Voyages 2018

Voyages

Chronicles

of the

Cruising Club

of

A merica

Issue 60  2018

Commodore’s Column To all Voyages readers: As with our previous issues, Jack and Zdenka Griswold — worthy successor editors to Doug and Dale Bruce — have put together an excellent array of articles for superb winter reading, accompanied by outstanding photographs from our authors. It doesn’t take long to find oneself totally absorbed, and almost vicariously experiencing, the exploits of our intrepid voyagers. I am constantly reminded, when quickly scanning the articles in this issue, of just how unique are the members of the Cruising Club of America. There truly is no sea too far nor land unworthy of exploring by our members. And the best part, short of being aboard during the voyages, is being able to share their experiences through this wonderful publication.

This edition offers several unique windows into the marvelous cruising grounds of Sweden, a captivating Southern Hemisphere rescueassist by our very own Skip Novak, a visit to our founding waters in the Bras D’Or Lakes of Nova Scotia, and a fascinating story by our most recent Blue Water Medal winner, Michael Johnson, about his two-year trip from the Chesapeake through the Northwest Passage to Nome, Alaska. Then, when you are chilled to the bone after reading this tale, sit back and enjoy Ron Schaper and Andrea Dowling’s wonderful twoweek charter in the French Polynesian islands!

Staying on the warmer side of things, we also have a wee bit of an adventure story in Roger Block and Amy Jordan’s visit to the Solomon Islands during their five-year circumnavigation, which they completed in 2015. And this is only a sampling of the stories you will find in this year’s Voyages.

Many of you may have noticed that we have been honored to have several of our most noteworthy navigators and yacht designers join the Club’s Technical Committee.

This group is charged with keeping the CCA in the forefront of the ongoing dialogues concerning safe designs for offshore use, as well as making sure there is an even playing Commodore Jim Binch during field for boats of many generations the July 2017 Summer Cruise to sail against one another in in the Azores. long offshore passages. Thus, we welcome John Rousmaniere’s recollections about putting together the highly acclaimed book, Desirable and Undesirable Characteristics of Offshore Yachts, with the likes of Olin Stephens and Jim McCurdy to call upon!

From page to page, story to story, this edition of Voyages is certain to provide many hours of relaxing (or not so relaxing) reading in the long months ahead. My most sincere thanks to all those who have bravely put pen to paper, along with all those whose photographic skills are most certainly superior — in combination you all have made for riveting reading.

And of course, I would be remiss were we not to thank Jack and Zdenka for an exceptional magazine!

Cordially yours,

About the CCA The Cruising Club of America is among North America’s foremost resources on offshore cruising and racing and, together with the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club, co-organizer of the legendary Newport Bermuda Race. The club is comprised of more than 1,300 accomplished ocean sailors who willingly share their cruising expertise with the greater sailing community through books, articles, blogs, videos, seminars, and onboard opportunities. Ocean safety and seamanship training through publications and hands-on seminars is a critical component of the club’s national and international outreach efforts. The club has 14 stations and posts around the United States, Canada, and Bermuda, and CCA members are actively engaged with the next generation of ocean sailors as they look forward to the club’s second century of serving the offshore sailing community.

For more information about the CCA, visit cruisingclub.org.”

Bermuda * Boston * Buzzards Bay Post * Gulf of maine Post * narraGansett Bay Post Bras d’or * ChesaPeake * essex * florida * Great lakes new york * PaCifiC northwest * san franCisCo * southern California

Voyages

Chronicles of the Cruising Club of America

CRUISING CLUB OFFICERS Commodore – James G. Binch Vice Commodore – W. Bradford Willauer Secretary – Christopher L. Otorowski Treasurer – Peter L. Chandler

VOYAGES EDITORS Zdenka and Jack Griswold (BOS/GMP) voyages@cruisingclub.org

VOYAGES COMMITTEE Editor of Final Voyages – Maggie Salter (BOS/GMP) Past Issues Manager – Cindy Crofts-Wisch (BOS/BUZ) Associate Editor – John Rousmaniere (NYS) Editorial Advisors: Dale Bruce (BOS/GMP), Doug Bruce (BOS/GMP), Lynnie Bruce (BOS/GMP), John Chandler (BOS/GMP), Doug Cole (PNW), Max Fletcher (BOS/GMP), Bob Hanelt (SAF), Cam Hinman (PNW), Amy Jordan (BOS), Charlie Peake (NYS), Krystina Scheller (BDO) Photography Advisor: David Pratt (BOS/GMP)

EDITORS EMERITUS Alfred B. Stamford, 1962 -1974; Charles H. Vilas, 1974 -1988; Bob and Mindy Drew, 1988 -1994; John and Nancy McKelvy, 1994 -1999; John and Judy Sanford, 1999 -2002; T.L. and Harriet Linskey, 2003 -2010; Doug and Dale Bruce, 2010-2017

DESIGN AND LAYOUT Zdenka and Jack Griswold; Claire MacMaster, Barefoot Art Graphic Design; Hillary Steinau, Camden Design Group; Tara Law, Artist

PROOFREADING Zdenka Griswold and Virginia M. Wright, Consultant

PRINTED BY J.S. McCarthy Printers, Augusta, Maine

COVER PHOTO Sister ships Snow Star, owned by Ry Hills and Tom Kiley (BOS/GMP), and Star Song in the Eggemoggin Reach Regatta.

Copyright Alison Langley, Langley Photography. See Kiss the Foredeck about the restoration of Star Song on Page 42.

COPYRIGHT NOTICE Copyright © 2018 The Cruising Club of America, Inc. Individual articles including any photographs, drawings and illustrations © their respective authors. No part of this work may be copied, transmitted or otherwise reproduced by any means whatsoever except by permission of the copyright holders.

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134 A Sad Tale: Monterey Sinks 200 Miles South of Bermuda

LES CRANE (BDA) recounts the tragic sinking of Monterey,

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his 56-foot Farr Pilot House sloop.

140 FILM REVIEW - Vanishing Sail: The Story of a

Caribbean Tradition

ALEXIS ANDREWS beautifully documents the building

of a Carriacou sloop. Review by JACK GRISWOLD (BOS/GMP).

142 BOOK REVIEW - Taleisin’s Tales — Sailing Towards the Southern Cross

LIN and LARRY PARDEY (SAF) sail Taleisin on her maiden voyage from California to New Zealand. Review by BILL FOSS (SAF).

143 BOOK REVIEW - The Baltic Sea and Approaches

(Fourth Edition) The RCC PILOTAGE FOUNDATION updates its guide to

the Baltic. Review by MAX FLETCHER (BOS/GMP).

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144 BOOK REVIEW - An Incredible Attraction: My Fifty Years of Ocean Sailing ERIC FORSYTH (NYS) inspires anyone dreaming of sailing

beyond the horizon. Review by DOUG BRUCE (BOS/GMP).

146 BOOK REVIEW - Sea Trials: Around the World with Duct Tape and Bailing Wire WENDY HINMAN (PNW) tells the harrowing tale of

a five-year circumnavigation. Review by PEGGY and CHUCK STEWARD (PNW).

148 Final Voyages Salutes to departed members. Compiled by MAGGIE

SALTER (BOS/GMP), JACK GRISWOLD (BOS/GMP),

and station historians.

167 Guidelines for Final Voyages, Photos, and Articles Useful information for authors, photographers, and other

contributors to Voyages.

170 Last Words from the Editors

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The Northwest Passage: Two Difficult Ice Years

by Michael Johnson | San Francisco Station

Wedging out of the ice in Prince Regent Inlet.

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“Victory awaits him who has everything in order — luck we call it.

Defeat is definitely due for him who has neglected to take the necessary precautions — bad luck we call it.”

Roald Amundsen, the first man to sail through the Northwest Passage, 1903–06

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A rare sunny day off the coast of Disco Bay, Greenland.

W

e shot through Bellot Strait, fighting to control our schooner as swirling eddies twisted us right and left of the narrow safety line between Magpie Rock and the shoaling shore to the north. I considered our tenuous position. This route through Bellot was the only remaining possibility for success in September 2013 as the Arctic navigational season closed. To the east and west, icy doors were closing the waterways of the fabled Northwest Passage. Several of the possible routes had not opened at all in 2013.

This late in the season, none would reopen until July or August of the following year. We would later learn that 2013 was reported to have had 60 percent more sea ice than 2012. The looming canyon of Bellot’s bare mountainous terrain stretched before us like a narrowing funnel, pulling us to the west into Franklin Strait and Larsen Sound. Ice was marching south down these waterways to shut off our advance, but for the moment, they were still open — if we arrived soon. To the south of us lay the Boothia Peninsula, the northernmost extension of the North American continent. To the north was Somerset Island.

We were a few hundred miles from King William Island to the south, near where Franklin’s 19th-century ships met their end, and Gjoa Haven, where Amundsen later found shelter and wintered during his transit. Since that first successful passage, only a handful of sailing vessels have wended their way through these icy channels by a variety of routes. For over 400 years, a route through the Northwest Passage was sought to reach the riches of the Orient. By Amundsen’s time that motive had been largely abandoned, but the challenge of a sea passage linking the Atlantic to the Pacific via a northerly route remained. The possibility that global warming might finally open a commercially viable passage has opened a Pandora’s box of claims, counterclaims, and concerns over the vulnerable Arctic environment.

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Gitana’s route through the Northwest Passage.

In getting to Bellot Strait late in the season, we were fortunate and unfortunate. Fortunate in being able to transit Bellot at all. Those arriving earlier in the season had waited a month for the ice to allow them passage, only to finally turn back. We met several vessels at Pond Inlet on their way out, having decided that there was simply too much ice in the 2013 season. Unfortunate in that we had experienced some setbacks and gear failures, which ate into the already very short season.

We had departed Chesapeake Bay in Virginia in late June after delays in preparing our 44-foot schooner, Gitana, for the arduous Arctic voyage. En route north, we encountered our first icebergs in the Gulf of St. Lawrence near the Strait of Belle Isle. There were three of us, and although I had been in the Arctic numerous times, the first sighting of icebergs on a voyage is always transformative. An old Inuit once told me that ice is like fire — fascinating and dangerous. We continued to

Gitana beset by ice in Ilulissat, Disco Bay, Greenland.

Abandoned Hudson Bay Company post at Fort Ross, east of Bellot Strait.

“After crossing Baffin Bay among soaring cathedral-like bergs, our steering cable snapped as we approached Pond Inlet, leaving us rudderless on a windless sea.

”

encounter ice in the Labrador Sea, Davis Strait, and northward along Greenland’s ironbound coast to Disco Bay. We entered Disco to resupply at Ilulissat. To reach this small fishing harbor, we had to detour 36 miles around an icy drift that projected seaward from the Ilulissat Icefjord. After we finally arrived in Ilulissat, this stream of ice was driven by the wind into the harbor, trapping us for days. Eventually, a northeasterly wind opened the ice just enough to intersperse dark veins of water throughout the glittering whiteness, allowing us to gingerly wedge our way out. After two days of careful maneuvering, using a lookout high in the rigging to determine the most favorable route, we were finally free of the ice.

After crossing Baffin Bay among soaring cathedral-like bergs, our steering cable snapped as we approached Pond Inlet, leaving us rudderless on a windless sea. The repairs, which took hours, drove

home our isolation and the need for self-reliance in this beautiful but unforgiving environment. Nunavut Territory has a population of about 37,000, mostly Inuit people, spread over an area of some 800,000 square miles. With temperatures dropping and the days shortening, the navigational season was rapidly closing. At Pond Inlet, we crossed paths with the last retreating vessels heading eastward. My goal had always been to get halfway through the passage in one season and have time to interact with local communities. If we could get to Cambridge Bay, we would have achieved that goal.

It was a race. Reports indicated that new sea ice was already forming in the northern passages that had been open. McClure Strait and Peel Sound (Amundsen’s route) never opened in 2013. Pushing on, we arrived at tiny Graham Harbour, a secure anchorage surrounded by bare mountainous walls on the north side of Lancaster Sound. There we waited out a gale for several days. After numerous visits from a issue 60  2018

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Gitana anchored at Gjoa Haven.

Wintering over in Cambridge Bay, where the temperature reached minus 68 degrees Fahrenheit.

polar bear, seemingly baffled by our presence, we struck out southward.

We promptly encountered a snow squall, blindly probing through increasing ice to the eastern coast of Prince Regent Inlet. The date was September 5. We were to find later that Prince Regent had been declared closed by the Canadian Ice Service on August 27.

quickly with falling temperatures. We made a brief stop at the keyhole harbor of Gjoa Haven on King William Island. Amundsen once described this anchorage as the greatest small harbor in the world.

Protected from marauding bergs drifting by just outside, one could appreciate his perspective.

As we pushed south along the Brodeur Peninsula, we were beset by ever-greater ice until we could proceed no further. We were completely locked in — trapped. Here we waited for two days, unable to even point the schooner westward toward what appeared to be open water just visible from the masthead. Fortuitously, the ice turned us, and we slowly snaked toward freedom, using the boat as a wedge and orienting her with ice poles. Once clear, we continued down the inlet, trying to get around a moving ridge of ice in the inlet’s center, which extended southward some 100 miles. At the end of and to the west of this ice ridge, we had to beat back northward in 35–40 knots of wind to reach the eastern entrance of Bellot Strait. Ice on the rigging and sails made sail handling very difficult. My hands became so cold grappling with the ice that although I could seize rigging or ties, my fingers slid away ineffectually, no longer under my control. Incredulous, I watched this futile groping. Cold can be painful, but this was tending toward incapacity. (For a cautionary tale, refer to Jack London’s To Build a Fire.) But each tack brought us closer. The wind-driven ice ridge edged toward the coast, narrowing our northward path. We had nowhere to go to avoid being crushed but onward, and quickly. There was no refuge elsewhere. After 24 hours, we cleared the cape and made it safely into the bay near Bellot at dawn.

Simpson Strait was the last major hurdle between us and our winter refuge of Cambridge Bay. This 60-mile gauntlet of twists and turns is a witch’s cauldron of strong currents, ice, shallows, shoals and poor visibility. It is described in the Admiralty Sailing Directions Arctic Pilot as the single most hazardous stretch of water in the Northwest Passage. Tides and timing made it necessary to navigate it in darkness.

After a harrowing night, we emerged unscathed at the western end just as dawn broke. From there, we proceeded effortlessly, with a fair wind, through the one-tenth ice — the relative amount of sea surface covered by ice in the area — in Queen Maud Gulf. On September 20, we arrived in Cambridge Bay and immediately began to prepare Gitana for the severe temperatures she would encounter during the Arctic winter. We then left her to await the next season, as the days quickly shortened into the Arctic night.

Now we were shooting through the increasing darkness on the western side of the strait. The compass was worthless this close to the magnetic pole, and the charts were marked with warnings accordingly.

We were steering toward our waypoints, but our real orientation at the helm was by keeping the wind at a constant angle relative to the schooner, a method as old as seafaring. We were moving southward, away from the heaviest ice concentrations, but that could change

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My crew and I arrived back in Cambridge Bay in mid-July 2014.

The ice in Cambridge Bay and Dease Strait stretched almost unbroken as far as we could see. Gitana appeared exactly as we had left her, having braved strong winds and temperatures of minus 68°F. The wreck of Maud, one of Amundsen’s vessels abandoned here, rose above the ice in the east arm of the bay. Martin Bergmann, a ship searching for the lost Franklin expedition vessels, Erebus and Terror, had wintered here and was ready to resume her search once she could make her way through the ice. Her captain commented on the increase in ice in 2014 and how that would limit their search. He told me, “ln the Arctic, all you need is horsepower and patience. The more you have of one, the less you need of the other.” Of those, we would depend mostly on the latter for the limited navigational season. Slowly we trudged the three miles back and forth to town and stowed all the supplies and equipment that

“ln the Arctic, all you need is horsepower and patience.

The more you have of one, the less you need of the other.”

Pingo on approach to Tuktoyaktuk.

we had stored to protect them from the severe temperatures. We had ample time, as the lingering ice plugged our exit as effectively as a cork in a bottle. It wasn’t until August 3 that we finally got Gitana back in her element.

Three days later we left Cambridge Bay, in the same doglegged fashion we had entered, following a reciprocal course into Dease Strait.

Though the ice was clear to the west, I knew the short season limited our options. We now encountered only bergy bits. It seemed surreal. We sailed into Coronation Gulf. The water temperatures were in the 20s.

Magnetic variation was changing quickly. The compass was erratic and still useless but we proceeded without incident to Dolphin and Union Strait. We were now experiencing twilight from 2300 to 0430 hours.

Then, with the wind becoming unfavorable, a meter reading indicated that the batteries weren’t being charged. This was a serious concern, as all our instruments and the starter motor were dependent on those batteries. There were no near anchorages as we entered Amundsen Gulf. Two small communities were 100 miles upwind, both without good shelter. The nearest place of any size was Kugluktuk (formerly Coppermine) back across Coronation Gulf and 170 miles in the wrong direction. In this sparsely populated frozen land, I reflected again on self-sufficiency and by what a tenuous thread our safety hung.

I turned and with the wind now astern we started giving up the miles we had so recently gained. Once in Kugluktuk, we had some good fortune. First, Australians Roger and Ali Grayson on their motor vessel Wave had somehow gotten in behind a breakwater. They came

Tuktoyaktuk: left to right, Gitana crew member Rodney Schmitt, the author, Inuit Ranger, and Canadian officer. out in their dinghy and showed us how we could do the same. This was a great help, as much of the Arctic — 70 percent by some estimates — is uncharted, and “iceberg gouging” can change the sea bottom considerably from one year to the next, a significant issue in an area which is extremely shallow. Then, the following day, the Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker, Sir Wilfrid Laurier, made a crew change off Kugluktuk. I spoke to the chief engineer. At his suggestion, with some sophisticated borrowed equipment, we checked Gitana’s electrical systems and concluded that the problem was a faulty circuit board rather than the charging system itself. We had lost six precious days, but we were reassured and ready to proceed.

