model in Beneteau’s seventh generation of Oceanis yachts, a collection of dedicated cruising boats that includes a half-dozen yachts ranging from 31 to 51 feet. All come with numerous options in interior layouts and sail plans, but they share a common goal in delivering comfort and performance. Beneteau has certainly come a long way since Benjamin’s modest fishing craft. —HM

The post Sailboat Review: Beneteau Oceanis 37.1 appeared first on Cruising World.

The jury has spoken. At the Düsseldorf International Boat Show in January, amid a competitive field of 21 yachts that were nominated for the 2024 European Yacht of the Year award, the Outremer 52 took home the hardware. 

This outcome was no surprise to those familiar with the Outremer brand, which has developed quite a fan base among the oceangoing set. Long lines of people often wait to board the latest models on the global boat-show scene. 

Designed in collaboration with Outremer’s parent company, Grand Large Yachting, naval architects VPLP and French designers Patrick Le Quément and Darnet Design, the philosophy behind the Outremer 52 is to uphold tradition while integrating new elements to improve the user experience. The result is a bluewater warrior that carries hallmark features of its predecessor, the 51, but adds the contemporary aesthetics and function of the 55 model, which, coincidentally, nabbed the 2022 European Yacht of the Year award. 

Paramount to the 52, and to the Outremer brand overall, are seaworthiness and safety. The builder borrowed construction methods, including the use of carbon, inspired by Gunboat’s shipyard technology—another brand under the Grand Large Yachting umbrella. This technique allowed for weight reduction without compromising structural integrity. Using carbon also allowed for added stiffness, more space, and increased glass surfaces and openings throughout the vessel. The result is better visibility for guests and crew, including a forward view from the salon.

In the cockpit, adjustable helm positions with a helm seat for two add to the comfort factor. Inside, an open-plan living area promotes fluid movement throughout the boat. The integration of “My Free Space”—a modular zone within the port forward stateroom—offers customizable configurations to accommodate the needs of different owners. There are options for a double-berth stateroom; a convertible office with bunk berths; a stateroom with an office that converts into a workshop, folding bench and stowage; a dressing room; or a cabin for the kiddos.

The layout of the interiors and exteriors abovedecks is conducive to keeping a better lookout. For example, the bar area of the cockpit allows for meals while on watch, and night watches can be kept from a forward-facing bench in the salon.

According to Outremer’s commercial director, Matthieu Rougevin-Baville, the sea trial covered 89 nautical miles and saw top speeds of 24.6 knots without pushing the boat to its limits. The mast was stepped backward from the 51 model, placing it on the coachroof as opposed to the forward deck. A carbon post spreads the load from the mast to the bulkhead, and the front deck is a usable space—ideal, Rougevin-Baville says, for relaxing and enjoying the ride while sailing downwind in the protected lee of the coachroof.

The post Sailboat Preview: Outremer 52 appeared first on Cruising World.

One of the perks of being a kid whose father worked in the marine-electronics business was early access to technology. For my generation, long before the modern age of hybrid propulsion systems, solar arrays (that actually work) and Starlink, the term “state of the art” referred to things such as night-vision binoculars, mainstream autopilot and handheld GPS.   

I often reflect on a particular weekend cruise from my family’s home port of Niantic, Connecticut, to Watch Hill, Rhode Island. We were anchored off Fishers Island for the first night’s stopover, and my dad had brought along a manufacturer’s demo pair of night-vision binoculars for us to play with. The brand was ITT Industries Night Vision, they were mustard-yellow, and they smelled like something out of a hospital surgical unit. Even still, to be able to spy on boats, birds and buoys bobbing around in the pitch-black darkness from the cockpit of our Hunter 31 made me feel like I’d just been gifted a superpower—or, at the very least, like I was a Navy SEAL in training.

The next morning, we awoke to dense fog blanketing much of Fishers Island Sound, making navigation potentially dangerous over our 9-nautical-mile hop to Watch Hill. We motored, with my mom keeping a forward watch from the bow pulpit for lobster-trap buoys and other traffic. My dad and I seized that opportunity to put Ragtime’s other nifty new gadget, a GPS system, to task. 

In those days, GPS had only just started to become ­mainstream on pleasure craft. On that day, the navigation unit was a godsend, guiding us through the pea soup and pinning us within 50 feet of the first channel marker into Watch Hill. 

Much has changed in the marine sector since those pioneering early days of night vision and GPS for all. When we talk about innovation today, we use words such as autonomy, sustainability, foiling, electrification and energy management. 

Fast-forward to an unexpected opportunity I had in February while sailing in the Caribbean Multihull Challenge, which is a four-day rally for multihull enthusiasts that involves island-­hopping around St. Maarten/Saint-Martin and St. Barts. At a time of year when the trade winds typically blow a consistent 25 knots, we experienced a rare pocket of dead air with a high-­pressure system that had settled over the Leeward Islands. Our boat was the new 59-foot Fountaine Pajot TWe6 Smart Electric Yacht Aurora, a trendsetting spinoff of the traditional FP Samana 59, which had been ordered by the ocean-conservancy-minded TradeWinds Experience charter company. 

Aurora, whose power generation comes from hydro, solar and wind, is the world’s first production cruising catamaran with 100 percent electric propulsion that uses hydrogen as an energy source. In the absence of wind, the eco-friendly design would effectively allow us to run in silence on electric propulsion all the way to St. Barts with zero emissions. Totally cool.  

Innovation is the lifeblood of progress, and nowhere is this more evident than in our boating industry. With the growing emphasis on sustainability and responsible stewardship of our oceans, innovation has taken on a new urgency and importance. For sailors and cruisers, innovation is not just a means to an end, but it’s also an integral part of the experience itself, whether it’s harnessing the power of the wind more efficiently or designing more-comfortable and luxurious onboard amenities. 

It is in this spirit of exploration and discovery that we recently introduced Next Marine, a groundbreaking initiative of the Firecrown Marine Group dedicated to following the cutting-edge trends in our industry, specializing in innovation, sustainability and the future of boating.