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“We had first crossed the Arctic Circle off Greenland on August 13, 2013, and recrossed it southbound on September 9, 2014.

”

Dawn at Point Hope, Alaska.

Slope as the season’s end drew closer. Point Barrow is often frozen over

by September 15. We anchored at Summers Harbour in the Booth Islands, named for the English gin company that was an early sponsor of Arctic exploration. Henry Larsen, who took the schooner St. Roch through the Northwest Passage in 1940–42, described this place as the best harbor in the Canadian Arctic. We fueled up and did some maintenance, then sailed toward Cape Bathurst, a notorious ice choke point. The Smoking Hills’ fortress-like barren sea cliffs range 30 miles along this coast. Numerous smoke plumes rise from the hills due to spontaneous combustion of bitumen deposits — an unusual sight.

Once around Bathurst, the seas flattened and the water turned a shallow milky green. This area has the highest concentration known (some 1,350) of pingos, formations that are unique to the Arctic.

Resembling volcanic cones, they form on land and under water, where they can be a navigational hazard. Created by ice incrementally lifting the earth over many years, they can reach heights of 200 feet.

At Tuktoyaktuk, a community of about 900 people near the mouth of the Mackenzie River, we resupplied for the 1,000-mile run along Alaska’s north coast and through the Bering Strait to Nome. We were invited to a traditional feast of dried white fish, cooked white trout and beluga whale muktuk — raw scored blubber. All over the Arctic, we were shown generous hospitality by the inhabitants. While in Tuktoyaktuk, I was invited to a meeting of Inuit Canadian Rangers, who were assembling for a patrol with the Canadian military. To the frustration of the Canadian officer, the group operated by consensus, avoiding direct orders.

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Michael with a local friend at Brevig Mission.

From Tuktoyaktuk we headed for the old whaling station on Herschel Island and along the daunting north coast of Alaska. This portion of the passage is something of a gauntlet. Ice was still fast along some of the shore. In the late summer, a 40–50-mile-wide channel often opens between the shore and the offshore ice pack. This channel is not stable and can close with onshore winds. The coast is shallow, with minimal tide. There are few anchorages and scant protection for a vessel drawing six feet. It is about 400 miles from Herschel to Point Barrow, an open roadstead with no protection. About 10 miles southeast of this point lies the very shallow Elson Lagoon, with a difficult approach through shifting shoals. The lagoon shoals rapidly inside the pass, and protection is described as only fair in good weather. At Barrow, the ice moves on– and off–shore until July or August, but can stay closed all summer. Northerly winds bring the ice shoreward. Freeze-up begins at Barrow in September and at Bering Strait in October most years. There is not much protection for 300 miles from Barrow until Point Hope, where one can sometimes anchor in the lee depending upon wind direction.

On the way to Point Barrow, we attempted to shelter in the lee of Cape Halkett to avoid adverse west-northwest winds, but the soundings proved shallower than charted. The charts also had “iceberg gouging”

cautions with six-foot variability, which is significant when one has three feet of water under the keel and no real tide to assist if grounded. We decided instead to tack out and head for Barrow, with the northern lights dancing in the darkness, finally reaching Eluitkak Pass, the shifting entrance to Elson Lagoon. The zigzag approach was unmarked and we passed around a shoal with four quick changes of course. We had less water than charted, about two feet under the keel. We held our breath, the water deepened, and we were inside. We could only go in a half-mile before shoaling forced us to anchor, with four miles of fetch across open water from a road that led to the town of Barrow. It was late August and freeze-up could start within two weeks. Gitana was now 300 miles from Point Hope and 600 miles from Nome.

The wind was relentless out of the south-southwest, which was to be our course. We refueled, cleaned, and prepared for the next leg. I went ashore to check in with customs. (Barrow is not a port of entry, but I had been instructed to contact Fairbanks’ customs if we stopped in Barrow.) The sun peeped out briefly as I set out in the dinghy, but then a snow squall hit, obliterating all visibility. Gitana disappeared from sight but I had brought a handheld GPS with her position marked. I waded through boggy tundra with my 12-gauge bear gun until I reached the track into town, about eight miles away.

The next morning, I contacted Fairbanks and was cleared in remotely.

In the meantime, the wind had increased to 30 knots with rain, snow, and fog. I felt I had to get back to the schooner, although the return trip was risky. Gitana was not visible until I got within a half mile of her. I had to bail the dinghy constantly and the quartering seas became dangerous as the fetch increased. I progressed slowly across the four miles of shallow lagoon. I realized I would have to close with the schooner on approach, as I would not be able to bring the dinghy about in these breaking seas without capsizing. Gitana’s bowsprit pitched and plunged into the shallow green seas. One of my crew was on deck checking the anchor rode and grabbed the painter as I banged into the hull. I was very happy to be back. The next morning, visibility was only a few feet and the deck was covered with snow.

After a week in Elson Lagoon, a place I would not recommend and was delighted to see the last of, we got a slight weather window.

We plowed out through breaking seas around the shallow bars and into the pass. The waves were considerable. At times the depth indicator showed zero feet under the keel in the troughs, but we didn’t touch, and finally we made it into deeper water, running along the spit that terminated at Point Barrow. We were now in the Chukchi Sea, rounding the northernmost point of the United States and heading southwest toward Point Hope and the Bering Strait, the last leg of the Northwest Passage. Fog rolled in and the shore vanished, snow blew horizontally but we had a fair wind. On September 7, just past midnight, we anchored to the east of Point Hope, where we had a bit of protection. From here we would sail almost due south to the Bering Strait, but two lows were now converging. This would bring extended bad weather, so we departed in the early morning darkness and raced into Kotzebue Sound. We no longer had the midnight sun, but we were out of the ice! The air and water temperatures began to

rise. We had first crossed the Arctic Circle off Greenland on August 13, 2013, and recrossed it southbound on September 9, 2014. After an uneventful transit of the Bering Strait, we were in the Pacific Ocean and the Arctic was now astern.

The following morning in the rain, we anchored in Port Clarence, our first real shelter since Herschel Island. We were less than a hundred miles from Nome where I would over-winter. We went ashore to the small village of Brevig Mission, with a population of about 500, and were, as everywhere, warmly received. After weathering a gale at Port Clarence, we sailed on to Nome.

The Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge, England, lists Gitana as the 87th sailing vessel to traverse the Northwest Passage.

Later that same year, I read with interest in a Nome paper that “the ice is very heavy this year. There is a myth that there is no ice in the Arctic and that is exactly that, a myth.” True, at least for our two passage years. I look back with some awe at our Northwest Passage and am glad in retrospect that we experienced all that ice.

MICHAEL JOHNSON makes his home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, between voyages. A seasoned mariner, he has sailed on a variety of craft including Chesapeake Bay skipjacks, British training schooners, and East African dhows. He has doubled Cape Horn twice and circumnavigated the globe east-to-west south of the five great capes in Aissa, an engineless 32-foot Westsail.

His extensive explorations have taken him throughout the Atlantic and Pacific oceans and have included trips to the Arctic, Antarctic, Greenland, Asia, Africa, and the Mediterranean. In 2016, Michael was presented with the club’s distinguished Blue Water Medal in recognition of his 40 years and 125,000-plus miles of voyaging. His many other honors include twice receiving the Ocean Cruising Club’s Barton Cup. In 2000 he bought Gitana, the 44-foot staysail schooner which took him through the Northwest Passage. That two-year voyage spanned 6,891 miles from the Chesapeake to Nome, Alaska. He is now extensively outfitting and repairing Gitana in Seattle, Washington.

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THE CENTRAL ARCTIC OCEAN Accessing the No Longer Inaccessible

By Krystina Scheller-de Jong and Erik de Jong, Bras d’Or Station

T

ake 10 strangers, two sailing yachts, and a dog to the Central Arctic Ocean (CAO), the most remote corner of the Arctic, and you would probably think it’s the perfect recipe for disaster. We were setting out to sail as far north as possible in this unsailed ocean, to conduct vital scientific research in this unique and fragile environment as part of a project called Arctic Mission. Other than four highly experienced ice skippers, Frances Brann, Jaap van Rijckevorsel, my husband Erik de Jong, and me, the rest of the Arctic Mission team had never worked together, including a few that had never sailed before or been to the Arctic. How were they going to handle being at sea with no land in sight for up to six weeks or longer if we inadvertently got stuck in the ice?

When polar explorer Pen Hadow first approached us about sailing through the Bering Strait and into the CAO, I have to admit that we initially thought it wasn’t possible without freezing in and drifting into its waters like the Fram in 1893 or the Tara in 2006. Instead, a quick look at the ice charts from the previous summer showed us that Pen’s proposal was actually achievable. While it was exciting to have the

Bagheera and Snow Dragon II conning through broken sea ice.

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opportunity to explore a newly accessible part of the Arctic, it was shocking to see so much open water in an area that has historically been shielded by perennial ice.

Pen knew exactly how we felt. He had been to the North Pole many times, but on his last trek he could not believe the amount of water he was encountering. This led him to start planning Arctic Mission with three simple goals in mind. First, show the world how accessible and vulnerable the CAO has become by sailing two yachts as far north into its waters as the sea ice allows. Second, conduct scientific research to find out more about the ecosystem in the CAO. Third, use our findings to stimulate discussion about whether commercial fishing and shipping should take place in these international waters.

While it was challenging enough getting Bagheera and Snow Dragon II ready with limited funding and time, we also had the added bonus of knowing that we would be going beyond the insurance limits of our boats. A comforting thought, I assure you! Not that the perks on offer for our fellow team members were any more glamorous. In return for paying their own way to Nome, Alaska, they got seasickness, tight living conditions, and limited possibility of rescue if anything went wrong.

In addition to the increased safety factor of going with two boats and four ice skippers, I had the opportunity to co-skipper Bagheera with Erik. While I normally tell people that two boats are the secret to a happy marriage, it is nice to occasionally sail together on the same boat for more than the odd day.

Even though 2012 had the lowest summer sea ice extent on record, the most intriguing to us was the ice situation of September 2016. That would, to a great extent, predict how the ice was going to break up during the summer of 2017. When the Arctic refreezes in the fall, the ice that is still there becomes second-year and multiyear ice and hardens up over the winter. While newly formed first-year ice is brittle and will be the most vulnerable during the summer melt, second-year ice and multiyear ice takes much longer to melt and erode. Generally speaking, you can say that the breakup of the ice occurs in a similar order as the freeze-up. According to the 2016 ice chart, we would have been able to sail all the way up to 88° N in the CAO, and with the winter ice extent of 2017 being a record low, we had reason to believe a similar breakup would occur the following summer.

By the time our departure date arrived, even Fukimi, our 19-monthold Shikoku ken, was ready to leave the never-ending list of boat tasks behind and head out to sea. The weather, however, had other plans,

the time our departure date arrived, even Fukimi, our 19-month-old Shikoku ken, “By was ready to leave the never-ending list of boat tasks behind and head out to sea. �

Krystina at the helm of Bagheera with Fukimi providing additional ice watch.

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The Arctic Mission team at 80 north, from left to right: Conor McDonnell, Heather Bauscher, Jaap van Rijckevorsel, Frances Brann, Nick Carter, Erik de Jong, Tim Gordon, Krystina Scheller, Fukimi, Pen Hadow, and Tegid Cardwright.

and we spent an additional week in port, waiting for the strong north wind blowing through the Bering Strait to settle down. While Snow Dragon floated comfortably in Nome harbor with her five-foot draft, Bagheera and her 10-foot draft were not having the same experience, and she found herself balancing on her keel, with her waterline increasingly exposed as the gale continued to blow the water out of the harbor.

While Pen and the team doctor, Nick Carter, decided to put their extra time in port to good use and scrubbed Bagheera’s exposed waterline, Jaap continued to work on setting up an Iridium Pilot on Bagheera and an Iridium Go! on each boat. Though we had worked with Jaap before and knew he was a highly capable skipper who was always willing to lend a helping hand, it was a welcome surprise to find out that he was also an information technology expert. Every member was willing to contribute beyond their assigned roles, which really helped all 10 of us feel like a team even before we left port.

Once the gale subsided and the water began returning to Nome harbor, we were finally able to untie the dock lines and begin making our way north. It wasn’t long before we lost the protection of the Seward Peninsula and found ourselves adjusting to life at sea as we motored into the steep seas left behind by the gale. Conor McDonnell, our expedition photographer, decided the best way to cope with his new surroundings was by not leaving his horizontal position on Bagheera’s salon couch until we arrived in the CAO. His ability to sleep through the six-day passage became a legendary event that caused a bit of goodnatured jealousy amongst other team members who couldn’t manage

Fukimi playing on the ice.

to force their bodies to sleep through the entire passage. Meanwhile, on Snow Dragon, scientist Tim Gordon managed to get his seasickness under control by hand-steering in the Chukchi Sea, which made him feel as if he was evolving from a land crab to a sea crab.

The division between the United States’ 200-mile exclusive economic zone and the CAO might be invisible, but we felt a noticeable difference as we entered the flat calm waters of the Central Arctic Ocean near 163° west longitude. The conditions were perfect for Tim issue 60  2018

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and wildlife biologist Heather Bauscher to begin their work. After carrying out scientific research from Snow Dragon, including doing a vertical drop to gather water samples and temperature information from different depths by using Snow Dragon’s spinnaker pole as a hoist, they readied the tender in preparation for acoustics sampling. Once the science team was ready, both Bagheera and Snow Dragon motored away from the small inflatable.

Suddenly the fog rolled in, and Tim, Heather, and Conor found themselves sitting in a small tender surrounded by nearly freezing water, with both Snow Dragon and Bagheera drifting over a mile away with all instruments except VHF and radar turned off in order to minimize noise interference with the acoustics sampling.

While there were frequent position updates and VHF communication, it was still a humbling experience for the science team.

Once they were ready to be picked up, Frances gave them a course to steer towards Snow Dragon as she approached their location. While the radar picked up the dinghy clearly, it wasn’t until Snow Dragon was just over a boat length away that the ghostly shape of three relieved faces in a small boat loomed out of the fog.

The calm water was also a clear sign that we were nearing the ice edge. Just after midnight, the water temperature dropped to 33°F and we knew we were approaching the ice. With the dense fog, we were completely reliant on our radars, which dutifully picked up the ice edge ahead of us. Once we started to encounter larger ice floes that were stable enough to walk on, no one was more excited to leave the boats than Fukimi, who leaped across the ice like a young fawn. While the presence of ice made it easier to transfer team members and gear between the boats, it also meant we had to keep an even more vigilant polar bear watch, both on and off the boats.

The day after we began seeing scattered ice, Frances spotted fresh polar bear tracks as she steered Snow Dragon between the floes. While Frances focused on navigating, Heather scanned the ice ahead with her binoculars and spotted tiny off-white specks in the distance that turned out to be a mother with cubs.

Though we now occasionally needed to make navigational adjustments to avoid bands of ice, we still found ourselves regularly in open water, clear all the way to the horizon. We needed to pre-plan our stops on the ice to ensure we found suitable floes. There was no question in our minds that the CAO was already easily accessible for commercial fishing vessels if they wished to fish these waters.

A few days after our arrival in the CAO, Nick asked, “Do we

we now occasionally needed to make navigational “Though adjustments to avoid bands of ice, we still found ourselves regularly in open water, clear all the way to the horizon.

We needed to pre-plan our stops on the ice to ensure we found suitable floes.

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”

need to switch water tanks?” When he opened the galley tap to demonstrate his point and nothing came out, it was an alarming realization that a third of our water supply was gone in just over a week. The tank meter was still registering nearly three-quarters full.

Could our new tank meter really be faulty? We switched tanks, but after the foot pump also failed to produce any water, we decided there must be a blockage in the waterline. When an air gun powered by a dive bottle did not resolve the issue, Erik unscrewed the inspection hatch from the water tank and found a thick layer of ice at the bottom, blocking the pickup line.

In the past, we have had ice crystals form near the bottom of the tank and then float up, creating a layer of ice at the top of the tank without interfering with the water pickup. The issue on Bagheera was easily resolved by drilling a hole in the lid of a water collection barrel for the galley faucet intake to run through. We didn’t even have to bother with siphoning the water out of our tanks. If we needed to top up the barrel, we just pulled up to an ice flow and filled the barrel with fresh snow. To everyone’s amusement, the magic blue barrel even produced hot water. Too bad showers were still not on offer.

The further we pushed into the CAO, the more we wondered about its history.

Other than the Tara briefly entering the CAO to collect scientific data while circumnavigating the Arctic via the Northeast and Northwest passages in 2013, we couldn’t find any documentation of a sailing yacht or normal surface vessel moving freely in the Arctic’s international waters.

Until the late 19th century, it had been commonly believed that the polar sea was navigable. The 1879 U.S.S. Jeanette expedition changed that. With orders to find an open sea route to the North Pole, the Jeanette set sail through the Bering Strait under captain George de Long. Fifty miles northeast of the Russian coast, the vessel became trapped in the ice. Even though the Jeanette drifted for two years, she never reached the CAO and only a handful of the crew survived the walk to Russia after she was crushed by ice.

It has only been 40 years since the first icebreaker made it to the North Pole, and in that short time icebreakers are already noticing that it is becoming increasingly easier to reach the geographic pole. When the Russian icebreaker 50 Years of Victory commemorated the 40th anniversary of the Arktika journey, the first surface ship to reach the North Pole in 1977, it took them only 79 hours, a new record and less than half the time the Arktika

needed. It’s not the icebreakers that have changed. It’s the ice density and thickness.