In our inaugural Next Marine column, we embark on this new journey to explore the latest innovations shaping the future of sailing and cruising, starting with TradeWinds’ eco-conscious initiative and the Fountaine Pajot 59 Smart Electric. But innovation in the boating industry is not just about technological breakthroughs; it is also about fostering a culture of creativity and collaboration. Through Next Marine, we also will shine a spotlight on the visionaries and trailblazers who are driving innovation forward. 

As we set sail on this exciting new department, we invite you to join us in celebrating the spirit of innovation. It’s not just about building better boats or cooler toys; it’s about building a better future for our oceans and the generations to come.

Follow me on Instagram @andrewtparkinson 

The post Charting a New Course appeared first on Cruising World.

One way to gauge the relative success of a production sailboat is to look at the size of the model’s run: the quantity of hulls sold or the number of years it was offered. After investing in research and development, not to mention tooling and marketing, a company needs to spread those costs over as many boats as possible. To be a winner, a new model should be versatile and appeal to as many buyers as possible. Often, this means multiple layouts and options to meet the needs (and budgets) of private owners and charter companies.

But for the latest sailboat in the Jeanneau Yachts range, the French builder decided to focus primarily on owners. This 55-footer has a layout that borrows concepts more often found on midsize multihulls. There are spacious accommodations for the owner, separate staterooms where guests can come and go without disturbing one another, multiple places to gather or find privacy, and protected spots to navigate and spend time off watch—without having to be down below.

The result is a very different sort of sailboat. In fact, it would be safe to say that Cruising World’s Boat of the Year judging team had never seen anything quite like it when we arrived for a dockside inspection during the Annapolis Boat Show this past October in Maryland. In the end, we obviously approved of the concept. The Jeanneau Yachts 55 not only earned the title of Best Full-Size Cruiser, but it also it went on to take top honors as the 2024 Boat of the Year.

With so much that’s new and different about the 55, let’s start with what you discover the moment you board using the fold-down swim platform. You then step up to encounter a living/lounging/working area that starts at the transom and stretches forward to take up nearly half the boat’s topsides. The builder calls it a dual-cockpit layout, but that barely begins to describe all that’s going on there.

Two cushioned seating areas—one is U-shaped to starboard, and the other is an upside-down L-shape to port that opens up a walk-through path for boarding—are located across the transom. Each one surrounds a table that can be lowered to create party-size sun lounges. With the boat’s beam of 16 feet, 4 inches, that’s a lot of room to kick back and relax.

Under the port seats, there’s life-raft storage, and between the tables, there’s access to a garage below the deck. It could handle toys, an inflatable or even a Tiwal sailing tender.

Between the lounges and the pair of helm stations located just forward of them, there’s access on either side of the boat to the walk-around side decks that have become a Jeanneau trademark.

A fiberglass cockpit arch rises up just forward of the steering wheels. On the boat we visited in Annapolis, it connected an optional hard spray hood that covered the forward portion of the cockpit and main companionway, and a hard Bimini top (also an option) that protected the aft area. The Bimini had a nifty sliding fabric panel in the middle that could be opened for sun and stars, or shut for shade and rain.

Two more companionways are just under the arch, providing access to two private port and starboard guest staterooms. We’ll get to them in a minute. But first, let’s complete the tour of the topsides.

Tucked up forward, under the rigid spray hood, there is another smaller table to starboard with U-shaped seating around it. Call it a breakfast nook or a fine spot to sit and enjoy a book, no matter the weather outside. It’s opposite a forward-facing navigation desk with a chart plotter. Here, a watchkeeper is protected from the elements but still has a clear view all around.

Much like on a catamaran, there’s a provision for another cushioned lounge area on the broad foredeck, giving guests another place to enjoy the great outdoors.

The 55’s interior accommodations, designed by Andrew Winch, are just as unique as those found topsides. The builder describes the layout as being “owners first.”

I mentioned that two guest staterooms are accessible only from the cockpit. These give the crew (and owners) privacy that’s not possible on a conventional monohull, where all of the staterooms open into the salon.

To port is a VIP stateroom with en suite head and shower, and enough additional space to allow for a small sitting area with a desk or vanity. The starboard guest stateroom, also with en suite head and shower, is a bit smaller because of the location of the galley in the salon, but it still has a double berth. Both staterooms have 6-foot-5-inch headroom.

Stepping down the main companionway and into the salon and master stateroom, the first thought that comes to mind is that it resembles an efficiency or one-bedroom condo in some urban center. In fact, two-thirds of the interior space is intended for those paying the bills. A dining area with L-shaped seating takes up the port side of the salon, with a large-screen television mounted on the forward bulkhead for movie nights.

A galley is opposite, with an island counter amidships, giving the cook a solid place to brace while preparing meals underway.

Ports in the cabin top and hull let in loads of light, and white walls and overhead panels help keep things bright. The boat we sailed had teak-colored Alpi bulkheads and furniture; white oak is another option.

The owner’s stateroom is forward, through double doors. A double berth is offset to port, with lockers and a sitting area to starboard. A spacious head and shower compartment is farther forward.

Depending on how an owner plans to use the boat, the forepeak can be either a sail locker or a crew cabin.

Buyers also have options when it comes to a standard keel (8-foot) or shoal draft foil (6-foot-2-inch), and either a standard in-mast furling rig or a performance spar with full-batten main. The boat we sailed had the former, coupled with a versatile three-headsail sail plan that included a self-tending jib to simplify tacking upwind, an overlapping genoa for light-air days (both with electric furlers), and a downwind sail that’s flown from a continuous-line furler.

For motoring, the 55 is equipped with a 110 hp Yanmar diesel with a shaft drive and a three-blade Flexofold prop—and a bow thruster for close-quarters maneuvering. If I had to pick a nit, it would be engine access, which was through a hatch in the cockpit sole. It seemed adequate enough, though not necessarily convenient.

Loaded up with electronics and options, the price tag on the 55 in Annapolis was right around $1.4 million. That included Jeanneau’s Seanapps system, which provides remote boat monitoring, alerts and maintenance recommendations.

Underway, I found the 55 comfortable. The walk-around decks made it easy and safe to move about, and when I wasn’t doing the sailing, there were numerous places to relax and take in the sights.

When my turn came at the wheel, visibility all around was excellent, and electric winches made trimming sails effortless during singlehanded maneuvers. Steering by hand, you can stand inboard, out of the elements, or step out onto the side deck to feel the breeze in your face as you lean an arm over the stainless-steel life rail that encircles the cockpit.

Our test sail took place on Chesapeake Bay in variable conditions that ranged from nearly no breeze to gusts well into the high teens. Tacking in light air—about 5 knots or less—boatspeed was 3 to 4 knots. Later, reaching in 17- to 20-knot puffs, we trucked along effortlessly at 7-plus knots. Some boats do well in light air; some like big wind. The 55 lit right up in both. No wonder it’s a winner.

Designing Outside the Box

A casual sailor walking the docks at a boat show could be excused for thinking that these days, new boats all look pretty much alike. Sure, “innovations” are introduced annually, but a barbecue grill built into the transom or two cockpit tables instead of one are hardly radical innovations. And chines in the hull? Yup, pretty much everybody’s got ’em too now.

But in fall 2023, there wasn’t any other new sailboat introduced to North America that looked anything like the Jeanneau Yachts 55.

When the concept for the boat began to take shape under the shadow of the pandemic, Erik Stromberg, currently the vice president of power and motor yacht development at Jeanneau, was still a sailboat guy and leader of the design team. Tasked with coming up with a sistership for the Jeanneau Yachts 60 and 65, his logical step might have been to simply scale things down. And in fact, designer Philippe Briand did just that.

But the design team also asked, “What happens if you take a 55-foot boat and design it the way people actually use and live on the boat?” Stromberg says. Answering that question led them down a concurrent conceptual path—still toward a big, elegant cruising yacht, but one with more protection and bigger spaces to live in on deck, not to mention a different approach to staterooms that might not be used all the time.

Briand and interior designer Andrew Winch listened to the ideas and went to work.

Ironically, this owner-focused boat drew inspiration from an earlier Jeanneau model called the Sun Loft 47, a six-stateroom vessel designed strictly for Yacht Week events in Europe, where charterers pack the boat with as many people as possible. To make room for six staterooms belowdecks, the galley and entertaining area on the Sun Loft were moved topsides. With the onset of COVID-19, though, chartering shut down, and demand for the Sun Loft waned.

Stromberg says that so far, Jeanneau has orders for more than 30 of the 55s, and the boat is showing broad appeal in Europe and Asia. Here in the States, two were sold during the show in Annapolis—one to a couple who plans to go cruising with their 10-year-old daughter, and another to a couple on the Great Lakes who want a boat to sail and entertain friends. A third is under consideration by a couple of engineers who want to have their offices on board.

Stromberg says that the yard can build 17 or 18 boats a year, and the production run should fall somewhere in the 60- to 70-boat range. He calls the Yachts 55 an interesting project, the challenge being to stay within the limits of what has to work on a sailboat while still being creative.

“We need to keep innovating,” Stromberg says.

The post Sailboat Review: Jeanneau Yachts 55 appeared first on Cruising World.

Oh, what joy it would be to buy a boat in late summer, make a list of all the gear it needs in the fall, have the yard work on various projects during the winter, and launch a truly proper, fully functioning yacht in the spring.

This is not a joy I’ve experienced. Each vessel I’ve lived and cruised aboard—even the $100 schooner Elizabeth and the $200 double-ender Corina—busted the piggy bank upon purchase. For us sailors, cruising isn’t a question of which glittery yacht jewelry catches our roving eye. Rather, it’s how to prioritize our few pennies for maximum effect.

Initially, I limit expenditures to strength and safety issues. I make sure the rig won’t fall down, the keel won’t fall off, and the entire contraption won’t disappear beneath the sea. I focus on tasks requiring elbow grease and tenacity, not cash. I invest in things like bilge pumps. I don’t needlessly drill a dozen holes in my hull to install blue underwater LED lights.

Of course, to each his own. Whatever floats your boat—or, in this particular example, sinks it.

I’m not broke because I’m stupid or the world is unfair. I’m correctly and understandably low-income because, while all my contemporaries were hard at work in a corporate straitjacket, I was sailing the seven seas with a bottle of rum in one hand and my wife in the other, while answering my snail mail only every year or so. I’ve never had much economic depth, and it hasn’t much mattered because I measure my wealth in smiles and sea miles.

What is a boat? A container of air. If the water stays outside, then the boat is in a seaworthy condition. Thus, I spend my precious pennies making sure that salt water doesn’t invade, and that once it does, as it always will, I can get it back out before my batteries require a scuba-diving certificate.

Another thing I ask myself is, Does this item make me more free or less free? I personally believe that onboard generators make me less free. Ditto freshwater marine toilets, electric hatches, electric dinghy hoists, electrically extending gangplanks, electrically operated swim platforms, and electric-start dingy outboards.

Don’t they make shipboard life easier? Perhaps. For a week or two. Until they cease to work in the saltwater environment—and cease they will.

Part of the problem is worshiping the false God of convenience. I don’t live aboard because I aspire to sloth. I don’t own a boat because I want to do less. I own a boat because I want to do more, with the entire world as my oyster.

Once, while rowing across Charlotte Amalie harbor off St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands, I watched an overweight friend leave a yacht with all the conveniences, hop into a center-console RIB with an electric-start outboard, roar ashore to the dinghy dock, slide into the seat of a waiting golf cart, jump from there into his air-conditioned vehicle, and then burn rubber out of the parking lot to drive to a gym—to use its rowing machine.

I mean, really?

When I purchased our 43-foot, 40-year-old midcockpit Wauquiez, I grabbed a notebook and a magnifying glass, and I vigorously scrubbed the entire vessel, inside and out, while taking notes.