With the Arctic sea ice breaking up more and more every year, leads are getting wider and the ice is getting more dynamic, skewing the statistics. It is impossible to measure absolute ice coverage from satellite or radar images. If a square degree of latitude and longitude has more than 15 percent of its surface covered by ice, the whole square is considered covered and counts as such in the statistics, when in

A malfunctioning monitor does not stop Jaap, our IT specialist, from doing his job.

The Arctic Mission team at work on the ice.

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Polar bear with her two cubs.

reality there could be as much as 85 percent open Krystina walking on the ice. water in that area.

An ice chart from the last week of August 2017 showed that there was a lead from the Russian coast all the way to the geographic pole. The lead appeared to be navigable, but we were over a thousand miles to the east and the lead was open for only five days.

Nonetheless, it was a sobering reminder that it is only a matter of time before a small yacht can get to 90° N and the myth of an open water route to the North Pole becomes a reality.

At 80° 10’ N, we rafted Bagheera and Snow Dragon to the ice for a 24-hour science stop, and to get a better feel for how the ice was moving, before continuing north. While we were getting into thicker ice, the wind, current, and water temperature forecast implied we were going to have favorable conditions that would As Snow Dragon approached the ice to pick up team members open up more leads in the ice. Those favorable conditions never matewho had gone out to retrieve acoustics equipment, a single pair of fresh rialized, and the updated satellite image showed the ice was actually polar bear tracks was clearly visible along the edge of the ice. A swimclosing in behind us. We could see that the water around us was showming bear had recently checked out the equipment but had not bothing signs of freezing, and there was no question what we as skippers ered to fully get out of the water in that location. Not knowing thought was best. The rest of the team unanimously supported our whether the bear was still in the immediate area, the team members decision to head south as soon as the science team had wrapped up their on the ice quickly returned to the boat.

On our way north, we had stopped at every degree of latitude to work and retrieved their equipment from the ice.

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run through six science experiments. Now we were stopping at every half-degree as we headed south to continue our data collection. Keeping the team, including the skippers, well rested was impossible with the continuous need to keep moving or assist the science team with their work. It was a fine balance to make sure everyone was getting enough sleep to function properly in a part of the world where mistakes can lead to dangerous situations.

Even the members of the science team occasionally stood watch and learned how to navigate through ice, but it was important that they focus on their research while we were in the CAO. Part of the scientific research involved trawling for microplastics. While this involves collecting samples to be analyzed in a lab, we unfortunately also found clear evidence of plastic pollution in the form of sizable chunks of polystyrene on two separate occasions, one embedded in the ice and another floating in open water.

We felt privileged to sail 409 miles into an ocean that had previously been inaccessible. We wanted to stay longer to explore and document the sea birds, seals, fish, and jellyfish we were seeing in addition to collecting more scientific samples, but we only had to look up at the delicate ice crystals covering the rigs of our boats or the thin layer of ice forming on the water’s surface to be reminded that we needed to keep moving.

Our last day in the CAO was perfect. The sky was blue and the odd bits of ice we encountered were glistening in the sun. This time, sunglasses were more essential than hats, gloves, and insulated suits, and for once, the paddleboard was used for its manufactured purpose.

A few hours later, we began to feel a hint of swell that continued to build as we sailed out of the CAO and into the Beaufort Sea, where a northerly wind filled our sails.

As we sailed downwind back to Nome, we heard a loud thud com-

ing from Bagheera’s hull. At first, we thought a fuel barrel had gotten loose in the lazarette. When that proved not to be the case, we were mystified until Nick suggested, “Could it be the ice in the tanks?” Sure enough, our lingering souvenir from the CAO was banging around as the warmer water and big seas encouraged the ice layer in our water tank to break up. The noise gradually abated to resemble the sound of ice cubes until disappearing altogether before we reached the Bering Strait.

Back in Nome, showers, Wi-Fi, and laundry became the priority for most of the team. Aside from our shore team, we had had very little contact with the outside world and restricted water usage during our five weeks at sea. We did, however, regularly send out media content on the Iridium Pilot, including photos and occasional short video clips. It was strange being so wired to technology while sailing in one of the most remote corners of the planet.

While the rest of the team packed up their gear and samples, Frances, Erik, and I got Bagheera and Snow Dragon ready to head back out to sea. After dropping off the last team member at the airport and letting Fukimi have one last run on the beach, we headed out of the harbor and began making our way south through a turbulent Bering Sea to our home base of Sitka, 1,700 miles away. Even though our time in the Arctic had only just finished, we were already making plans to return to the Central Arctic Ocean to continue bringing awareness to this unique and vulnerable part of the Arctic.

Four weeks after we left the CAO, Senator Sheldon Whitehouse used one of Conor’s photographs of the polystyrene we found to convey to the U.S. Senate the importance of protecting our oceans.

While many still don’t know the history, location, or the unique, nearly untouched ecosystem of the CAO, it was a small but important step forward in the conversation about protecting a no longer inaccessible ocean. 2

ABOUT THE AUTHORS Both Krystina and Erik started blue-water cruising as infants onboard their parents’ boats.

Being drawn to Arctic waters, they met each other in Greenland and have sailed together ever since, either on the same boat or on separate boats in company with each other. In the winter, they live at their house in Sitka and in the summer, they sail in the Arctic, where new waters are constantly opening up with the ever-retreating ice.

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A Threshold Crossing Notes from a Blue-Water Passage

by Alex Robinson

“Sheila told me that if I woke up the

next morning still thinking about the idea, I should come. And the next morning, I did wake up thinking about it. So here I am.

�

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Threshold crew: Steve James, the author, Karyn James, and Sheila McCurdy.

E

very adventure has at least one moment — a moment that sinks in and will forever connect you back to that time and place. These moments have a way of being small and perhaps inconsequential to other people, but I think you will appreciate this one.

It was sometime on the third or fourth day, somewhere in the northern Atlantic off the coast of Portugal. I was off watch, lying in my bunk, listening to the sound of water rushing past the hull. Not necessarily going somewhere, but just going. And in that moment, I could have kept sailing forever.

That was it — that was the moment. But it didn’t start out like that.

It started with me waking up to Threshold rolling around in some Mediterranean swells as we left Alicante, Spain. I am jetlagged and perhaps hungover from the two glasses of wine I had last night at dinner. Karyn James (FLA) serves muesli for breakfast. She starts me off with a small bowl after seeing me wince when she asks if I am ready to eat. The thought of the soymilk I happily put in the basket on our provisioning trip yesterday is now making my stomach turn. I eat half a bite before thinking better of it and setting the bowl down to warm in the sun and taunt me. I think to myself, how am I going to do this?

I lie down in the aft part of the cockpit. An hour later, after a nap in the sunshine and fresh air, I power through the now-warm muesli.

Okay, I can do this.

The next thing I know, Steve James (FLA) declares that it is time for “tensies” and brings out a bag of pastries. I have two thoughts. One, I will throw up if I eat that right now. Two, I see why my dad, a pastry aficionado himself, likes this guy.

I wake from a long nap in the evening to learn that the AIS is broken. I sit at the computer, click around, press some buttons, and it is fixed. Steve breathes a huge sigh of relief and says, “You’re hired!” A couple of weeks ago, before we knew each other, Steve asked by email

for my experience and “any special skills.” At the time, I came up with very little. I have been on sailboats my whole 30 years of life but had nothing on three CCA members — until now. I didn’t know that the ability to troubleshoot computer problems counted as a “special skill,” but now I breathe my own sigh of relief, thinking that my excessive napping, queasiness, and inexperience will all be forgiven.

The next morning, we are motoring. We motor all day. Sheila McCurdy (BOS) prepares the first of many happy soup lunches, and I have my first stint in the galley making my favorite expedition meal of gado gado, a dish of noodles and peanut sauce, for dinner. The seas are calm. I feel good, but fear this easy time is fleeting.

On this first leg, we are headed toward Morocco for a small adventure and detour on the way to the Azores. It is a warm-up for the big crossing, which will be my first time sailing directly away from land and into the ocean. It will also be my first time sailing continuously for more than 48 hours. I am excited and a little apprehensive.

Just a month earlier, my boyfriend, Chris Coulter, my father, John Robinson (PNW), and I sailed 32-foot Bluejacket from Norfolk to Boston. It was the last piece of Chris’s and my move to Boston, and our first time sailing through the night and in the ocean under command. I don’t have a journal from that trip — hell, I don’t think we even made any logbook entries. We ate ham biscuits, we reefed, we steered continuously, we reefed again, we slept for one hour and 40 minutes at a time, we called a buddy boat we met along the way every few hours, and finally, we slipped into Newport Harbor at first light.

It was on our stop in Newport that we met up with Sheila, and the idea for me to fly to Alicante three weeks later to help Steve and Karyn sail Threshold to the Azores was born. I wasn’t easy to convince in the moment. But Sheila told me that if I woke up the next morning still thinking about the idea, I should come. And the next morning, I did wake up thinking about it. So here I am.

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“I still can’t stay below long enough to help cook a meal.

I do dishes to try to make up for this, and then after each small stint in the galley, I spend 30 minutes lying down in the pilothouse to recover.

”

It is the middle of another night shift, headed toward Morocco.

Steve and I are dodging ships under power. It’s a game of Frogger, getting across a shipping channel that is clearly marked by the constant flow of ships in both directions on our AIS. Steve calls it I-95. We duck right behind one tanker as he passes us, and he toots his horn — in a friendly way; as friendly as a tanker can be, I guess. He is happy that we saw him and gave way. We are now one less small vessel for him to worry about as the radio sounds pan-pans at least every hour, warning of the rafts full of 20, 30, or 50 people in the straits, trying to cross from Africa to Europe.

Without having much chance to sleep, it’s time for Steve to come back on watch with me. We talk about his career as a pilot; he naps; I watch the bearing and range on some unidentifiable lights. Lightning flashes around us, and we steer away from the weather approaching on the radar. It turns toward us; we change course again. We feel a few drops of rain but mostly avoid the thundercloud. It is a fun, fast watch, and tonight I learned that having a variety of reliable tools and a working knowledge of how to use them makes it much easier to make good decisions. But I am also excited to wake up Sheila and retreat to my bunk for my long-awaited 6–10 a.m. sleep.

I wake up to Steve fixing eggs and toast for breakfast as we motor toward Morocco, which is now in sight. All hands are on deck this morning for the last stretch toward Marina Smir. The wind comes up and we sail again. Karyn and I are chatting and forget to trim sails, until Steve points out that we are only going five knots. I‘m not quick

Steve at the helm.

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Threshold in Morocco.

enough to retort that five knots is pretty good for me and Bluejacket, and instead start asking sail trim questions. This kicks off a lesson from Sheila: the main usually luffs at the top first; the jib lead should line up about 60 percent up the luff; adjust your headsail first; it’s okay for the top telltale to flick; adjust your batten tension ahead of time; cunningham flattens sail; okay for foot to bag; carry billow in luff of sail temporarily to depower … I try to absorb it all like a sponge.

Morocco We make landfall in Morocco at Marina Smir, which precipitates a mad rush to check into customs, hop in a cab, and see the town of Tetouan. I have only known Steve and Karyn for a couple of days, but their energy to run around and explore on land is striking. Jetlag is no longer a reasonable excuse for me, and I realize that Karyn, truly, is an Energizer Bunny. It makes me wonder if they were always like this — or if anyone can develop this adventurous pace and attitude by spending much of their time traveling and discovering new places? If so, I want to be like them when I grow up.

In the old town of Tetouan, we get ensnared in a scheme by a few entrepreneurial locals. They are uncles, cousins, and brothers who manage to orchestrate a tour of the town, a showing of rugs, and a dinner out which we never agreed to, but nevertheless went along with. It all ends well with a couple of rugs sent to Sheila’s house in Rhode Island, a delicious couscous and tagine dinner, and some good memories of the time we got knowingly scammed on the streets of Tetouan.

Crossing the Strait of Gibraltar.

The next day we cross the Strait of Gibraltar. I take over steering Threshold from the autopilot for the first time. It is a perfect sail: 2025 knots of wind on a beam reach, nine knots of boat speed, and sunshine. We dodge ships under clear, blue skies and the stately Rock of Gibraltar.

Gibraltar In the town of La Línea, we find our way to a local hot spot for dinner, where we order tapas in questionable Spanish and drink wine.

The next day, the girls tour the Gibraltar Nature Reserve while Steve cleans out a crystallized head out-take hose. It is a little unfair … until one of those monkeys he warned me about at the top of the rock jumps up on my head. At which point, I would have taken the head hose.

That night, Steve and Karyn invite friends from the Mediterranean single-sideband radio “net” over for a drink. It is an exciting encounter, because Sondello and Threshold have been sharing their cruising plans and stories for years over the net without ever meeting in person until now. Sheila and I throw together “dinner Threshold” from last night’s Moroccan leftovers and help host an impromptu dinner party.

ABOVE: Threshold in Gibraltar.

LEFT: The author and monkey in Gibraltar.

The next day, we run errands in La Línea — including three bakeries plus a stop for churros and chocolate — and then spend the afternoon trying to resurrect the old SSB in order to get weather downloads. Eventually, we give up, grill chicken, and prepare to leave the next day for Lagos. issue 60  2018

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“But between the waves are

those seconds when I think how neat it is that so few people have been in this exact spot in the world — how the oceans are such a large part of our world. I had never before thought of sailing as a way to see this wilderness, but I start to enjoy and look forward to my trips out of the pilothouse to take a look around at this seascape.

”

The author at the helm.

On the passage to Lagos, I sleep a lot and feel a bit queasy again, but try to pull my weight by doing dishes and standing a long watch motor-sailing the next day. These one-night passages are exhausting, especially for Steve and Karyn, who don’t sleep well at first. I look forward to getting into a rhythm on the longer passage to the Azores.

Lagos We arrive in the bustling beach town of Lagos and get to work on last-minute passage preparations for the next two days. We have wonderful dinners in town and get a cool tour of the snazzy Sopromar boatyard. But the impending passage is becoming more real and the mood reflects it. We are provisioning with greater purpose and swiftness; tackling boat projects with seriousness; and checking weather reports frequently.

The night before we leave, I am excited, but also quite nervous — mostly about being seasick and tired and potentially having rough weather the whole way. Beating to Lagos was exhausting. But now it’s time to sleep.

DAY 1. We depart Lagos in the early morning and motor through fog and glassy water. We cross a huge pod of dolphins that swim alongside and dance and jump below our bow for minutes on end before sending us off toward the Atlantic Ocean and turning

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back behind us in our wake. I think to myself, dolphins are a good omen, right?

Ahead of us the water changes from glass to a darker shade, indicating the line of wind that we expect to be blasting down the coast of Portugal and that will hit us when we leave the lee of the land.

We raise sails and assume the starboard tack that will take us nearly all the way to Santa Maria.

A few hours later, we have reefed and suited up for rough weather and head into the night. Off watch, I want to take a video selfie to share with Chris later, but I am too queasy to pull out my phone, and don’t know what I would say — here I am, this is it. I know I will regret it later, but I roll over and go to sleep instead.

On watch with Steve, he says this is pretty rough weather for them, and I feel good that it’s not just me and my inexperience that thinks this is rough.

A few hours later, I discuss the same topic with Sheila, and she says, “This looks like the North Atlantic to me, pretty typical.” And I wonder to myself if I will ever do this again.

DAY 2. I manage to take a couple of photos of the waves; Sheila

Threshold in Horta, the Azores.

“On watch with Steve, he says this is pretty rough weather for them, and I feel good that it’s not just me and my inexperience that thinks this is rough.

”

encourages me to. She’s right — they don’t look as big on camera. She also suggests that I take off the autopilot for a while and steer to feel the waves. We don’t get to that today.

pre-empt this by pulling the lid down to rest on my back immediately after sitting down. Learning to pee in harmony with Threshold and the ocean, I feel a small sense of comfort and mastery.

I am still getting used to this difficult, never-ending motion.

From the aft cabin on the port side, I watch the ocean rise and fall and rush along the deadlights when a wave pushes us farther over. We are going fast — 9 or 10 knots. The water curls up around the deadlight and then rushes off behind us. It looks like a window into a washing machine and becomes mesmerizing in a way.

I still can’t stay below long enough to help cook a meal. I do dishes to try to make up for this, and then after each small stint in the galley, I spend 30 minutes lying down in the pilothouse to recover.

The head is all the way forward and faces the port side. I am good at hydrating and therefore make frequent trips forward. The seat lid crashes back down on my spine every time I sit down. Soon I learn to

On a night watch, Sheila tells me of the beauty she sees in the green waves, the way the moonlight on water takes her breath away, the way that she has learned a lot about a lot of things, but the most about people, and how they think, through sailing. I hear her and admire her passion and love for this. I start watching the waves and get drawn into them. I see the stars and moon and appreciate when they are bright issue 60  2018

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Sheila at the helm. and that there is something to look at during the night. But I am also still queasy, and nervous, and out of my element. I can see the beauty in all of this but don’t feel it. I worry a little if I ever will — maybe this just isn’t for me.

But between the waves are those seconds when I think how neat it is that so few people have been in this exact spot in the world — how the oceans are such a large part of our world. I had never before thought of sailing as a way to see this wilderness, but I start to enjoy and look forward to my trips out of the pilothouse to take a look around at this seascape. Sometimes it looks the same, but every time it is moving, mesmerizing, alive, blue, and scary. And then at night the world turns upside down and the stars come alive. We have a quarter moon, bright as a spotlight that lights up a swath of ocean off our stern, reminding us where we have been and ushering us forward.

“On a night watch, Sheila tells me of the beauty she sees in the green waves, the way the moonlight on water takes her breath away . . .