Why? Because 99.9 percent of all the problems that a modern vessel has are long foretold if we observe. (This goes for 80 percent of all engine problems too.) Most masts don’t just fall down. They crumple after months of attempting to communicate to their blind owners that they’re about to topple.

Why is one corner of the cockpit spider-cracking, but the other three are not? Why is the portside main bulkhead imprinting through the gelcoat, but the starboard one is not? Why is one of the sheaves of my steering blocks wobbling, yet the others are not?

You don’t have to know what is happening or how to fix it. You just need to identify the problem. You can eventually figure out the solution, perhaps with some help from an experienced sailor.

Please do not hire a bored marine surveyor to do this. The whole idea is to get you in tune with your vessel, its rig and its propulsion system. After all, it is your life on the line offshore. Who cares more about your life? You or a marine expert?

Also beware of “new, modern marine advancements” or gear that sounds too good to be true. I remember how intrigued I was with dripless stuffing boxes until I was in a harbormaster’s office at Red Hook, St. Thomas, and the dock boy rushed in to announce that yet another boat was sinking in its slip.

“Just installed a newfangled stuffing box?” the harbormaster asked.

“We think so,” the kid answered.

“They’re dripless all right,” the harbormaster said as he grabbed his hat. “They gush instead.”

Not everything shiny or pricey is an advance. We sailed twice around the world without refrigeration, a windlass or a watermaker. I’ve never had a self-tailing sheet winch in my life. Hell, I only begrudgingly gave up my sextant in 1996, not because a GPS would give me my position, but rather for the man-overboard function—a clearly valuable offshore safety feature.

Thousands of people laughed when they learned that we hand-copied paper charts across the Pacific during our first circumnavigation. But they weren’t circumnavigating. We were. What do I care what lubbers think?

When I first stepped into Wild Card’s cockpit, I saw an array of wind instruments and six other electrical “conveniences” exposed to the elements. When we sold the boat 23 years and nearly 100,000 miles later, it did not have a single electrical item in the cockpit—not even an electrical switch. (In the Indian Ocean and around the “Cape of Storms,” we jokingly referred to our cockpit as the swimming pool.)

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t have a computerized instrument array at your helm that rivals the ones aboard 747 airliners. I’m only suggesting that you consider how dangerous it is to have all your electronics blink out at the same instant, on a pitch-black night, while careening through the breakwater of Durban, South Africa, during a northeasterly gale.

Everything aboard Ganesh is wired independently—with damn good reason. We might be able to lose our depth meter or windspeed meter without consequence, but we never lose everything at once.

We’ve been involved in search-and-rescue operations offshore where all the fancy yachts within 500 miles can’t communicate with their expensive satellite phones, while all the poor folk and local vessels are chatting via no-monthly-fee single-sideband radios.

We simply don’t have, nor do we want, the things that most people desire—not even the modest conveniences our fellow yachties take for granted. Seriously, we don’t sail from Wi-Fi harbor to Wi-Fi harbor for the simple reason that you can’t get away from it all if you bring it all with you.

A buddy of mine just took delivery of a 32-foot, twin-wheel French sailboat. I was eager to see it. Alas, I couldn’t, because he was having air conditioning installed, along with hundreds of pounds of lithium batteries.

His plan? “Daysailing, mostly,” he told me, “with the odd cruising regatta thrown in.”

Perhaps the intake on the air conditioning might help suck him up to windward?

The last time I was in Cocos Keeling, a remote Australian territory in the Indian Ocean, there was a go-faster in the harbor with a bidet aboard but no barometer. To be honest, even if I had more money than Elon Musk, I’m not sure my vessel would be much better off.

Each boat is as different as the sailors who own them. I vowed upon purchasing Ganesh that I’d cut off its fixed Bimini top the first instant I could. Alas, I was too broke to buy hacksaw blades when the time came. Our (now beloved) dodger is still there 50,000 nautical miles later—and 99 percent of our meals are eaten under it.

A modern sailor doesn’t need a depth meter ported into high-tech goggles with music blaring in the background. Common sense is what you need—and a bucketful of cleaning supplies when you first step aboard.

The post Fatty Goodlander: Have Little, Want Less appeared first on Cruising World.

So it commenced, an unexpectedly magical trip with a couple of awesome shipmates, a journey that, in retrospect I wasn’t quite prepared for but will cherish forever. Aboard the rock-solid, sweet-sailing Cal 40 Dancing Bear, we set off from Anacortes, Washington, in ­mid-June, northbound for a group of islands off the coast of British Columbia called Haida Gwaii. It’s a remote archipelago about which I knew virtually nothing at the outset, but which is now forever embedded in my being. 

My leg of the journey spanned several hundred miles, winding through the nooks and crannies, currents and majesty that is the Pacific Northwest. It involved a dear old sailing pal and a brand-new one. Looking back, it unfolded in a series of chapters, of self-contained vignettes. And it all started with…

I: Whiskey Night

An hour north of Seattle, in the woodsy sticks where my friend Mark Schrader’s barn and shop serves as headquarters for his construction and fabrication business, I’d arrived just in time for Friday evening’s Whiskey Night, an open-air gathering of like-minded characters who show up to chat and sip. It started during the pandemic days and took on a life of its own. Our voyage was conceived under these notably hazy circumstances.

Mark and I went back a way. We’d first met in the mid-1980s, when he sailed in the second running of the BOC Challenge solo round-the-world race. Later, when he became the event’s race director, I worked for him in the media office. That led to some actual sailing, first aboard his tricked-out Dancing Bear for the 2005 Transpac race from Los Angeles to Honolulu. Then, in 2009-10, I was part of his core crew when he skippered the 64-foot steel cutter Ocean Watch on the Around the Americas expedition, a 28,000-nautical-mile spin around North and South America via the Northwest Passage and Cape Horn to raise awareness of ocean-health issues. 

We’d put a lot of shared miles astern. However, Jenn and Mark Dalton were new friends. Jenn was a Canadian adventurer and kayaker who was a fledgling sailor, and who had just purchased a J/28. Many years ago, Jenn worked at a fishing resort on the island of Langara on Haida Gwaii’s northern flank. On a previous Whiskey Night, someone had unspooled the big pull-down map and plonked a finger there, and the first inkling of an impending plan was hatched. With Jenn’s experience in the islands, Mark reckoned she would make a great crewmate and extended an invitation. 

Mark Schrader, Jenn and I would constitute the crew for the journey’s first half, from Anacortes up inside Vancouver Island to Haida Gwaii’s Daajing Giids. From there, Jenn’s husband, Mark Dalton, and I would swap positions. He’d continue northward to Langara and back to Anacortes on an offshore Pacific Ocean leg, leaving Vancouver Island to port. 

My own contribution to Whiskey Night was to recount various embarrassing sailing moments with my friend Mark. I had loads of material and was more than happy to comply. Then, once the last caps on the bottles were spun back on, it was time to go sailing.

II: Oh, Canada!

After a midday start from Anacortes, the opening 30-nautical-mile stretch of our trip basically involved winding our way through the pristine San Juan islands and into Canadian water. As we motorsailed along the northern shore of Orcas Island, I looked up to see a quartet of eagles lazily wheeling overhead in the thermals. Not for the last time, it struck me that I was no longer back home in Rhode Island. 

We closed in on the well-named Boundary Pass, which serves as the invisible at-sea border of the United States and Canada, and I saw a “big rip currents” note on the chart plotter. I wondered if they had anything to do with the confluence of waters separating mellow Canada from crazy America. Either way, the whirlpools were evident, and the aqua was seriously moving. One instant, with a favorable nudge, we’d zip along at 9 knots. Five minutes later, laboring into it, we’d be hard-pressed to make 5. Go with the flow, indeed. 

As we closed in on our first Canadian port of call at Bedwell Harbour on South Pender Island, Mark hoisted our maple leaf courtesy flag. We came alongside the customs dock, and a friendly fellow offered to take our lines. He asked, “Where are you going?”

“Haida Gwaii,” I replied. 

“Long way, eh?” he said. We were most definitely in Canada.  

Happily, in Jenn we had our very own Canadian ambassador, and she was ecstatic to be back along the British Columbia coastline where she was raised. Her enthusiasm and appreciation for her homeland’s beauty, wildlife and natural resources was contagious. She kept us fed, honest, entertained and informed, but most important, she kept us respectful, mindful and understanding of the places we’d come to see.   

Back at it the next morning, we slipped past a headland of basking seals, then dodged a series of ferries and squalls in equal measure. With regard to the relentless churning of the tides and currents, running these waters, I’d soon learn, was a constant game of Chutes and Ladders. We got it right negotiating turbulent Porlier Pass, the narrows separating Galiano and Valdes islands, and spit out into the Strait of Georgia at a nifty 10.5 knots. Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride had nothing on us. 

III: Slippin’ Past “The Ripper”

After a lovely night in a pretty bay on southern Hornby Island, we were en route to the relatively bustling city of Campbell River. The snowcapped peaks atop Vancouver Island offered stunning visuals, and the sparkling waters of the Strait of Georgia were luminous and flat-calm.

Before long, the lazy start to the day would pivot to something a bit more hectic. 

Campbell River is accessed by a narrow waterway at the start of the Inside Passage known as Discovery Passage—so named by Capt. George Vancouver, the British explorer, after his HMS Discovery. This passage is bordered on its east side by the notorious Cape Mudge, described thusly in our cruising guide: “known for rips and overfalls.” Great. As we approached, we were set hard a good 20 degrees by a smoking opposing current, our speed through the water a miserly 0.9 knots. We trickled toward the opposite shore, were revved back up to 4.5 knots, and then caught a countercurrent, where we rocketed back to 8 blissful knots as we crossed the stripe of 50N, which seemed like a happy portent. 

After a long, sometimes stressful day, it was great not only to tie up at the excellent Discovery Harbour Marina, but also to pay a visit (despite Mark’s totally expected evil eye) to the nearby, equally terrific government-sanctioned cannabis dispensary. Cool temps besides, one can chill out in Canada in more ways than one. 

Perhaps it was the gummy, but the story from the friendly barkeep at a waterfront Campbell River pub, a seasoned local seaman himself, regarding our trip’s next upcoming attraction had me riveted from the get-go. Something about a rocky obstruction called “The Ripper”—a former formidable hazard, apparently to all mariners, until it was blown to absolute smithereens.

Ripple Rock—aka The Ripper—is a cornerstone of local lore, a seamount deposited smack dab in the middle of Seymour Narrows, a messy piece of swirling water in the best of conditions. More than a hundred vessels, and an almost equal number of unfortunate souls, fell prey to Ripple Rock before a demolition team flattened it in 1958 in what still counts as one of the largest non-nuclear explosions on record.

With a few butterflies in our stomachs, we were back underway the next morning. By now, we’d already been exposed to some pretty interesting currents, but we were still astonished at the Tilt-A-Whirl carnival ride through Seymour Narrows. Thankfully, we hit the north-flowing ebb on time, but once we were into the upwelling narrows, grasped by huge sucking holes of water, there wasn’t much to do except hang on and hope for the best. As usual, Dancing Bear handled it all with aplomb. 

Johnstone Strait lay ahead, with a terrifying warning from the cruising guide that the prevailing staunch westerlies funneling down-channel could make for an extremely unsettling passage. But our luck was holding; a rare easterly filled in, and we enjoyed our best sailing so far—a certified downwind romp. The big bowls of snow atop the Vancouver Island peaks, with one spectacular waterfall spilling from the heights, totally enhanced the experience.

We made a sharp right past Ransom Point and tied up at the public dock at Port Neville, at the head of which stood a quiet post office and a welcome sign from the extended Hansen family, who have spent more than a century on this quiet ­backwater and apparently still call it home. 