”

DAY 3. I am losing track of time. The wind and waves have lightened, there are no longer any ships within 30 nautical miles, and I feel rested and well fed. For the first time since we left Lagos, I find time for reading and writing and thinking. I am learning so much — not in the organized, linear way that I am used to, but through practical, hands-on experience and osmosis. I am getting more sailing lessons from Sheila and tips for keeping a boat running from observing Steve and Karyn. My journal is full of pages of notes on these things. There are diagrams of wave heights, true and magnetic compass bearings, sail trim, celestial navigation concepts, and surface charts. There are lists of

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Soup á là Sheila. tricks to remember and ideas to implement on my own voyages.

And then it happens — sometime on the third or fourth day, somewhere between Lagos and the Azores. I’m off watch, lying in my bunk, listening to the sound of water rushing past the hull. Not necessarily going somewhere, but just going. And in that moment, I could keep sailing forever …

DAY 5. Land ho! I spot Santa Maria at 1429 GMT. We are motorsailing for the first time since leaving Lagos five days ago. It is sunny, calm, and the waves have stretched out into gentle, long periods. Many hours still pass before we make landfall in Vila do Porto, Santa Maria.

We finally slip into the small fishing town in the dark and tie up at the end of a dock at 2230. We break out beer, cheese and crackers in the cockpit.

I feel a bit of relief and pride, but mostly happiness and contentment. At times, this journey was so slow and I thought the rolling would never end and it was depressing. But now I wish there were more time — more time for routine, for cooking and reading and learning and mastering. At least this nighttime arrival allows the solitude and camaraderie of the passage to last a little longer.

Santa Maria We tour Santa Maria the next day, ending with a night out watching the local air traffic controllers cover American rock songs and jam out.

Steve and I pull Karyn away from the action around 2300 and head back to Threshold. We leave the next morning for our last leg to Horta.

Santa Maria adventure with cows.

“And then there

was the moment I realized it was almost over, when I had to leave my bunk, the boat, and, most of all, the crew and our routine . . .

”

I will miss this. It has been three weeks of pushing limits and doing things I didn’t think I could — staying up all night, getting used to constant motion, eventually staying below to cook without feeling nauseous.

There were moments of complete discomfort — lying in my bunk not able to do anything, not wanting to take photos or write or read, wondering why the hell people do this. There were moments of dullness — opening up grib files even though they hadn’t changed, staring at the chart plotter even though there were no ships around and only one way to go. There were moments of brilliance — a delicious warm chicken and rice dinner, a whale sighting, a bright moon, a good cup of tea in the middle of the night.

And then there was the moment I realized it was almost over, when I had to leave my bunk, the boat, and, most of all, the crew and our routine — morning coffee, loading our packs for trips to town, crowding around weather files, tackling boat tasks, planning meals, dining out in new places, getting under way, falling into a watch rhythm, and sharing a celebratory beer. I will miss this little ecosystem, but I am excited to build my own version of it back home, with my own boat and crew.

Flying back to Boston, I realize the passion, energy, and love for offshore sailing, adventuring, and remote places that Sheila, Karyn, and Steve have are mature views. We all start somewhere and have the experiences that allow us to develop mastery and passion. It starts from a seed — a role model, a dream, a nudge to come on an adventure — and then there is one moment, and then another, that we choose to follow that sparks the fire.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Alex resides in Boston, Massachusetts, with her boyfriend, Chris Coulter, and their 32foot sailboat Bluejacket, a 1983 Morgan 323, designed by Ted Brewer and Jack Corey. Alex, the daughter of K and John Robinson (PNW), grew up sailing on her parents’ Valiant 40 and racing dinghies in the Chesapeake Bay, San Francisco Bay, and Puget Sound. She taught small boat sailing in Seattle and the San Juan Islands and crewed on 62-foot yawl Carlyn and other boats in the Pacific Northwest and British Columbia. Before relocating to Boston, she spent many weekends exploring the coast of North Carolina on Bluejacket. Alex has a Ph.D. in economics and works at Analysis Group.

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A Penchant for Primitivism Reflections on Spending My Twenties at Sea

Ellen Massey Leonard, Boston Station

Photos by Ellen Massey Leonard and Seth Leonard (BOS/GMP)

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s we sailed into Kodiak, Alaska, this summer, I realized it was exactly 10 years to the day that my husband Seth and I had made landfall after our first ocean crossing.

I remember that moment vividly. Ever since I’d learned to sail at age six, I had wanted to cross the Pacific, and here I was, only 21 years old, having done just that. Seth and I had been alone at sea together for nearly a month, and in all that time had communicated only with one another. Entirely removed from the world beyond our watery horizon, we’d fallen into a quietly efficient and contented routine — of watches, meals, bucket showers, navigation, reading, and simply observing our pelagic world. Neither of us

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Beautiful, but primitive for high latitudes: Celeste at Northwestern Glacier, Alaska, July 2017.

wanted it to end. Sighting Hiva Oa, deep green beneath a bank of cloud, was almost bittersweet: the fulfillment of childhood dreams, the tangible evidence of a great accomplishment, but also the end of those magical days at sea.

Upon rowing ashore, it took us over an hour to walk the mile or so to the gendarmerie in Atuona, we were so bowled over by the sights, scents, and sounds of land. At one point, while we were admiring a songbird by the side of the road, a truck slowed to see what had us so enthralled. Those Marquesan men were the first people we’d talked to, besides each other, in a month.

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The ports really did leak enough to shave under; the bunks really were constantly wet; the propane system was so dodgy that we used a portable alcohol stove until we replumbed it; the rig really might have fallen over if we hadn’t replaced the whole thing; and the only wires we didn’t replace caught fire on one of our first passages.

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to cruise aboard a boat that had more in common with Sir Robin KnoxJohnston’s Suhaili than a Hallberg Rassy 412.

Approaching Hiva Oa, Marquesas Islands, after a month at sea, June 20, 2007.

Seth and I seem to have a penchant for primitivism. We’re not Luddites — Seth writes computer programs for the finance industry for a living — but, somehow, we always end up voyaging aboard needlessly primitive boats. Some of it has had to do with being very young and having very little money. But I think more of it has to do with us and our personalities. Outwardly it might appear that we’re a little masochistic or that we have to prove something to ourselves through unnecessary discomfort. In reality, though, we’re just incorrigible optimists.

We want to sail around the world? Sure, let’s do it! Who cares that the portholes leak so badly you could use them to shave? Who cares that the boom looks like Swiss cheese or that the masthead is cracked? Your bunk’s soaked? Wear your foul weather gear to bed!

Our second — or perhaps primary — big problem is that we both care way more about a lovely sheer line than pressure water, or even

In typical Marquesan kaoha (aloha) spirit, the gendarmes were unconcerned about our clearance process, so we had plenty of time to wander over to the post office, connect to dial-up internet on their boxy computers, and type out our first emails to our parents since leaving the Galapagos. Then we bought a fresh baguette at the market and strolled down to the seawall to eat it and watch the locals surf.

When an acquaintance in New York, whom I’ve never met in person, read my account of this, she thought Seth and I had undertaken this voyage many, many years ago and that we were both in late middle age. I can see how she’d think so — even in 2007 it was highly unusual

29 issue 60  2018 Seth looking for Santa Claus, Arctic Ocean.

Navigating the old-fashioned way, one of the more minor ways in which Heretic wasn’t a 21st century boat.

You mean this isn’t how everyone does it? Filling Heretic’s water tanks with buckets and jerry jugs, Hiva Oa, June 2007.

“ Heretic torn apart as we battle against her decrepit state, Bass Harbor, Maine, August 2006. (That propane heater never worked during our ownership.)

modern electronics. Again, we’re not Luddites — or wooden boat nuts, which may or may not be the same thing — we don’t think that anything old and wooden is automatically beautiful, nor do we relish the idea of thousands of fasteners holding our hull together, any one of which might be loose or corroding at any moment. Both of us did, however, grow up with the Wooden Boats calendar on the wall, Skene’s Elements of Yacht Design on the bookshelf, and historic schooners anchored in the bays outside our windows. In my case, that bay was a fair-weather anchorage in British Columbia and the schooners included the Robertson II, which once carried fishing dories to the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. In Seth’s case, that bay was Blue Hill, Maine, and those schooners were the windjammers that once took granite to New York City.

When Seth and I met — in Brooklin, Maine, incidentally one of the world’s classic boat capitals — he had already purchased the boat on which he planned to sail around the world. She was Larry Glenn’s (BOS/NBP) old Runaway, a 38-foot cutter-rigged sloop copy of Finisterre. Built in 1968 of solid fiberglass — to a 1954 design — she was heavy, wet and, some would say, cramped. Her

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Then there were the many ‘modern conveniences’ which Heretic lacked and which, because we were 20 years old and knew no better, we didn’t miss.

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short (27 feet) waterline, tapering stern, and low freeboard, combined with her limited headroom — the cabin sole was laid on top of her centerboard trunk — made her cabin very small compared with modern 38-foot production yachts (which tend to have high freeboard, LWLs nearly as long as their LOAs, and sterns as wide as the beam amidships). But she was simply lovely, with her curving bow, wine-glass transom, and varnished mahogany cabin with its oval ports. Had Seth had an ugly boat, I’m not so sure I would have volunteered myself for the voyage ...

At the time, in July 2006, Seth and I were 23 and 20 years old, respectively. While we had both grown up sailing, and had been taught to navigate on paper (although unfortunately we hadn’t been taught celestial navigation), neither of us had been offshore. So when, with the callow assurance of all 20-year-olds, we announced that we were going to circumnavigate the planet, we were met with incredulity, naysaying, and even ridicule. Consequently, the boat was rechristened Heretic. (She had to be rechristened something — her prior owner had called her Le Bon Temps. Try that on the VHF.)

Where’s that pilothouse??

Seth huddled in the companionway on watch in the Bering Sea, July 2015.

Poor Heretic was rather the worse for having passed through several owners since Larry and Anne Glenn. The ports really did leak enough to shave under; the bunks really were constantly wet; the propane system was so dodgy that we used a portable alcohol stove until we replumbed it; the rig really might have fallen over if we hadn’t replaced the whole thing; and the only wires we didn’t replace caught fire on one of our first passages. The holding tank was a bladder that leaked into the bilge (respirator required for that project!); the sheer-clamp needed refastening; and the tube through which the control line for the centerboard ran had rusted through at waterline (it’s a miracle she didn’t sink before we found that out!). On the day we departed after months of restoration work, a mysterious fitting on the engine started gushing oil so badly that we plugged it up with the first thing to hand — an old, disused gimbal from the galley.

Then there were the many “modern conveniences” which Heretic lacked and which, because we were 20 years old and knew no better, we didn’t miss. On account of all the repairs, we didn’t leave Maine until October 31, 2006, the day after the first major winter storm (60 knots recorded in the harbor) passed through, and the morning of the first very hard frost. Heretic’s solid ’glass hull was uninsulated and she had no heater. She also didn’t have a dodger. We simply thought that a heavily condensating hull, a drenched cockpit, and cabin temperatures hovering at freezing were normal for cold-weather sailing.

Heretic had no autopilot and, for the first 2,000 miles, no wind vane.

It wasn’t until we started to meet other cruising boats that we realized hand-steering as if racing ’round the buoys was not normal. Because we were hand-steering, we had two friends aboard with us, and the four of us (three boys and me) shared Heretic’s small, old-fashioned, open cabin.

It wasn’t until we were invited aboard an Island Packet that we realized that Heretic’s layout — two small quarterberths, galley and chart table facing each other, table down the middle with two settees either side,

hanging locker facing the head, and V-berth forward — and her utter lack of privacy were no longer standard issue. Seth and I also realized then that most voyaging yachts are crewed by romantically involved couples (which we already were) rather than groups of friends. We started looking for a wind vane.

With a tiny battery bank (270-amp hours) and no generator, Heretic’s power requirements had to be kept to a minimum. So, although we did nod to the 21st century with her navigation lights and a small, black-and-white GPS unit, we did without (ready?): chartplotter, autopilot, refrigeration, electric anchor windlass, watermaker, pressure water, hot water, shower, communications other than radio, and even electric lights in the cabin. We like to row and we didn’t want to bother with gasoline, so we had a hard dinghy with oars (we actually still do — we took it to the Arctic). The boat didn’t come with an oven and we didn’t install one. And, obviously, even the idea of having things like air conditioning, TV, a dishwasher or a washing machine was about as far from our minds as, oh I don’t know, settling down in some landlocked Midwestern cornfield.

Of course many sailors have girded the globe in similar conditions, but today, and even 10 years ago, most cruisers think you’re some kind of grumbling old gaffers if you do. Or that you’re cash-strapped 20-yearolds, which we were. But for four years that’s how we lived. New Zealand was a bit cold, and rounding South Africa’s Cape Agulhas in an unpredicted Force 10 storm in such a heavy displacement boat was very wet and a little frightening as successive breaking waves filled the cockpit, but the voyage was, nonetheless, one of the happiest times of our lives.

So when we raised Mount Desert Island in June 2010 — when I was 24 and Seth 27 — it was again a bittersweet moment. We’d done what we set out to do, circumnavigate the world, but we didn’t want it to end. We even thought of turning the bow east for the Azores right then issue 60  2018

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Seth raising sail off Point Barrow, northernmost tip of the United States, August 2015. and just keeping on, but we’re a little bit more responsible — not much — than that and we showed up on time for the party that was planned in celebration of our voyage. Then we moved ashore, reluctantly and tearfully sold Heretic, and Seth started his graduate studies.

After a year, we realized that we could play truant all summer if I also got an academic job. More sailing! So we set out to find a replacement for Heretic. It took us a long time, constrained as we were by our budget, our need (not desire, mind you) to be able to voyage literally anywhere on earth, and our hopeless addiction to classic lines. What we did in the meantime — racing Atlantic class sloops in Maine and cruising the Eastern Seaboard aboard a wooden L. Francis Herreshoff ketch — didn’t help that addiction.

We found Celeste in Victoria, British Columbia, in the spring of 2013.

Once again, we fell for her lovely lines. Francis Kinney, editor of Skenes and longtime designer for Sparkman & Stephens, had drawn her in 1985 as a private project for a sailor in Victoria. She was then custom built in cold-molded wood by Bent Jespersen and, from the outside, she looks very similar to Heretic: 28 feet LWL but 40 feet LOA, low freeboard, and beautiful varnished cabin with oval ports. Below the waterline, however, she was much more modern with a fin keel and separate skeg. Made of cold-molded wood rather than solid ‘glass, she was also lighter displacement. Both these attributes meant less wetted surface and greater speed.

Below decks, we were amazed to find a fairly modern layout: double quarterberth in a small aft cabin to starboard of the companionway and galley with fridge and oven to port. Navigation station, settee, chart drawers, and pilot berth faced a curved dinette amidships, followed by hanging locker, head with shower stall, and V-berth as you walked forward.

As for modern conveniences, wood insulates much better than fiberglass, and she already had a forced air heater and a “bus” heater that ran

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off the engine. Also running off the engine was a hot-water tank that, combined with a little pressure pump, made for lovely showers after puttering into an anchorage. A Cape Horn wind vane was proudly mounted on the stern and a big canvas dodger kept her cockpit dry. So we already thought Celeste was pretty luxurious before we even started work on her.

What Celeste didn’t have were electronics. We replaced her no-longer-functional VHF, tiller pilot, and radar, and we installed a little GPS unit like the one we had on Heretic as well as a chartplotter. (Both chartplotters and autopilots have gotten a whole lot cheaper than they were 10 years ago.) We redid most of her old wiring and mounted solar panels. Still conscious of power draw, we replaced her lightbulbs with LEDs and installed a Refleks diesel heater, which, unlike the forced air one, uses no electricity. We also replaced her engine (which, judging from the clouds of blue smoke it emitted, was burning a lot of oil). Thinking ahead to where we’d take Celeste, we plumbed in the smallest Katadyn PowerSurvivor watermaker, which we could run off our solar panels.

Ellen bundled up for watch in the Arctic, August 2015.

Finally, with the backing of OCENS, we installed an external antenna and set up a satellite phone communication system for receiving weather files and ice charts. Because, what do you do when you finally own a boat that’s not primitive? Take it somewhere where it will be primitive!

clothing you really can wear all at once. (It’s a lot.) The flashy yacht Celeste didn’t feel so flashy after all.

Once again, though, we had the time of our lives. Seeing the Arctic, its people, its wildlife, its frozen ocean, and its wild weather, is something neither of us will forget. And doing it on Celeste, a primitive boat for the place, didn’t put us off — we’re already scheming for Greenland someday. In the meantime, though, we’re headed back to the South Pacific, where we’ll probably feel like we landed in the lap of luxury. Maybe we’ve finally — at 31 and 35 — grown old and wise. ✧

Yes, we planned to take our 30-year-old, cold-molded, wooden, low-freeboard, open-cockpit cutter to the Arctic Ocean above Alaska.

This time, though, we knew it wasn’t normal. We knew that normal high-latitude sailors have metal boats with enclosed pilothouses. Highlatitude boats can be steered from inside these heated pilothouses. Sometimes they even have those nice plexiglass bubbles so that you can look out “on watch” while wearing just your long undies. High-latitude boats have really big heaters and really big engines. Our heaters, by contrast, would usually get the inside temperature up to almost 50 degrees if it was 35 degrees outside. Almost. Usually mid-40s.

Starting out at 20 and And our engine was only 30 horsepower.

23 years old.

I suppose it would have been smarter to have bought a burly metal boat with all these attributes. Or, if we really couldn’t kick our classic boat habit, to have taken Celeste to someplace where she really would feel luxurious — like the South Pacific. But that incorrigible optimism and that willingness to suffer for beauty meant we pointed the bow north.