IV: On the Alert

Morning arrived with a slate-gray sky and a falling thermometer, the first we’d encountered. It provided a helpful reminder that we were still in the Pacific Northwest. We covered the 20-odd miles to Alert Bay in no time flat, and pulled into the little village just in time for the Indigenous Day celebrations. For Mark and me, this was a special place because it was one of the first and most memorable stops during our Around the Americas tour. 

Alert Bay was where we got our initial exposure to the First Nations peoples, the native aboriginal culture who populated this coastline for more than 8,000 years. While now diminished in scope and numbers, they remain true and strong. We paid another visit to the town’s cultural center and were reacquainted with the world of totems and potlatches, as well as the region’s arts and artifacts. When exploring this coastline, it’s imperative to respect the spirits and symbols woven through the woods and waters. To do otherwise is to entirely miss the point. 

On our way to Port Hardy, another 20 miles down the track, a pair of sea lions bid us adieu. As we skirted under Malcolm Island, in rapid succession we saw a whale, a family of sea otters, and a school of porpoises. It was like a bloody aquarium, and a sure sign of many good things to come. 

We pulled into the little harbor at the Quarterdeck Marina, and we exchanged waves with a local fisherman who, totally on cue as he cleaned his catch, blared the recently departed and nationally revered Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” which in every way imaginable seemed totally appropriate. 

We were a week into the voyage, with a couple hundred winding miles behind us and another roughly 140 miles of open water yet to tackle to reach Haida Gwaii. There was certainly no turning back now. 

The radar was on as we poked our way into the fog and out past the islands in Gordon Channel, the sea and sky a seamless amalgamation of gray. But the broader forecast was excellent, with high pressure settling over Haida Gwaii. And when a humpback whale breached behind as we approached Queen Charlotte Sound, it seemed like a fine omen. 

The wind veered west at sunset, and we had a couple of hours of terrific sailing on a close reach, knocking off a fairly solid 8 knots. But we were headed by light northerlies after midnight, and it was a long, cold night. Sunrise, such as it was, occurred around 0530, when we also got our first glance at Moresby Island, the southernmost of the group, some 40 miles ahead.

We peeled off the layers of fleece and foulies as the sun ascended and we closed in, completely alone except for a single triangle of a distant sail against a long backdrop of low-slung green mountains and trees. It would be the last boat we’d see for many days. A trio of humpbacks appeared, and the pungent smell of sea lions wafted down on us from a rocky ledge covered with them.

We motored into a fjord called Carpenter Bay and anchored in 35 feet of water at its head, behind a small patch of rock and trees called Crowell Island. There wasn’t a soul within miles and miles. It felt spiritual. What came to mind was the title of my favorite song by the late, great Warren Zevon: “Splendid Isolation.”

V: Into the Mystic 

Aboard Dancing Bear, Mark had fashioned a pair of nifty wooden slats that covered the cockpit well. When topped by the cushions, these slats turned the space into a quite comfortable bed. I’d slept under the stars every night of the trip. But waking up in Carpenter Bay, its shoreline shrouded in mist, was altogether different. The sheer beauty was one thing, but it was the absolute stillness, the all-encompassing quiet, that was mesmerizing. I’m not a particularly religious chap, but in this sacred place, surrounded by this pure nature, I felt graced by a higher power. 

The silence was broken by an ­echoing thwap, thwap, thwap that sounded somewhat like the report of distant gunfire, which was impossible. We were anchored in the protected confines of the Gwaii Haanas National Park Reserve and Haida Heritage Site, where hunting and fishing were prohibited. Later that day, on a stroll on nearby Cowell Island, we solved the mystery: There in the distance, a humpback breached the surface and thwapped its tail hard, then did it again and again. It felt like being welcomed to the neighborhood. 

But the best part? We were completely disconnected: no cellphone service, internet, news or social media. No indicted politicians, debt-ceiling woes or missing submersibles. Nothing. Just the magnificence. 

Haida Gwaii’s literal translation is “islands of the Haida people.” It consists mainly of two large islands: Graham to the north and Moresby to the south, peppered with hundreds of small surrounding isles, a place where you could spend a lifetime exploring and never see it all. The Haida Nation has existed for 13,000 years, but from the late 1700s until 2010, Haida Gwaii was known as the Queen Charlotte Islands, before a reconciliation act returned the archipelago to its rightful handle. It also has a great nickname, “the Galapagos of the North,” which is pretty darn fitting. 

Jenn said that we should have a theme song for the adventure. She had a pretty good playlist on her smartphone, and as the smell of fried eggs and sizzling bacon wafted up from below, on came the lyrics to a familiar Van Morrison tune: “Let your soul and spirits fly into the mystic.” Bingo. The song seemed to have chosen us. 

Mark made the smart call early to spend the day in Carpenter Bay. Why leave perfection? The weather was sensational. We combed the coast and dived into the sea, and we spied the eagle in the big nest on Crowell as it soared and returned to keep a watchful eye on us, a sentinel, yet another neighbor we were grateful to know.

In the ensuing days, as we meandered north, each stop seemed to come with its own welcoming committee. Anchored behind Harriet Island off the abandoned ­settlement of Jedway, a mama bear and two cubs foraged along the shore. On Hutton Island, as a big westerly whistled down the inlet and a low cloud poured over the hills, a posse of sea otters played alongside while a family of elk grazed in the marsh. In Thurston Harbour on Talunkwan Island, Sitka deer snoozed along the shoreline, and the moving black dots turned out to be raccoons. When we got underway the next morning, the lagoon was pulsing with giant jellyfish, hundreds of them. We could’ve skipped ashore upon them.

We were all enhanced and entranced by the denizens of Haida Gwaii. 

VI: Queen of a City 

As all great voyages do, ours came to the end of the road. It was in the funky little village of Daajing Giids, formerly known as Queen Charlotte City. Despite a population hovering around 1,000 people, it felt like Manhattan after a week in true wilderness. Over the years, I’ve wrapped up many a trip in many an exotic location, but I’m not sure any were as fetching as Daajing Giids. 

A cool dude named Max, boiling crab on the dock, hopped off his little sailboat to take our lines. A huge roar rose up, and up the hill, a raucous crowd attending a Little League baseball game had much to cheer about. Out in the harbor, a half-­dozen cruising boats lay at anchor, including a trio of salty metal yachts and a ketch-rigged Amel Super Maramu. For heaven’s sake, there was an actual tidal grid for bottom jobs erected on the shoreline, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen one of those. The black cod and salmon fillets at the pub around the corner were maybe the tastiest ever.

The next day, with exactly two weeks and 500 miles behind us since leaving Anacortes, I hopped a BC Ferry across the channel to the tiny regional airport at Skidegate for an hourlong flight to Vancouver and onward, back to the Real World. Leaving my mates on Dancing Bear to continue the adventure was bittersweet, to be sure, but I had a little piece of Haida Gwaii with me, an abalone shell I’d pocketed back in Carpenter Bay. And I sure as hell had left a slice of my soul behind. 

It had been something more than a splendid, unforgettable journey. It was mystical.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Into the Mystic: A Pacific Northwest Adventure appeared first on Cruising World.

The Beach Boys had a great song with the lyrics: “Catch a wave, and you’re sitting on top of the world.” Of course, they were referring to a surfboard, but the line certainly fits for sailing.  

Recently, I had a long sail to windward with a friend. We sailed south on the Chesapeake Bay starting early in the morning. A good thermal sea breeze filled in as the hours passed. About 20 miles south of Annapolis, Maryland, we stopped sailing for a lunch break before setting the asymmetrical spinnaker for the ride home. The beat to windward had taken five hours against a flooding tidal current. We were about to get our reward.

My Hood 32, Whirlwind, has a masthead asymmetrical spinnaker that sets out of the cockpit. Happily, I do not have to go on the foredeck. A tack line under the deck extends back to the cockpit, and all the lines can be trimmed from one spot. 

The wind was blowing a steady 16 to 18 knots, and the waves were 2 to 3 feet. Whirlwind displaces 2,800 pounds and flies downwind at 8 to 10 knots. My crewmember, Brian, was relatively new to steering with an asymmetrical sail. He was at the helm as I set the sail up for hoisting. Usually, I am comfortable in the after part of the boats that I race or cruise. On Whirlwind, I get to handle the spinnaker.  

We set the spinnaker and trimmed in for the ride. The boat took off. I was now the sail trimmer and coach. As we accelerated down our first wave, a determined smile appeared on Brian’s face. 

My first comment was that good helmsmanship is moving the tiller as little as possible. The faster you turn, the more the boat will slow down, and a fast turn can cause the sail to collapse. I advised him to keep his arm at a 90-degree angle to the tiller. The direct motion on the tiller minimizes oversteering.  

The next goal was to catch the wave. To do this, you have to watch the wave ahead of the bow. Look for deep troughs. Aim the bow toward the lowest part of the trough, and then work to accelerate. You can gain speed by giving the spinnaker and mainsail a rapid trim and by altering course to more of a reach. When the boat gains speed, you can alter your course to follow the wave.

Don’t overtrim the ­spinnaker. Doing so can cause the boat to spin out of control. However, it is easy to forget to trim the mainsail. When we bore off to set the spinnaker, I eased out the outhaul and let off the ­downhaul to give the mainsail more shape. 

Getting the correct tension on the boom vang is important. If the vang is too tight, then the boat can get out of control. As a rule, I look up at the top batten in the mainsail and try to adjust the boom vang so that the top batten is parallel to the boom. When in doubt, it is better to leave the boom vang a little eased than to sail with it too tight.

The waves on this day seemed to be a little higher in the middle of the Chesapeake, where the water is deeper. By late afternoon, the tidal current had shifted, and we were bucking the tide again, but the opposing forces of the wind against the current created higher waves. So there was a silver lining.  

When you get everything just right, the boat slides down the wave and you pick up speed. Steering is easy as the apparent wind moves aft, taking the pressure off the sails. Our game that afternoon was to see how long we could maintain the ride on each wave.  

A few times, we were able to skip from one wave to another. An asymmetrical spinnaker is a nice sail that provides plenty of flexibility while steering a course. In strong gusts, we simply sailed a lower course. In light patches, we headed up and sailed a higher course to keep the boat moving.  

I noted that no other boats were passing us. Our upwind five-hour sail was fun, but the 20-mile run home was better; we averaged 8 knots and arrived back in two and a half hours. Even when daysailing, my competitive instinct kicks in. I like sailing fast and being comfortable. Riding waves achieves both goals.

The post How to Ride a Wave appeared first on Cruising World.

For the past 30 years, Andrew Burton has been trying to put himself out of a job—because he doesn’t want owners of the boats to miss out. 

“A lot of delivery skippers won’t have the owner on board,” he says. “I encourage it, because for me, the fun part is the offshore sailing. To take that away from the owner doesn’t seem right.”

He wasn’t always so concerned about sharing his biggest joy. He can remember, long ago, listening to a single-sideband radio to check in with other captains. 

“Six o’clock every day, we’d catch up with weather and see where everybody was,” he says. “And every now and again, we’d hear the Coast Guard in a conversation with somebody abandoning the boat. I was young and not particularly empathetic: ‘These idiots, going out there with no experience.’”

He shakes his head and adds, “As I matured, I started thinking about why those people were getting off their boats, usually giving up on a lifetime dream of sailing to the Caribbean.” 

Many folks just weren’t prepared for the reality of offshore sailing, he realized. 

“They get out there, and it’s blowing 35, and the motion is something they’ve never experienced because there can be three different components to the waves,” he says. “They’re wet, exhausted, scared, the decks are leaking, it’s the middle of the night, and they’re seasick. So it seems like the best thing they could possibly do is call the Coast Guard.”

Finally, Burton decided that he could help people learn to sail safely offshore—and maybe even find their own bluewater joy.