Really north. Up past the Aleutians to the Bering Strait. Which is where we learned just why Jimmy Cornell designed his newest Aventura so that he didn’t have to stand watch in the cockpit with the freezing spray. Up across the Arctic Circle to Alaska’s North Slope. And then up to the polar pack ice in the Beaufort Sea. Which is Nine years later, in the Arctic. where, at 72° N, we found out just how much

About the authors and photographers Ellen and Seth Leonard both caught the sailing bug as toddlers, raced as kids, and taught sailing as teenagers. After meeting in Maine in 2006, they set off to circumnavigate the globe aboard their 38-foot cutter Heretic. They sailed westabout via Panama, New Zealand, Torres Strait, and the Cape of Good Hope, and returned in 2010 at ages 24 and 27. They spent the following six years in Switzerland where Seth earned a Ph.D. in economics and Ellen learned French, did a lot of freelance writing, and taught writing and history at an international boarding school, and where they tried to ski and hike — including a 600-kilometer trek across the highest section of the Alps — as much as possible.

In 2013 Ellen and Seth purchased Celeste, a 40-foot custom-built cold-molded wooden cutter. Over the next four summers (between academic years), they sailed her from Washington State to Prince William Sound, the Aleutian Islands, Bering Strait, Arctic Ocean, and back.

This past summer (2017), they returned to Alaska to cruise and fish their favorite places around Kodiak and the Kenai and Alaska peninsulas. They are now sailing down the California coast, and hope to cross the Pacific again to French Polynesia in the near future.

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Cruising Through

Winter

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude.

William Shakespeare - As You Like It

By Mark Roye, Pacific Northwest Station

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number of our members have cruised Labrador, Greenland, Patagonia, South Georgia, Antarctica, Alaska, and the Northwest Passage. Some have wintered over in high latitudes. But fewer have deliberately undertaken winter cruises in high latitudes simply for the pleasures the season can offer.

Nancy and I were fortunate to enjoy an extensive winter cruise aboard Tamara in extreme southern Chilean Patagonia, and in 2012 I took Tamara on a solo cruise in Alaska’s Prince William Sound late in a winter that saw record snowfall. That effort was chronicled in this journal (Voyages Issue 55, 2013) and I was subsequently honored with

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the Royal Cruising Club Trophy for the effort. Since then I have returned to the sound every season.

While these cruises have become second nature to me, the frequency with which I receive inquiries from CCA members about considerations for winter cruising has surprised me. But as we have a number of members who are winter sports enthusiasts, and as a club annually hold a winter ski gam, this perhaps should not have been so startling. So, I will take this opportunity to set down a few of my observations in a more general response. This is not intended to be the definitive treatise for enjoying winter on your boat, but may offer some direction to those considering extending their cruising season.

Morning chores.

Winter cruising has its own special appeal.

Most of the equipment and techniques demanded for cruising high latitudes in summer carry over directly to winter efforts, and a good, reliable and simple heating system is of course axiomatic regardless of season. Winter, however, offers some extra challenges.

At the head of the list, after a good heat source, is of course insulation. Tamara was purpose-built for high latitude work, and following the application of the epoxy coating system to her steel hull, an inch to three inches of spray-foam insulation was applied to all surfaces of the hull interior above the bilges. After the application of the foam (which, incidentally, is of a later generation of such products that will smolder only in direct contact with flame but will not ignite

under ordinary circumstances), a ceiling of marine plywood, in the strict marine use of the word, was installed covering it all. Finally, the interior joinery work was attached to the plywood ceiling. This combination results in an extraordinarily well-insulated vessel, but even Tamara benefits by some extra tricks in the extremes of winter.

Few production boats employ insulation as thoroughly as Tamara, yet on all boats there are usually a few areas that present access to the hull interior sufficient to permit foam sheets to be glued in place. Any addition of thermal protection, even if imperfect, results in marked improvement. Wood boats, or foam-cored fiberglass hulls, inherently offer a modicum of insulation. But all boats, even Tamara, benefit from whatever addition it may be possible to make. Keep in mind that all is not lost if it proves impossible to retroactively insulate your hull adequately. It simply means that your heating system and fuel capacity must be sufficient for the extra demand.

On any cruising boat, very significant gains in thermal efficiency can be made by application of inexpensive treatments to every deck hatch. Often constructed of aluminum frames with relatively thin Lexan plastic glazing, hatches present escape paths for precious heat. Temporarily applying flexible closed-cell foam, such as the blue backpacking sleeping pads commonly available in the sporting goods section of big-box stores, around the internally exposed aluminum reduces heat transfer. Taping a few layers of clear plastic Bubble Wrap to the underside of the hatch’s plastic glazing, then covering the interior of the hatch opening with the special thin plastic material available in most hardware stores for home windows in winter, will significantly improve the thermal efficiency of the hatch, while still permitting a great deal of light to enter. The thin plastic, properly applied and then shrunk drumhead tight with a hair dryer or heat gun, adds the extra benefit of serving as a vapor barrier to the colder surfaces in the hatch construction, preventing annoying condensation. issue 60  2018

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Finally, keep in mind that not all compartments available in your boat need be used during a shorter duration cruise. Close off unused spaces, temporarily attach foam-board to the back sides of bulkheads or doors, and so on. You’ll find your main salon plenty cozy.

The greatest addition that one can make to any boat for winter cruising, and one that costs only a couple of hundred dollars, is to install an automotive-type hot-water heater that utilizes the main engine’s cooling system as a source of untapped heat. These generally employ a “heater core” similar to, but much larger than, that found in your car, and a blower fan that distributes heated air either through a simple grill, or via flexible duct hoses that can be directed specifically to selected locations. Any time that you are motoring, run this heater continuously, allowing the entire boat and its contents to “heat sink.”

The accumulated heat can be very significant, and will slowly penetrate large masses, including fuel and water, provided storage tanks are mounted in the interior of, not integral to, the hull. You’ll find that within a few days, the demand placed on your primary heating source will be greatly reduced.

That brings us directly to the primary heat source. This is certainly a matter of personal choice, with considerations such as whether to rely on electrical power, the ability to generate that power, complexity, and fuel efficiency.

Many long-distance cruisers prefer the very simple drip-feed diesel-fueled stoves, such as those marketed by Dickinson or Sig-Mar (also known as Sigmar or Sig Marine). These are popular as they require no power to operate, utilize only two moving parts (fuel shut-off needle valve and activating float), and have proven very reliable. Others

Peaceful anchorage.

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Simple drip-feed dieselfueled stove provides warmth as well as winter cheer.

choose similar stoves enhanced with the addition of water-heating coils or a double-jacketed construction and a small pump to move heated water through small, but very efficient, radiators. And still others choose more sophisticated systems that employ fuel-injected burners similar to a home furnace that heat a water boiler, or a hot-air plenum.

These systems are very efficient, but demand much more electrical power, and their added complexity requires more frequent maintenance.

All systems have their advantages and disadvantages, and quality of installation is important to each. Fuel must be properly filtered, adequate combustion air supplied, and proper ventilation of combustion gases assured. Entire treatises have been written on such subjects, with the drip-feed Sig-Mar stove instruction manual alone encompassing nearly 50 pages, including considerable discussion of esoterica such as pressure differences within and without the hull. Choose a system adequate to the size and thermal efficiency of your hull, and suited both to the electrical system aboard and your technical maintenance skills. Whichever system you select will benefit from frequent cleaning and proper maintenance.

Tamara is equipped with a simple Sig-Mar drip-feed diesel stove with three very low ampere-draw computer fans to help circulate heated air. This heater has proven adequate to minus 25°F, but she of course is somewhat unique in the extent of her insulation. Making way under power, her automotive-type heater not only adds a great deal of comfort below, but also provides considerable warmth to the area beneath her aluminum dodger for the watch topside.

Fuel demands will of course be much greater than on most summer cruises, and fuel capacity and availability must be carefully considered. On my six winter cruises aboard Tamara, few fuel docks were in operation except by special request. This of course meant that a service fee would be added, and while only a minor inconvenience for a large vessel taking on a few thousand gallons of fuel, the same fee

LEFT: Plastic tools of the trade prevent any damage to the deck.

BELOW: Winter in Puerto Williams, southern Chile.

BOTTOM: Small Alaskan port of Cordova, Tamara’s homeport and base for winter cruising.

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Light floating line with small floats bent onto the anchor rode, in anticipation of any movement of the ice sheet.

“ It has been said that winter must be terribly cold for those with no

warm memories. Each of my winter cruises have supplied me with a

wealth of memories. By the close of each summer, I find myself planning for the coming winter’s sojourn, and like Shakespeare I find it not so unkind.

could more than double the price of a small quantity. Fortunately Tamara, having been built specifically for high latitude cruising, is fitted with 300-plus gallon fuel capacity, and no refueling was required.

Even in extremely cold conditions, Tamara’s heating stove results in comfortable conditions below for about a gallon and a half of fuel per day. The more sophisticated heaters are even more efficient, but at the cost of added complexity and electrical demands. Tamara’s small, radiator-cooled diesel generator brings all batteries up to full charge while at the same time bringing refrigerator and freezer down to storage temperatures, fully charges computers, cameras and other electronic devices, and provides the evening’s movie entertainment. These daily charging cycles consume about one-half gallon more. I plan on a demand of two gallons per day while not under way, and this has

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proven to be very accurate for a combined total of more than 250 winter cruising days. Leaving the engine compartment access open during the charging cycle allows radiator and engine heat to escape to the aft cabin and port-side workshop, further adding to overall thermal efficiency aboard.

A good, sheltered watch-standing station is imperative. Tamara’s welded aluminum dodger with tempered glass windshield provides excellent shelter, but a true raised salon or wheelhouse configuration would of course be superior in winter. On the other hand, damage to the dodger would not compromise the vessel in the same manner as a lost window in a raised salon configuration. But vessel design considerations are, by their nature, matters of compromise. Raised salon boats have proven very capable in extensive offshore service.

Topside, in the shelter of Tamara’s dodger, is a complete second set of navigational electronics replicating those found below at the primary navigation station. Included are VHF radio, autopilot control head, radar, GPS, depth sounder, wind instrument and AIS. This permits complete operation of the boat except during close quarter, slow-speed maneuvering, which of course requires moving to the wheel.

Warmed by heat from below, this control station allows the boat to be conned in comfort, even in an Alaskan winter.

Cruising in the winter, particularly beyond 60° latitude, demands every effort to assure safety. Immersion suits (commonly referred to as survival suits) are imperative, and should be aboard even in summer in higher latitudes. For commercial mariners, U.S. federal regulation requires the provision of immersion suits beyond 32° latitude, north or south. As mariners seeking only personal adventure, we should afford ourselves the same protection. Learn their proper use and maintenance, and practice donning them. Similarly, a top-quality life raft with insulated floor and full canopy is essential.

In addition to the usual efforts made to prevent crew going overboard, extra precautions such as meticulously clearing the decks of snow and ice, wearing foam-insulated float coats or full coveralls while working on deck, and moving and working with deliberation at all times are essential to safety. The ancient Latin proverb, festina lente, or “hasten slowly,” should be your mantra while topside.

On Tamara, a collection of plastic snow shovels, brooms, and brushes permits efficient snow removal without damage to the deck non-skid coating. Finally, a deck wash-down hose supplying seawater will remove the remaining snow and fresh-water ice in all but the most extreme circumstances.

Dinghy and shore excursions demand particular caution and preparation. Whenever going ashore, I carry a small backpack loaded with a small nylon tarp, knife, nylon twine, matches and cotton balls soaked in diesel fuel, a repurposed seamless tin can to serve as a snowmelting pot, two foil-wrapped vacuum-packed life-raft ration bricks, extra clothing, flares and a hand-held VHF radio. An immersion suit kept in the dinghy offers additional emergency shelter.

Securing the boat on anchor, with or without supplemental lines run ashore, presents some unique challenges in winter. Tamara has on numerous occasions occupied bays and coves partly covered with extensive surface ice just a short distance away. On these occasions a careful survey must be made to assure, as much as possible, that the ice sheet is securely shore-fast and not prone to suddenly breaking free with the tide.

Nevertheless, when ice is proximate, an extra precaution must be taken in advance should the ice in fact break loose. The anchor chain must be run all of the way out and the line securing the bitter end inside the chain locker must be accessible in the event that it needs to be released or cut. A floating line with a very small float should also be bent onto the chain in advance. Should the ice suddenly come down on the boat with the tide, the anchor chain can be slipped immediately, and the float line deployed. The small float presents no resistance and will be easily overrun by the ice, then come to the surface for later retrieval. In the meantime, the boat will be free to make for open water, returning to retrieve the ground tackle after the danger has passed.

In fully protected, very small areas where ice won’t move suddenly as it’s landlocked, I prefer to run four lines ashore to safely moor the boat. This affords great security and permits going ashore with the

Chilean Patagonia in winter.

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Patagonian anchorage in winter.

assurance that the boat is not going to be endangered during your absence. Threatening enough in the summer, such an event would likely prove fatal in winter. In small, landlocked areas ice usually does not move precipitously but instead deteriorates slowly in place, gradually “rotting” until gone.

The key to choosing any anchorage, particularly a very small “hurricane hole” that offers superior protection, is to know in advance how much fresh water generally flows into the anchorage in the late fall and during periodic winter thaws. I am not proposing an arctic winter-over, but enjoyable winter cruising of much shorter duration.

It is not likely that the sea will freeze during your cruise, but any fresh water will float atop the salt and quickly freeze under the right circumstances.

Nancy and I wintered aboard Tamara in Puerto Williams, Chile, teaching English to Armada de Chile personnel, and every time that snow on the surrounding mountains underwent any thaw, the fresh water flowing down into the anchorage would freeze. Then, as its shore-fast structural integrity lessened with thawing temperatures, it would float out to sea making unnerving noises as it swept the length of Tamara’s waterline. Over time we grew accustomed to the sound, and it served to remind us that we were, after all, wintering in the southernmost incorporated town on Earth.

During my Alaskan winter sojourn in late February and March of this past year, I experienced for the first time a unique event that puzzled me for a few days until I finally recalled enough of a chemistry class 50 years in the past to solve my mystery.

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A strong easterly gale driving heavy snow sped me to my favorite winter anchorage in Eaglek Bay in the northern portion of Prince William Sound. At 61° north, with a spectacular view of the surrounding high coastal mountains and Cascade Glacier, this particular anchorage remains completely calm even during the worst of winter’s storms. In fact, I had run toward its protection precisely because of a series of strong gales forecast. As I turned into its very narrow entrance, only about twice that of Tamara’s beam, I was surprised to find about six inches of new snow floating on the surface.

There was no ice supporting the snow. It had simply fallen so fast that there had not yet been time for it to melt, and it floated high and fluffy as though it were cotton candy atop the sea. As I motored Tamara into position to anchor, it was like driving into a down comforter.

After anchoring, it was apparent that it would prove impossible to get the dinghy ashore to secure mooring lines, even though that is my preference in this anchorage as swinging room is very limited. But I reasoned that the fluffy blanket would serve the same purpose, dampening any significant swing. I figured that I could safely wait until the snow melted away to run lines ashore, and I felt no urgency to do so as the superior protection of the place meant that no trace of the storm outside was evident except for the snow itself.

The sea water temperature at the time of my entry was 37°F. The air temperature when I anchored was 33°F and never fell below freezing during the night, as evidenced by my recording thermometer. Yet in the morning Tamara was icebound! Locked in place by a thick sheet of surface ice, preventing any shore excursions for the next eight days!

The ice was too thick to row, too thin to walk. Any attempt to motor the dinghy would have cut the inflatable to ribbons. Instead I was boat-bound, reading a book each day until I feared that though I had ample food, water, and fuel, I might exhaust my supply of books! The result could be as frightening as scurvy!

I could not, for the life of me, understand what had happened to beset me in the ice, given the high water and air temperatures prevailing at the time of anchoring. Subsequent days and nights were beautifully clear, plunging air temperatures deep into single digits and further securing my imprisonment. But I could not reach shore to take advantage of the fine winter weather. How had this turn of events come about? I had navigated in and around ice for decades as a fisherman, then as a cruiser, and had never encountered this phenomenon.

Finally I remembered an experiment in Mr. Emmett’s chemistry class, all those years before. Simply ice cubes and a little water in a beaker, but as we agitated it and added a little salt, the mixture froze, even though it had not undergone any additional mechanical refrigeration. Exactly the same as an old-fashioned hand-cranked ice cream maker! As we measured, recorded, and graphed the plunging temperatures of the mixture, we had been observing the phenomenon called “supercooling,” the process by which the addition of salt caused the temperature of the mixture to plunge before rising once again and finally melting.

That seemingly benign blanket of snow had mixed with the salt of the sea below, then frozen despite above-freezing air and water temperatures. The ensuing clear weather and cold temperatures solidified things further, and there I was, observing firsthand another of the wonders of the natural world. It is, after all, that natural world that draws us to cruising, certainly in Alaska in the winter, and I had come upon that which I had set out to find in the first place — just in a slightly different form than I might have intended when I set out.

Firmly beset by new ice, Eaglek Fjord, Alaska.

It has been said that winter must be terribly cold for those with no warm memories. Each of my winter cruises have supplied me with a wealth of memories. By the close of each summer, I find myself planning for the coming winter’s sojourn, and like Shakespeare I find it not so unkind. 2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Mark Roye makes his home in Port Townsend, Washington. He and Nancy Krill own Tamara, a 44-foot Swedish steel ketch which has safely carried them many thousands of miles in high latitudes, both north and south. After a voyage that took them from the Arctic to the Antarctic, then home to Alaska, they continue their search for adventure and natural beauty in the vastness of the north, regardless of the season. Mark and Nancy were awarded the Charles H. Vilas Literary Prize in 2011 and the Royal Cruising Club Trophy in 2012. Their adventures are chronicled at krillroye.com, krillroye.blogspot. com, and in numerous sailing publications and lecture presentations.

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Our Restoration of Star Song

By Ry Hills

I

n the fall of 2008, my husband, Tom Kiley, mentioned to me that there was a Nielsen boat he wanted to buy and “fix up.”

It was the fall of ’08, for Pete’s sake, and we were all watching the economy tank. There wasn’t a soul anywhere who thought that buying a boat was a smart idea.

“Buy a boat?!?” many asked. “In what kind of shape?!? Are you nuts, Kiley?”

And then there were my thoughts: “We already have a Nielsen boat,” I said rather bluntly, referring to Snow Star, our much-loved 37-foot Nielsen/Walsted sloop. “Why do we need another one?”

“We’re not going to keep her,” Tom answered. “It’s just a rescue mission.” His plan was to put this boat, called Star Song, back into

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working condition and then sell her. He couldn’t sit back and watch a Nielsen boat disappear. “If she doesn’t get back in the water soon, she’ll never get back in the water,” he stated.

That was the first hook. I’m a sucker for beautiful wood boats.

In fact, I’ve fallen deeply in love with a few of them. So the thought of a wood beauty disintegrating due to lack of use was … well … not an option. This particular Nielsen boat happened to be in a shed just down the road from us, in the neighboring town of Rockland, Maine.

So off we went to have a look, with Tom fully anticipating my blessing for his winter project.

Star Song, the 43-foot near-sister ship to our Snow Star, sat in the dark at the back of a fairly large, oven-hot, dirt-floor Quonset

hut. We f lipped on some dim lights to expose a blotchy looking hull, partially stripped of paint. She looked sad and left-behind — dirty, lonely, unkempt, deserted. And yet she radiated an absolutely stunning silhouette.

Uh oh. Stunning.

“How long has she been like this?” I asked.

“Twelve years,” Tom replied.

Ouch, I thought, my gut starting to churn some compassion.

We leaned a ladder against the toe rail and climbed into a grimy cockpit, its condition reinforcing the left-in-the-dust theme. Walking forward with a flashlight in hand, I found a smattering of initiated projects in a long-ago neglected restoration attempt. It was apparent

that the owner had the very best of intentions, but perhaps no time to finish anything.

Climbing below meant crawling over the oil-covered engine that had been pulled off its mounts and left at the foot of the ladder. I navigated over it and into a cold, dark main saloon, stepping from beam to beam, as the floorboards were nowhere to be seen. And then, whoosh, I was struck by the second hook into an affinity for Star Song. The smell, that Walsted wood boat smell! It was so there, behind all the dust and grime and randomly strewn parts. She smelled like Snow Star! I was grinning, and Tom could already see that his winter project was a “go.”

I wandered forward, running my hand over beautifully crafted combing. I checked out the chest of hand-dovetailed drawers, the small soapstone wood stove, the leaded glass liquor cabinet with its all-wood locking key, still in place and working. I leaned into the head. The impeccably made stainless steel sink and counter were identical to Snow Star’s but a bit larger and facing forward rather than aft.

“When was she built?” I asked. “’65.”

Same vintage, I realized, though Snow Star is a spritely three years younger. Under the dust and dirt, I noticed parts of Star Song that were actually in better condition than Snow Star. Simply from lack of use, the interior cosmetics were free of dings and dents. The hull ceiling was in perfect shape and, other than being riskily dry, her structure was sound and strong.

I continued into the forward cabin. The similarities to Snow Star were striking, though just a bit bigger, including a port forward bunk built wider than the starboard forward bunk.

“She’s stunning, Tom,” I said as I walked aft. “She just needs some TLC. And, by the way, if we ever go cruising on this beauty, I get the port bunk.”

The next chapter is a multifaceted 10 months, and is all about Tom, and Patrick Jones, his trusty partner in this fixer-upper caper.

Patrick was excited about becoming half-owner of Star Song, and therefore half-owner of all of her much needed improvements as well.

I heard, however, that a few of his family members thought otherwise. issue 60  2018

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Patrick showed his new project to his oldest daughter and, that night, overheard her telling her grandmother, “Daddy bought a hulk!” That winter, Star Song was dubbed “The Hulk.”

As any wood boat owner knows, every improvement takes a long time to complete and often leads to the discovery of one or two more new jobs for the to-do list. Some might call that the domino effect, or a lesson in exponents, or perhaps a thru-hull left open in one’s checking account. No matter the number or depth of the tasks, Patrick’s help and humor were invaluable in the success of the restoration.

To summarize the work done: New cosmetics on every surface inside and out (the list of paint and varnish used is comical, as it was all cast-offs or leftovers from various Rockport Marine projects); A new plywood/glass/epoxy deck put on with Rockport Marine’s help; A few new planks; A new forward hatch (beautifully built by Ray Dodge); A new/used mast, which was a project in itself. It is an old mast, donated by a friend and Nielsen sister ship owner. The rig just happened to fit Star Song’s mast opening. It was shortened by three inches, cleaned, resurfaced, fared, primed, Awlgripped, and refitted; New rigging; A “new” head (another gift from another boat, and yes, it got cleaned); A new Yanmar diesel engine; New sails; and New bunk cushions and upholstery.

Mountaintop Boatworks, as our barn came to be known, burned lots of late-night candles that winter. My own assistance in the whole project was occasional and minimal. Tom, however, did his usual eight hours of work at Rockport Marine, followed by eight hours on Star Song. I started calling her “the other woman” even though I fully supported the affair.

Spring arrived and Tom and Patrick’s work of art was ready to go down the hill to the harbor. It was a rainy day, but that didn’t slow Alan Drinkwater and his truck and trailer. He zoomed down Route 90 with 25,000 pounds of Star Song flashing her shiny topsides despite the raindrops, a parade of slicker-clad fans in cars following close behind.

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For the launching, there was no Champagne and there were no flowers on the stem. But the Rockport Marine pumps were ready for action. Star Song was smiling when her bottom finally felt the ocean again. She lapped up the water like a thirsty and excited puppy, swelling her belly until she could hold no more. It took only four hours before the pumps ran dry. After 12 years of being on the hard, a dry bilge in four hours is testament to her designer and builder, and to Tom, Patrick, Rockport Marine, and the numerous extra helping hands.

Our goal that summer of 2009 was to race Star Song in the Eggemoggin Reach Regatta (ERR) and then sell her, hopefully to someone worthy of such an amazing boat. By late spring, Patrick’s Star Song bank account had reached its pre-set limit (smart man), and he was ready to get back to his own boat (and family). Fortuitously, my sister, Liz O’Leary, could also see Star Song’s quality and was not deterred by the depth of the project. The timing worked for her to buy out Patrick’s half of the consortium. Having grown up in a sailing family with 210s, 110s, and a 40-foot Crocker cutter, Liz and I are wood boat sailors to the core. Thankfully, she did not hesitate at the opportunity to buy in.

I

n the meantime, my two avid sailing daughters, Brydon and Lizzie Mitchell, hatched a plan. Star Song would have an allfemale crew for the Eggemoggin Reach Regatta, and Snow Star’s crew would be all male. Indeed, their plan may have had a bit of encouragement from Liz and me. But regardless of who was going to race her at the ERR, Star Song had a few kinks still to work out: The renovation of the donated mast took longer than anticipated, the centerboard was giving us trouble (as in, it stuck in the up position), and the electronics couldn’t be completed until the mast was stepped.

As a result, the brand-new Pope sails weren’t bent on until the day before the ERR. We were definitely going into this race a bit blind, but that did nothing to quell enthusiasm.

Star Song’s crew for the sail from Rockport to Brooklin were Liz and I, Brydon and Lizzie, and Lily and Eleanor Conover (Brydon and Lizzie’s great friends) — all female, all great sailors and all veterans of the ERR. And, we were three sets of sisters onboard Snow Star’s sister ship! Our departure from the Rockport Marine dock included lots of hooting and hollering of the female variety. It was indeed a launching of a different sort, and I think if Star Song had been able to make any noise, her hooting would have been the loudest of all.

That sail from Rockport to Brooklin was beautiful, though it was minimally enough practice for sailing the boat, let alone racing her.

We sorted out which strings went to which cleats, tried to get the centerboard to cooperate, and did a few sets and gybes with a too-small, borrowed multi-purpose spinnaker which would have to suffice, since Star Song did not yet have a spinnaker pole. We were heading into the ERR totally green, but as ready as possible. Tom had told me that morning: “In 50 years of sailing, I have never felt so ill-prepared for a race as I do for this one.” He didn’t feel that either boat, Star Song or Snow Star, was ready for a race. But the jovial spirit flowing between our two boats that night was nothing short of ebullient. Lily and Eleanor broke out their violins and serenaded us and the whole ERR fleet in Naskeag Harbor. Friday night violins have long been a tradition

“Perhaps I’m a sucker for sails, wind, and water, and particularly for this boat, but

Star Song knew what to do. Her pedigree came shining forth and she was free to fly. She was alive. It was a total honor and somewhat humbling to be at the helm of this beauty that, 18 months previously, had looked so forgotten.

”

for the Snow Star crew — and now the “SnowStarSong” crew.

Race day was wonderful, but turned out to be a hard one to swallow for this competitive skipper. In short, our start was lousy, our centerboard was stuck in the up position, the resulting weather helm felt like a bucket tied to the rudder, we got hung up on a pot buoy and actually stopped for a decent chunk of time, we lost the boathook in the releasing of that buoy, and we just never got Star Song going like we knew she could. Tom, however, sailed Snow Star brilliantly and came home with the Joel White Award, winner of all plank-on-frame boats. Maybe he should go into more races ill-prepared!

Our bottom line coming out of that 2009 ERR was that we had no choice (!) but to hang on to Star Song for one more year, until after the 2010 Eggemoggin Reach Regatta. Enough said.

2010 brought an early spring and incredible summer weather.

After all the rain of ’09, we regained our faith in why we live here in Maine! The Kiley/Hills/O’Leary “fleet” of Nielsen boats (including Primrose, a 15-foot Nielsen day sailor) was launched once again. Super sails, practice sails, a restored and usable spinnaker pole, an extraheavy-duty original-issue 45-year-old spinnaker, and a repaired cen-

terboard brought Star Song ever closer to racing trim. Tom was totally selfless and wonderfully supportive of our continued wish to show Star Song’s potential with an all-female crew. This grew to include 11 women — nine under age 26, and two of us over 50.

Race day was, in my opinion, one of the best ever for ERR sailing conditions: clear skies, a steady southwest breeze, the usual Eggemoggin Reach and Jericho Bay tides, and a competitive fleet. Our crew prepped for the day with French braids all around and SnowStarSong t-shirts, handprinted with “Same Sass, Different Ass.” (Snow Star is a doubleender, Star Song has a square stern.) Our three-woman foredeck crew held a quiet huddle on the bow, which ended with the three of them kneeling down and kissing the foredeck. I confessed to them later that when I woke up that morning I had actually leaned over in my bunk and kissed the hull ceiling in a blessing of my own. Star Song had to have been feeling the love!

We sailed a good race, maybe 90 percent perfect. That 10 percent: After hearing and seeing a block get sucked into the spinnaker pole jaws, we erred on the side of caution and doused our spinnaker very early on the approach to Egg Rock. Our take-down ended up being issue 60  2018

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problem-free, but its timing cost us precious seconds — maybe a minute or two — in the fleet.

But, on the beat from Egg Rock to Halibut Rock, Star Song gave me a gift that is hard to put into words, and one that I will remember forever. We rounded up around Egg Rock, called the trim, made a few adjustments, and settled in for the ride. Three of us were in the cockpit — one on the main sheet, one on the jib sheet, and I on the wheel.

The rest of the crew was sitting on the windward rail, watching our competition, the tide, and calling wind shifts. We all felt a mixture of calm, power, thrill, and joy. Star Song felt it too, and she simply took over under my hands. She felt suddenly set free — a race horse out of the gates, charging forward on her own, wanting to show us her stuff after a long 12-year wait. I was just barely touching the reins — her wheel. Her telltales were flying straight, there was no weather helm, she was balanced and in her groove, showing us her potential. Perhaps I’m a sucker for sails, wind, and water, and particularly for this boat, but Star Song knew what to do. Her pedigree came shining forth and she was free to fly. She was alive. It was a total honor and somewhat humbling to be at the helm of this beauty that, 18 months previously, had looked so forgotten.

We sailed the remainder of the race with competitive spirit, loving every second. Our crew of awesome women showed talent, humor, strength, concentration, and a passion to race well. There was never a shouted command. All voices were welcomed and heard and respected; decisions and tactics were unanimous and timely. It was, in short, a full-on blast.

On corrected time, we finished second behind Fidelio, a 38-foot S&S yawl which was beautifully sailed and deserving of the victory.

Admittedly, I will always wonder about the outcome had we not doused our spinnaker too soon on that first leg. But that’s what every skipper does. “If only …”

Star Song is a phenomenal vessel. It goes without saying that she sails beautifully, but she is also incredibly comfortable and roomy below. Ten of our 11 crewmembers slept onboard: six in bunks, one on the chart table (it can be removed and the space converted into a seventh bunk), two on the cabin sole, and two in the cockpit. And everyone was comfortable. We raced with full water tanks (girls need their water and Star Song can carry 120 gallons), a jam-packed ice box (girls need their sandwiches, seltzers, munchies, and beer), an almost

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jammed freezer (girls need their frozen veggies for quick dinners), a liquor cabinet with a variety of wine (girls need to be ready to entertain properly), and 11 duffel bags, all easily stowed. The only weight we removed for racing was the anchor, primarily to get it out of the way.

Those two summers with Star Song were enough to seal the deal — I was undeniably and totally in love with another Nielsen/Walsted boat. Liz and my two daughters were equally smitten. We all recognized that Tom, with his incredible knowledge of wood boats, had rescued a treasure. And his utter selflessness and trust had allowed us women to be the recipients of Star Song’s awe-inspiring opening days. I will be forever grateful.

And we knew we could not own two boats. Tom had a new owner waiting in the wings, and “delivery” was scheduled for shortly after the ERR weekend. The only redeeming factor to selling Star Song was the fact that she was going to an absolutely wonderful family, who would love her and care for her with the highest of standards.

After that 2010 ERR and our sail home to Rockport, we gave Star Song the full-team spit and polish. Then Liz and I left the rest of our crew at the dock and quietly motored Star Song out to her mooring.

We deliberately took our time tidying up the last few lines, straightening any wrinkles in the sail cover, looking for reasons to stay onboard.

After we climbed into the dinghy, we rowed a slow circle around the boat in silence, tears in both of our eyes, giving her a “hug” and saying goodbye. Sounds sappy, but all you wood boat lovers out there know exactly how we felt. Kiss the foredeck indeed! 2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Ry Hills grew up sailing on one-design and cruising boats on the North Shore of Massachusetts. She married Tom Kiley (BOS/GMP) in 1998. She has sailed on Snow Star or Star Song ever since, and has raced in the Eggemoggin Reach Regatta and other local events. In June 2017, she and Tom sailed Snow Star to the Azores for the CCA summer cruise. They went on to the Canary Islands and left the boat there for hurricane season. In the fall of 2017, they sailed Snow Star to Antigua. They expect to be back in Maine in mid-June 2018.

The CCA Writes a Book:

Desirable and Undesirable Characteristics of Offshore Yachts Revisited

By John Rousmaniere (NYS)

JUST OVER 30 YEARS AGO, in the summer of 1987, a new, unusual, and important book on sailing appeared in American bookstores. With the blue-wave CCA burgee on the cover, it was not another anthology of cheerful cruise stories or a warm tale of a successful family voyage.

Rather, it was a treatise on what can go wrong — sometimes terribly wrong — in a boat, with expert advice on how to avoid all that mess in the first place.

The authors’ solemn purpose was reflected in the book’s academicsounding title, Desirable and Undesirable Characteristics of Offshore Yachts, in its byline, “By the Technical Committee of the Cruising Club of America,” and also in the character and knowledge of the 15 writers, all members of the CCA who had spent many days at sea. By my count, they had owned a total of 43 cruising sailboats and covered more than 750,000 miles offshore.

For example, the two members who lived in Chicago had enough experience for any oceanfront sailor. Wally Stenhouse (GLS) was a regular on the Atlantic racing circuit and won the World Ocean Racing Championship. (He is one of the three people involved with the project still living.) His fellow Midwesterner, Lynn Williams, captained boats called Dora in many long passages and races and, as chairman of the Technical Committee, led a crew of strong personalities to agree on policies, programs, and the contents of the book that, unfortunately, he never read due to his untimely death.

Four of the Technical Committee members and contributors to the book were among the premier yacht designers of the day: the late Olin and Rod Stephens, Jim McCurdy, and Bill Lapworth (the man behind the Cal 40). A fifth designer on the team was a younger man who is still with us, Karl Kirkman (CHE), who brought to the project long experience working with towing tanks and other technology. The late Mitchell Gibbons-Neff, with 20 Bermuda Races behind him, was also on the committee and contributed to the book, and so was George Griffith who, like Lapworth, was a Californian and had cruised widely in the Pacific.

Five former or future CCA commodores, all now deceased, served on the committee: Rod Stephens, Dick McCurdy, Jim McCurdy, Stanley Livingston, and Clayton Ewing, who memorably had won a prize in the 1963 Transatlantic Race in his yawl, Dyna, despite sailing the last 1,000 miles without a rudder. Stan Livingston succeeded Lynn Williams as committee chairman and also wrote the chapter on emergency equipment that introduced the important Lifesling rescue device to the public.

Most of these energetic people were retired from jobs and old enough to take it easy. Just why they declined that opportunity was suggested by Lynn Williams in a letter that I discovered in the CCA’s archives at Mystic Seaport. Here is what he wrote to a younger friend: “Someday you’ll get old enough to realize that your time on earth is finite, and when you do you’ll devote your attention to the things that mean most to you.”

Another CCA member helping with the book was Eric Swenson, an editor at the publisher, W.W. Norton & Company. Eric had a personal stake in the Technical Committee’s projects. As the owner and captain of the Swan 47 Toscana, he had sailed in the event that triggered the book, the 1979 Fastnet Race. The most destructive race in the history of offshore sailing, it and the storm that swept it made the CCA’s latest “desirable and undesirable” project instantly relevant and important.