An Idea Emerges

in the 1990s, nautor swan managed a fleet of midsize and larger charter sailboats that migrated between summers in Rhode Island and winters in the Caribbean. Burton did a lot of those deliveries. 

“I worked out a deal where I chartered the boats and put paying crew on them, to help them learn,” he says. “For many, it was their first time out of sight of land or sailing at night.” 

That’s how Adventure Sailing was born. It’s Burton’s company, which teaches sailors how to enjoy, rather than simply endure, their time at sea.

All of Burton’s clients must have basic sailing knowledge and know how to steer a compass course. If not, he suggests they first get educated at a place such as J/World Performance Sailing School. “Tell them what you want to learn, then come back, and we’ll go,” he says.

Instead of asking for references, he has blunt conversations about experience and fitness: “I tell them, ‘If you bullsh-t me, it’ll be a waste of money. But if what you’re telling me is true, well, then, this is a really good value, and you’ll get a lot out of it.’”

“They get out there, and it’s blowing 35. They’re wet, exhausted, scared, the decks are leaking, it’s the middle of the night, and they’re ­seasick. So it seems like the best thing they could possibly do is call the Coast Guard.”   

Typical clients own a small cruising boat and are hoping to step up to one that’s bluewater-capable. Burton has two basic goals: “One, to help people realize their dream of going offshore by providing the tools to do it successfully. And two, to give them a good baseline in what offshore sailing is all about.”

His most successful passages have a convivial crew, and most have never met before they sign up. 

“If somebody sounds like an idiot,” he says, “well, then, I’m sorry, but we’re full.” 

Building the Business

Nautor Swan sold its charter fleet several decades ago, but on one of the last trips, Burton had nine boats leaving Newport, Rhode Island, with 54 people headed offshore. By then, his reputation had built a word-of-mouth private client base. 

By fall 2017, Burton and his wife, Tami, had spotted a Baltic 47 for sale. The boat needed new teak decks and an electronics upgrade, but it had what he calls “three really good” cabins, plus one for himself. The layout was perfect for Adventure Sailing. 

“Generally, it’s myself and six paying people,” Burton says, of Masquerade, adding that he encourages couples to sign up together. “We run three watches, with somebody new coming on every hour and a half, so everybody gets to know each other.” 

With six hours off, there’s plenty of time for ­relaxation. All of his clients have to steer, he says, “because that’s how you get the feel—to really know a boat. Unless we’re motoring, the autopilot stays off. We talk about storm tactics, weather, all kinds of things, but it’s not constant teaching.” 

For instance, he sits in the cockpit and tells sea stories and answers questions—lots of questions— because the whole point is to get the experience of being out there.

Burton also does the cooking, and says he really enjoys it—though he has an ulterior motive. Before GPS, he’d get out of dishwashing duty by charting the day’s course. Now that crewmembers can pinpoint the boat’s exact location themselves, cooking has become his escape. “GPS took a lot of the fun out of it, but it’s also allowed more people to get out there and do what I love to do,” he says.

Most clients eventually go offshore on their own, but not all. He’s had some customers step off the boat in Bermuda and buy a plane ticket home. “They’d say, ‘Hey, Andy, I really hated it,’” he recalls. “And: ‘Thank you very much. You just saved me a lot of money.’ I get it—there can be a lot to hate about offshore sailing.”

With some clients, he’ll offer a challenge: He takes them to the Caribbean, and then they have to bring the boat back on their own. Shipping is a good option for some boats, he says, but he estimates that delivering a boat on its own bottom costs about half as much. “And if you’ve got a good skipper, there’s not going to be that much wear and tear,” he adds. “Anybody worth his salt is gonna take really good care of the boat.”

Over the Horizon

As we chat, Burton is waiting for a weather window to ease his next delivery to the Virgin Islands. Forecasting has gotten better during the past 30 years, but even the best forecaster can get it wrong. On one delivery from Bermuda back home to Rhode Island, Burton decided to heave-to rather than bash upwind into a strong northwesterly blow. He was settled in under the dodger, admiring the huge whitecapped swells and “that gorgeous turquoise, when you look through the top of the wave,” when another boat passed by close enough to chat on the VHF radio. 

“They asked if we were all right,” he says. “I told them we were just having a cup of tea.” 

By the next morning, the wind had shifted ­southwest, so they set sail again—and soon passed that same boat, which was by then hove-to, with no one on deck.

“Our goal is to be ­inclusive. The idea is for all the owners to have the same thrill that I did finishing my first ­Bermuda race as ­skipper, because that thrill was still there ­finishing my ­second race.”

“They must’ve gotten just over the horizon and decided, ‘Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea,’” he says.“One of the things that I teach people is how to heave-to, because if everything hits the fan, you can stop and wait for it to go away.”

In 2018, Burton entered Masquerade in the Newport Bermuda Race. He’d delivered boats to the island hundreds of times before, but says they finished in “the cheap seats.” In 2022, Masquerade won its class and finished second in the cruising division. As he prepares for this year’s race, he’s also trying to help organizers streamline the entry process. 

“Our goal is to be inclusive,” he says. “The idea is for all the owners to have the same thrill that I did finishing my first Bermuda race as skipper, because that thrill was still there finishing my second race.”

Adventure Sailing is currently booking clients for 2025, and for Burton’s eighth and ninth trans-Atlantic crossings: to the Azores and Scotland in June and back to the Caribbean in the fall. Add in five Panama Canal transits and 40 years of multiple deliveries between the East Coast and the Caribbean, and it’s easy to believe his personal sailing estimate of close to 500,000 miles logged. 

Along the way, he’s helped many sailors achieve their dreams—all without accumulating many dramatic sea stories. 

“Boats give us so much pleasure, especially one like Masquerade that’s such a delight to sail,” he says. “I have such mixed feelings about making landfall. On one hand, we’re happy to be reaching the goal and looking forward to a celebratory beer. On the other, we know we’re really going to miss sailing offshore.”

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