Just two members of the team were not CCA members at that time. One was the superb illustrator Steven L. Davis, and the other was me, brought on board to do the day-to-day editing. As one of the three living survivors of this remarkable collaborative effort, with Wally Stenhouse and Karl Kirkman, here I will say a few words about the making of Desirable and Undesirable Characteristics of Offshore Yachts. * * *

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Rod Stephens

Dick McCurdy

Jim McCurdy preparing his

Photo credit: Karin Olsen Campia

Photo credit: Carolyn Wilson

self-designed Wissahickon for a cruise.

Photo credit: John Rousmaniere

BECAUSE FEW HOPES ARE MORE UNIVERSAL than the one that a tragedy will have a happy ending, I’m never surprised when asked if something good came out of the 1979 Fastnet Race. The record was very dark. Of the 303 boats that started the race, 218 dropped out, 77 were rolled over, 19 were abandoned, and five sank.

Fifteen sailors died.

After the last boat finished, the race’s organizer, the Royal Ocean Racing Club, quickly undertook a thorough analysis that began with a detailed questionnaire sent to all the skippers and watch captains. I had sailed in the race as a watch captain under Eric Swenson, and we had a few scares in the extreme conditions but no major damage, and so we finished the race. Minutes after stepping ashore at Plymouth, I started research on a book about the storm.

These events were of course closely followed by the Cruising Club of America. The Technical Committee and, in fact, many of the club’s members quickly dedicated themselves to first learning what they could about the storm and then addressing any problems. Many doubts about modern seamanship had already been voiced well before the race, with deep concerns about a new breed of racing boats produced under the new International Offshore Rule (IOR). These worries were exacerbated by the thought that, while very experienced racing crews might be able to control these vessels, their designs might influence cruising boats. Olin Stephens made the point bluntly and succinctly early in one of his chapters in Desirable and Undesirable Characteristics: “Some modern ocean racers, and the cruising boats derived from them, are dangerous to their crews.”

This was a new chapter in an old concern that had long been addressed by the CCA. I knew this because my first offshore sailing was in boats owned and sailed by CCA members. During a break from college in the early 1960s, I was a deckhand on a big ketch called Velila making her way from California to Greece under the command of CCA member and war hero Horace “Hod” Fuller, with an afterguard of members of the club’s Boston Station. These were old-fashioned “cruising men.” When one of them who had done a circumnavigation in an Alden schooner came across a mention of “split-second sail handling” in an issue of the CCA News, he resigned from the club.

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Later, I was exposed to more nuanced opinions about racing from Irving Pratt, Jim McCurdy, David Noyes, and other club members while racing in CCA boats. They told me that soon after its founding in 1922, the CCA had, jointly with the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club, taken charge of the Bermuda Race in part as a means of encouraging the design and construction of healthy, close-winded offshore boats with reliable speed. The founders believed that measurement rules assigning boats ratings served two distinct functions: handicap boats for competition and also encourage good design and construction. The first aim was easier, but the second was more important. It also was more elusive, as CCA co-founder and Bermuda Race chair Herbert L. Stone admitted. “It was comparatively easy to find a rule that would tend to equalize the chances of existing boats in a mixed fleet,” he wrote in the 1930s, “but it was not so easy to devise one that would produce a desirable type, and eliminate certain undesirable features, without actually barring boats with these features from competition.”

To meet the dual challenge of encouraging desirable characteristics and discouraging undesirable ones, the CCA adopted its own rating rule for the Bermuda Race and also required entries to satisfy equipment rules and pass inspections. This was not the club’s only technical concern. In the 1950s, the CCA worked closely with the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute to learn more about the Gulf Stream through reports of water temperatures recorded by competing boats.

Over time, the CCA Rule was often adjusted to address new problems that had arisen. The club finally and reluctantly retired its rule in 1970, when the new International Offshore Rule went into worldwide effect. When some IOR boats had steering and stability problems, among other undesirable characteristics, concerned CCA members established a research project (named for member H. Irving Pratt) at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Out of this came the new Measurement Handicap System (MHS), which was soon adopted internationally as the International Measurement System (IMS) and today is the basis for the Ocean Racing Rule (ORR).

However, the IOR remained in force for the 1979 Fastnet Race and many other races that many IOR boats entered. Not all boats that broached or capsized in the storm were designed to the IOR, but many were.

Stan Livingston

Clayton Ewing

Wally Stenhouse

Photo credit: John Rousmaniere

Photo credit: Stephen Van Dyck

Photo courtesy of Stenhouse family

What Can We Do? One day in the autumn of 1979 I was working on my Fastnet book in my home office in Stamford, Connecticut, when the doorbell rang.

My visitors were 1980 Bermuda Race Chairman Dan Strohmeier and CCA Vice Commodore Dick McCurdy. “We have a Bermuda Race to run next year and some rules to write,” Dick told me. “What can we do to keep the race from being another Fastnet?”

There was a problem right in the race circular: Fastnet entries were not required to carry storm sails. To save weight, we in Toscana and many other crews lugged the tiny storm trysail and storm jib off the boat and stored them in our quarters on shore, where they were inaccessible when we needed them two days later in the wild waters

knowledge and analytical powers, and a traditionalist at heart (his yacht was a teak yawl, Mah Jong), he was by profession and interest a modern scientist-businessman. When he wasn’t running Shell Oil, he assembled telescopes at his home in suburban Connecticut and wrote articles for the CCA News on the green flash and other natural phenomena.

Such a person is never happy with mysteries. Dick said right out that in the Fastnet storm, “Things had happened that nobody understood.” At his instigation, and with the cooperation of Olin Stephens, Dan Strohmeier, and other CCA members, Dick founded a research effort that came to be known as the Capsize Project, a joint effort between the United States Yacht Racing Union and the Society of Naval Architects and Marine Engineers, that included work in a

“That’s when we realized that we had to understand the jet formed in a breaking wave and relate it to the design trends that were capsize-vulnerable.

of Britain’s and Ireland’s Western Approaches. I also showed the CCA men the stack of weather maps I had collected, and told them sea stories I had gathered from the crews I had chased down in England and the United States.

That Dick McCurdy was so concerned should be no surprise to people who knew him. When we had been shipmates in the 1972 Bermuda Race, a true “thrash to the Onion Patch,” Clayton Ewing’s Swan 55 Dyna was knocked down so far that a wave filled a Dorade vent and flooded the nav station below, where Dick happened to be cleaning his sextant. Two weeks later we were drifting across an immense Atlantic high-pressure system toward Spain in the Transatlantic Race with the electronics in lockdown from their Bermuda Race saltwater baths. Dick, a slide rule in hand, led a crew seminar on how to accurately estimate boat speed by reading the fore and aft location of the bow wave. Under his encouraging supervision, it was not long before our dead reckoning was close to his sextant plots.

Dick McCurdy struck me as the archetypal CCA member. Cheerfully fascinated by problems, extraordinarily patient with people who lacked his

”

towing tank and the assistance of Karl Kirkman, then a young naval architect. “Dick badly wanted to avoid a Fastnet replay in the Bermuda Race which was to be on his watch,” Karl has told me. “I want to emphasize that none of us had any idea why the boats capsized. The old timers suspected IOR design trends, but no one could put their finger on the actual capsize mechanism.”

One day, Karl had an insight into that mechanism while watching the television news. A video appeared showing a sailboat capsizing off Australia when the boat was smashed by a jet of water from a large breaking wave. “That’s when we realized how boats capsized,” he has said. “That’s when we realized that we had to understand the jet formed in a breaking wave and relate it to the design trends that were capsizevulnerable.”

Another discovery was that a boat with a broken mast is more likely to capsize than one with a full rig. In an oral history at Mystic Seaport, Dick described the process as similar to the way figure skaters slow their spins by thrusting their arms out. “The mast is contributing a great deal to inertia,” he said. “This was a completely new idea.” issue 60  2018

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Lynn Williams at the helm of his Dora IV.

Fastnet storm—Toscana owner Eric

Dan Strohmeier

Photo credit: Lynn Williams III

Swenson looking for big waves after rounding

Photo courtesy of Cheryl Strohmeier

Fastnet Rock. Photo credit: Sherry Jagerson

A third discovery was that all boats have a certain specific range of positive stability — the largest angle of heel at which the boat resists capsize. Dick McCurdy characteristically explained this not in an absolute statement but through a series of questions: “What does it take to get her back up again? Of course a wave has to do it. How big a wave? Has to do with range of stability. Better stability, need smaller wave. How often does it come?”

Karl Kirkman says that the key to the Capsize Project’s success lay not so much with physics as it did with Dick McCurdy himself:

“The real secret weapon was Dick and his management abilities. He motivated people to do the work by asking what you needed to succeed, and then providing it, but more importantly he skillfully prepared the way with the user community to accept the results. There were those who turned nasty when it was clear whose ox would be gored by application of the results. Dick taught me a very important lesson in how to deal with adversity. ‘Never resign,’ he said.

‘That lets them off the hook too easily.’”

Book Idea Is Born Lynn Williams and other members of the CCA Technical Committee agreed that the Capsize Project revelations and other post-Fastnet discoveries were novel and important enough to be laid out in detail in a book available to the public. As arrangements were made with Eric Swenson to publish the book at W. W. Norton and with me to edit it, discussions concerning topics and writers continued in the CCA’s typical collaborative way. In the end, one-fourth of the 310-page Desirable and Undesirable Characteristic of Offshore Yachts is devoted to hull design and capsize prevention, with articles by Dick McCurdy and Karl Kirkman, and also by Olin Stephens. Nearly one-third of the book concerns typical design and preparation issues: rigging, sails, ventilation and deck, and cockpit and cabin layout. Other topics include shipboard medicine and discussion of several good boats by their designers.

The authors approached their topics thoroughly and often with considerable originality. In my role as editor, I worked with them to develop their manuscripts. The only disappointment was that nobody volunteered to cover ventilation. One day, Tom Young stopped by my house to drop off a chapter he co-authored with Dick McCurdy on electronic instruments, and he asked if there was another assignment that hadn’t been taken.

“Well,” I said warily, “there’s ventilation.”

“I don’t know anything about ventilation!” he said. “I’ll take it!”

After a lot of experimenting in his boat, Tom decided that most people were wrong about the fundamentals of cabin ventilation. “With the help of a good dodger,” he wrote, “the typical main companionway

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Mitch Gibbons-Neff

Olin Stephens

Ted Hood

Photo credit: Dan Nerney

Photo credit: Dan Nerney

Photo credit: Dan Nerney

is the main actor in the boat’s ventilation system. When the wind is forward of the beam, it serves as a huge exhaust.”

“The Best of the Best” By the time we had most of the chapters in hand, the perfect location for my editing became available: a long cruise in the kind of desirable boat that the book encouraged. In June, Sheila (BOS) and Ian (NYS) McCurdy, Harvey Loomis (NYS), and I headed east in her father Jim’s self-designed 35-foot sloop Wissahickon. In my seabag was the thick stack of typescript drafts and a small portable typewriter. I later wrote in the foreword to the finished book: “I am pleased to say that the preliminary editing was done under conditions that are every sailor’s dream — in the cabin of a highly desirable, well-sailed vessel running truly and comfortably before strong fair winds, out there where the depth sounder shows no bottom.”

the aura of being the most elite of the cruising organizations. To be a member has been a lifelong dream, planned by these two men. To be able to illustrate a volume sponsored by the CCA is almost a realization of this dream. The philosophy of sharing the wealth of information by its membership is within keeping of my own personal experience with several of its members.”

For myself, I can say that of the 40-odd books that I have helped produce as writer or editor, very few have been as satisfying as Desirable and Undesirable Characteristics, both for the book’s importance and for the people I worked with. Nick Nicholson (FLA) has echoed my feelings: “I reread much of the book a couple of years ago and was amazed at how relevant most of it still is. The guys that wrote the book were the best of the best, and many of them were men that I admired almost to the level of idolatry.”

By the time we made our landfall at Flores, with the island’s bright hydrangeas shining like spotlights through the light mist, I was confident that this complicated project would be a success.

The manuscripts still needed work, and they required illustrations.

Through my friend Steve Dashew (NYS), we found Steven L. Davis, a commercial artist and sailor based in Friday Harbor, on Puget Sound.

His 50 drawings were so accurate and finely drawn that the CCA and the publisher agreed to replicate them in two colors.

I never met Steve, so I did not know until recently that the reason he was attracted to the book was that it was a CCA project.

He told how, several years earlier, while cruising on Long Island Sound, he had met with some trouble and was quickly rescued by a CCA member, Charles H. (Carl) Vilas. “His approach was so warm and honest and, though brief, had the most profound effect on my life,” Steve wrote. “He gave me the simple gift of understanding that my whole life would be a ‘cruise’ and that being ‘underway’ was but a small part of what cruising was all about.” Another CCA member, Forbes Morse, also impressed him greatly. “At the time, I was in awe of these two men. They were doing what I dreamed about, but they were willing to give of their time to help out a younger, inexperienced, hopeful cruiser and encourage him to stick with it. The CCA had

Photo credit: Nick Noyes

John Rousmaniere (NYS), seen here at the helm of Toscana in the 1979 Fastnet Race, has raced and cruised widely. He edited Desirable and Undesirable Characteristics of Offshore Yachts and wrote (among other books) A Berth to Bermuda, After the Storm, The Annapolis Book of Seamanship, and histories of the New York and Indian Harbor yacht clubs. He has moderated many safety at sea seminars and conducted inquiries and reviews of boating accidents.

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Washed Ashore

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It’s Not What You Think,

It’s Worse

By Scott and Mary Flanders, Florida Station

F

OR MARY AND ME, it wasn’t that many years ago that being washed ashore

meant backing winds in a remote anchorage blowing our precious onto lee shore rocks. As traumatic as that would have been at the moment, within a relatively short time we would be back among friends planning our next adventure.

There is a second “washed ashore” scenario many of us are facing that is worse than the first. The first scenario would leave us embarrassed, financially bruised, and in most cases, enduring the loss of small items aboard that meant so much at the time. However, as time marches on and we move closer to the poles, whatever we did in our relative youth, whether it be a dash to the Onion Patch or “off to see the wizard,” there comes a time.

It is sad but inevitable: the curse of full-time dirt dwelling.

So what’s next? Most people washed ashore develop an initial routine with broad interests, but as months and years inevitably pass, interests narrow in a downward spiral. What could be worse than numbing, boring routine? A life of predictability after everything you have accomplished living

Egret with a small west-bound fleet in Rikitea, Gambier Islands, 850 nautical miles south of Tahiti. Like the rest of the west-bound fleet, she was anchored in 60-plus feet on relatively short scope.

beyond your comfort zone? The Gulf Stream in a northerly? A Tasman Sea crossing? Ice in the fog?

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Exploring a new area near St. George, Utah, with a group of friends. Like any boating activity, playing in the rocks is a learned skill.

THIS IS OUR STORY. Much more important than our story is the life ring we are going to throw you in the end. Mary and I ended our careers early, sold everything, and bought a small powerboat capable of crossing oceans, with no intention of crossing an ocean. We coastal cruised, got stuck in the mud, bashed docks, got lost, and so on, until we learned a bit more and eventually were off on a grand, 14-year adventure of full-time cruising, including a high-latitude circumnavigation. Then, in July 2015, we sold the boat and hit the ground running. Multitasking, if you will.

Mary and I were excited about moving west, exploring the mountains and desert, and learning something new. We wanted to do everything at once. Within a short time ashore, we bought a small cottage on the Uncompahgre River in paradise (Montrose, Colorado) on the western slope of the Rockies, a motorhome, and a Jeep. We’d been race-car people for the first 20-plus years of married life. However, those skills have dimmed, so walking-speed four-wheel drive “Jeeping” fit right in as a vehicle for adventure. We modified the Jeep for heavy off-road exploring, as well as rock crawling. Montrose is minutes away from the San Juan Mountains, one of the most scenic mountain areas of the United States. The San Juans are a “jumble” of mountains rather than a range, laced with old mining roads and high passes. Once settled, we began exploring the trails day after day during the summer and fall. Along the way, we met a great group of local Jeepers, and joined the local Jeep club. During the winter, we traveled to various locations in Arizona, California, and Utah to Jeep and explore.

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Driving old mining roads through the mountains with three Jeep buddies near Telluride, Colorado. Caption After a year, it wasn’t enough.

There are seven days in a week. A day of play with the gang once or twice a week doesn’t cut it. Five or six more days need to be filled with something more than routine. At least one day a week, we travel with a car full of cameras to a distant favorite breakfast or lunch spot, and on the return trip, we make side trips on mountain back roads, taking a few pictures along the way. But another day or two of play still leaves much time to fill. I suppose we dedicate a day to chores — mowing the lawn, grocery shopping and so on. So that’s fair. But it is not the same as cruising.

Mary and I miss the ice. Every iceberg is original and unique, morphing into shapes only nature can provide. Cameras capture in a fraction of a second intricate details that the eye can’t see.

We spent a lot of time cruising in foreign countries. Something so mundane as grocery shopping might take most of the day and would be a mini-adventure. We would get our “Barcelona cart” out of the anchor locker, load it and ourselves in the dinghy, land somewhere and walk to town. Many of you know the routine. Look at the labels and make your best guess, point, smile, nod, speak in your best Spanglish or whatever, and eventually drag the overloaded cart back to the dink and back

that are interesting, challenging, and don’t require much long-distance travel. However, once the snow begins, those options evaporate, at least for us. The first snow closes the mountain passes to off-road adventure.

As for winter sports, after spending our working lives in south Florida with occasional ski trips west, the best we ever got was bad. So skiing isn’t for us and now isn’t the time to learn.

“However, once on the water we found we missed high latitudes.

The ice is calling. For that, we need a different boat.

A totally new design, one that has yet to be built.

”

aboard. Of course, by now it’s time to invite the crew of an interesting boat over for sundowners and a little conversation. A good day.

We had a lot of good days.

What’s next after a life like this? How do we maximize a year? The best of the best, an endless summer if you will. Going back to your roots works well, particularly recent roots. Colorado in the summer and fall are beyond wonderful. There is a wide variety of play options

After a year ashore, we began to itch. What else could we include in the yearly mix besides wintering in Arizona or a nearby warm weather state with the motorhome and the Jeep? Back to our recent roots made sense. We looked into buying a small — the smaller the better — drip-dry boat to coastal cruise a couple of months at a time. We were excited. I’ve always liked the looks and the efficiency of Maine-built lobster boats. Over the years, early lobster boats built as a working tool occasionally morphed into gentlemen’s day boats for seasonal use. We had cruised Maine twice before, so we were somewhat familiar with the issue 60  2018

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28-foot Egret Adventure is our little escape machine.

After many upgrades, she is now a fine coastal cruiser.

“Here is what is important to you.

This small boat gave us our water world freedom back.

It broke the routine and added to the yearly mix.

”

local builders. With this in mind, we began our search. Out of nearly 700 Downeast boats on a popular boat sales site, we found one in Portland that suited our purpose. We sent a deposit and drove to Maine.

On arrival, we found the boat was badly misrepresented, so we asked for our deposit back and drove a few more hours Downeast to Southwest Harbor to spend a few days with Milt and Judy Baker (FLA) aboard their Nordhavn 47, Bluewater II. Good fortune smiled once again. Docked in the same marina as Bluewater II was our dreamboat, and it was for sale. A short time later, after a sea trial and survey, it was ours. We had the builder’s yard tend to the short survey list, added a Y valve and seacock to the holding tank, and made a couple of other changes. Some months later we had the boat shipped to Washington, North Carolina, where Jim Gardiner, my former boat building partner, has a shop producing 39-foot highspeed fishing catamarans, among other projects. There we turned the fair-weather day boat into a comfortable multi-month cruiser. We added new helm chairs, a freezer to complement the fridge, a propane system and a cooktop, 300 watts of solar, and a small watermaker. We also upgraded a few electronics and added the latest Simrad autopilot.

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Our youngest son and family were arriving in South Florida in a month to visit, so Jim designed and built a settee on the port side that unfolds into a double berth. Three weeks and many labor hours later, Egret Adventure splashed. After a couple of hours’ sea trial, Mary and I headed for South Florida. It was an easy run south, even if we did have ice on the decks the first few mornings. We were free. We were totally independent once again. It was wonderful. The family came and went. We spent two weeks living aboard in the Florida Keys, all five of us. Yes, it was cramped but we had a great time and our 11-year-old grandson is still popping and fizzing from the trip. After the family left, we returned to the Keys and explored as far west as the Marquesas, 24 nautical miles west of Key West. Along the way, fat grouper were easy to catch by trolling plugs in the Keys’ shallow water. Filet and release comes to mind.

Here is what is important to you. This small boat gave us our water world freedom back. It broke the routine and added to the yearly mix. A small boat like this will do the same for you. It won’t take you back to the Patch, it won’t cross oceans, it doesn’t even have to go far. With a three-foot draft you can go anywhere, most likely as you did in your youth. These days we enjoy puttering along in a few feet of

clear water, looking for critters and simply enjoying the day. Between the solar panels and a watermaker, we are totally independent with occasional stops for fuel and fresh food.

So how’s this for a year? January through mid-February, boating in South Florida and the Keys; mid-February and March, motorhome/ Jeep exploring New Mexico, Arizona, and Southern California; April in Moab, Utah for more Jeeping in the red rocks; May and June, boating in the Bahamas; July through October in Colorado; November in the motorhome somewhere else; and December in Colorado with the family. The boat will live on the hard in Marathon, Florida Keys, during the down time. Prices are nominal, there is no pollution, and the humidity is minimal compared to farther north.

The yearly mix is different for us all. The mix you choose doesn’t matter, as long as you break the dreaded routine and keep the happy meter bouncing off 10. If you have washed ashore and are living as a dirt dweller commonus, small-boat boating is something you can do. This is your life ring. A small boat that is comfortable and set up to cruise for a period of time will set you free once again. It did for us, and it will for you.

However, once on the water we found we missed high latitudes. The ice is calling. For that, we need a different boat. A totally new design, one that has yet to be built. But that’s another story.

Beach in the Marquesas, 24 nautical miles west of Key West, with remnants of Cuban refugee boats that made the 90-mile trek to these islands. Some of the boats had automobile gas tanks and radiators. One was fabricated by digging a boat-shaped hole in the sand which was then layered with tarps, filled with “pour foam” and carved into shape. Life vests were fashioned from old backpacks filled with empty water bottles.

Mary and Scott at speed during a race at Road Atlanta. Mary’s blue Porsche 906 was geared for 160 miles per hour; Scott’s red, white and blue 906 for 175 miles per hour.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS Scott and Mary Flanders travel and explore extensively. During the first 20-plus years of married life, they challenged themselves by racing cars. Their auto racing was followed by a 12-year period of weekend fishing and boating in the Florida Keys. They went on to cruise full time for 14 years on M/Y Egret, completing a high–latitudes circumnavigation. Since selling Egret in 2015, they have split their time between land adventures including Jeeping, and cruising on their 28-foot Maine-built lobster boat, Egret Adventure. They are pictured here drinking Champagne early one morning after crossing into the Northern Hemisphere after over four years south of the Equator.

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A

isling I’s

Last Mediterranean Passage An Upwind Journey from Sicily to Genoa

By Bonnie and Rick Salsman, Bras d’Or Station

Sailing into the sunset.

W

hen we sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar in the fall of 2007, little did we think that Aisling I would spend 10 sailing seasons in the Mediterranean. Our plan had been to stay for two or three years, but the never-ending list of places to explore and the tug of strong friendships kept us returning year after year. We felt like we could linger forever, but by 2016 Bonnie’s mother was in poor health and our much-loved Aisling was beginning to show her age. As much as we hated to admit it, it was time to bring Aisling home. We could almost sense her indignation when we decided to ship her back instead of sailing, but under the circumstances we could not undertake a long ocean passage.

The plan had been to sail to Genoa to meet a Sevenstar Yacht Transport ship in May 2016. However, we were sidetracked by a tantalizing offer to buy Aisling where she sat, in Sicily. After weeks of delay, the potential buyers backed out. We flew home to Halifax to regroup, but in mid-June we received word that a ship bound for Sydney, Nova Scotia, would be leaving Genoa during the last week of June. This was a rare opportunity,

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“

It was an anticlimactic way to leave the place that had been our second home for nearly five years, but we couldn’t linger. We had to get around the southeast corner of Sicily before the strong winds shifted to the east.

”

since Sevenstar rarely sails to Canada. If we could land Aisling in Sydney, the payoff would be big. This would put us a stone’s throw away from the Bras d’Or Lakes, one of the most beautiful cruising grounds in the world. For a Cape Bretoner like Bonnie, nothing beats coming home. But could we get Aisling to Genoa before the ship left? She was berthed in Marina di Ragusa on the southeast coast of Sicily, over 600 nautical miles south of Genoa. The forecasts said there would be winds from the north of varying strengths. We weren’t sure that we could make it on time, but we decided to try.

We arrived in Marina di Ragusa on June 17, after a 24-hour series of flights that included far too many stops. With the forecast showing a nasty weather system headed for the south coast of Sicily, we had no time to lose. “Just wash the boat and leave,” a friend advised.

Washing the boat was certainly essential: a scirocco had come through, leaving Aisling coated in a nasty layer of Sahara sand and mud.

Otherwise, the boat was almost ready to sail. Thirty hours after climbing aboard, we were under way. Our departure from the marina went issue 60  2018

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“

But when we hit the narrowest part of the strait, the current grabbed us and hurled us into the Tyrrhenian Sea, bobbing and weaving at 10 knots of speed.

Around us, waves broke as though we were white-water rafting on a tidal bore.

”

unnoticed other than by Saro, the marina’s line handler, who helped us cast off our lines, and Porto, the goofy Labrador retriever who masquerades as the port’s watchdog. Most of our friends had left weeks earlier for their summer cruising. It was an anticlimactic way to leave the place that had been our second home for nearly five years, but we couldn’t linger. We had to get around the southeast corner of Sicily before the strong winds shifted to the east.

400-plus euro worth of fuel (gulp!), and made a quick run up the dock to buy bread and milk. Then we were off again, with Genoa in our sights. We were on track to make our deadline, but a big disappointment was in store.

The next day, Bonnie scribbled in a notebook: “The sea is lumpy and the wind is light but on the nose, as usual. We are under motor with only the staysail up to steady us, but it is quite pleasant. The water is a brilliant blue, and a large pod of dolphins just came to visit, cavorting at the bow in a graceful ballet. Each time the boat leapt through a wave, they leapt too. Rick said it is as though they were saying ‘I can jump higher than you can!’ As they passed the bow, each dolphin would roll a quarter turn and look at Rick, eye to eye.”

A glimpse of Rick and Bonnie at Napoleon’s villa.

Shortly after leaving Ponza, we received an email from Sevenstar saying that their Sydney-bound ship would be bypassing Genoa due to lack of cargo. The next potential load date would be mid-July, and Aisling would have to be shipped to Florida or Pennsylvania. The only Overnight stops in Porto Palo and Siracusa gave us a bit more time silver lining was that there was no longer a need to rush. We continto get organized onboard, and allowed Bonnie to reclaim her sea legs ued to sail through the night, but the following morning, rather than continuing on to Elba, we dropped our anchor before we embarked on a longer passage. From Sirat Porto Ercole. acusa, it was an easy run past Catania and Mount Napoleon’s camp bed makes Aisling’s Etna into the Strait of Messina. Here the condiquarterberth seem roomy! tions ranged from flat calm in the approaches to a Porto Ercole is a charming little town, 20-knot headwind off Reggio di Calabria, complete overlooked by several forts against a backdrop with countercurrents and eddies known locally as of beautiful mountains and forests. It is also i bastardi (we’re sure you’ll have no trouble guessthe final resting place of the Italian painter ing the translation). With slack tide projected for Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, an artis8 p.m., we began to worry that the current would tic genius who led a short and violent life. We turn before we made it through. But when we hit had sought out Caravaggio’s paintings in galthe narrowest part of the strait, the current grabbed leries and churches all over Italy, but we did not us and hurled us into the Tyrrhenian Sea, bobbing visit his grave. Instead, we treated ourselves to a and weaving at 10 knots of speed. Around us, waves memorable lunch at Il Gambero Rosso, rated by broke as though we were white-water rafting on a tidal bore. Once we Trip Advisor as the 11th best restaurant in the town. We can only say escaped into calmer waters, we pointed the bow toward Stromboli, hopthat if the 11th best was that good, the number one restaurant must ing for a midnight sighting of its active volcano. Our next stop would be deserve a Michelin star. the island of Ponza, 140 miles to the north. We had a lot on our minds as we approached Stromboli, but two fiery eruptions from the summit The next morning, we decided to continue to Elba. We knew the at around 2 a.m. and the brilliant full moon behind us made the night wind would be on the nose and building, but it was less than 45 miles sailing lovelier than usual. away and hopefully the seas would not be too steep. As is often the case,

At 10 a.m. on June 22, after two nights at sea, we approached Ponza, with its surreal rock formations, steep cliffs and crowded anchorages. It was an island we had always intended to visit, but we were feeling reasonably rested and decided to push on. We pulled up to the fuel dock, filled our tanks with

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Sunrise watch on the coast of Italy. our hopes were dashed. There was much banging and crashing as we battled our way toward Elba, with our speed sometimes dropping abruptly to two knots as the boat slammed into the waves. It was a great relief when we finally dropped anchor in a lovely cove called Barbarossa (“Red Beard” in English) just around the corner from Porto Azzurro. The depths were around 50 feet, but fortunately there was enough swing room for

income. Napoleon’s former home of Villa dei Mulini is now open to the public. We decided to visit, but an accidental detour took us first to the nearby Star Fort, where the view from the ramparts was glorious, especially as a sailing regatta was taking place and dozens of spinnakers dotted the sea in the approaches to Portoferraio. The Villa dei Mulini is also beautifully situated and lavishly decorated, although probably a bit of a comedown for a former emperor. One of the most interesting items on display was Napoleon’s camp bed. It was evident that the emperor was a very small man!

Emerging from our glimpse of history, we returned to the waterfront, climbed back onto the motorcycle and headed back to Porto Azzurro. On the way, we made a short stop to taste some Elban wine and olive oil, and packed a few bottles to stash in Aisling’s bilge. By the time we got back to Porto Azzurro, the anchorage was crammed with boats, and we were glad we would be leaving the next day.

View from the Star Fort ramparts, Portoferraio, Elba.

us to put out lots of chain. With the anchor well set, we turned in early and slept for a very long time. The next morning, we moved the boat over to busy Porto Azzurro. Arriving just as numerous boats were leaving, we had no trouble finding a spot. This time, we were only in about 20 feet of water. The view of the town from the water was charming.

The journey from Elba to Genoa took only 22 hours, but it seemed much longer. With high winds from behind and very rough seas, Bonnie found it difficult to manage the sails alone at night, and Rick got only a few hours of sleep. We were both very tired when

Exploring Porto Azzurro didn’t require a lot of time, so we decided to rent a motorbike and drive across the island to see Portoferraio. The price of 55 euros per day was the most we’d ever paid for a scooter, but it was worth it. The drive through the countryside was lovely, taking us past beautiful vineyards and fields of hay. Portoferraio itself was a bustling port, resulting in some heart-in-throat moments on the scooter.

Once the bike was parked, we were able to relax and have lunch in a café on the waterfront. The food was delicious, and the bill arrived with a lovely scallop shell on top, which the waiter told us we could keep.

Italians have such a great sense of style!

The most famous episode in Elba’s history was undoubtedly Napoleon’s exile there in 1814–15. Following his defeat in the War of the Sixth Coalition, Napoleon was forced to abdicate the French throne, negotiating a deal that allowed him to reside on Elba with a substantial

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Piazza de Ferrari, Genoa.

A lion stands guard at San Lorenzo Cathedral, Genoa.

Garibaldi on horseback, Genoa. we arrived in Genoa at dawn the next day. It wasn’t until we woke from a long nap that it occurred to us that we’d just finished our last Mediterranean passage on Aisling. A sad moment, but with Aisling moored in the old port just steps away from the historic center of Genoa, it was hard to stay glum. It was fortunate that there were so many things to do and see, because we would be staying far longer than we’d planned.

Genoa (Genova in Italian) was a very appropriate choice as Aisling’s last Mediterranean port. Most schoolchildren learn of Genoa as the birthplace of Christopher Columbus. Although his reputation has suffered in modern times, his prowess as a sailor and navigator can’t

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Food shopping in Genoa. be disputed. His discovery of America is only slightly more impressive than the fact that he actually managed to sail back home from there.

Another interesting fact about Genoa is that the first denim-like fabric was developed here, and blue jeans took their name from this city.

(This may be of little interest to most of you, but was of great significance to Aisling’s skipper, who earned his living running a group of jean stores he started in the 70s.) We’d also seen Genovese forts scattered in numerous locations throughout the Mediterranean, evidence of the time when Genoa was known as “La Superba” and was one of the most powerful Italian city-states. Yet for some reason, Genoa had never been on our list of must-see cities in Italy. It quickly became obvious that we’d almost missed a very special place.

Aisling’s final delivery crew: Rick Salsman, Alan Salsman, and Derek Kennedy.

time liveaboards Bob and Joanie Irissarri on Nemir, who were our dockside neighbors. Genoa is also a strong contender for the “best food in Italy” prize: high praise, as you can appreciate. This is the home of focaccia, which you can buy plain or topped with onions, cheese, olives, peppers, and other delicacies. Genoa is also the birthplace of pesto, which is so good that it scarcely resembles the stuff we buy in jars at home.

Rick says he doubts he’ll ever find a place in Italy that he wouldn’t like, but some Italian cities are nicer than others. Travel writers generally use adjectives like “gritty” to describe Genoa, and it is true that the small alleyways of the historic center have not been gentrified like those of towns where tourism is a major focus. But Genoa is a multicultural, living city, with an abundance of history, architecture, and masterpieces reflecting the staggering wealth of its former citizens. There is so much to see that we cannot possibly describe it here. From the palaces on Via Garibaldi, to the beautiful Gothic cathedral of San Lorenzo, to the poignant monuments in the Staglieno Cemetery, Genoa captivated us. We were fortunate to share this experience with circumnavigators and long-

As weeks stretched into a month, it became clear that one must have a high tolerance for ambiguity when you undertake the shipping of a vessel. Our revised shipping date of mid-July was eventually changed to the end of July and as always, was qualified with the term “assuming AGWWP” (“all goes well weather permitting”). With responsibilities at home beckoning, we hired a captain to oversee the loading of Aisling onto the ship, and flew back to Halifax. Aisling eventually left Genoa on August 7 and was offloaded in Newport three weeks later.

This put us in a good position for a quick return passage to Nova Scotia. Accompanied by his brother Alan and good friend Derek Kennedy, Rick flew to Newport in late August to meet the ship and sailed Aisling home. We enjoyed some short cruises in Mahone Bay and St. Margaret’s Bay, but our dream of returning to the Bras d’Or Lakes on Aisling was not to be. She was sold in October 2016 and is currently sailing Nova Scotia’s waters under her new name, Snowdrift. But to us, she will always be Aisling, the boat that safely carried us across the Atlantic to the best adventure of our lives. ✧

Rick and Bonnie Salsman

About the Authors In 2007, Rick and Bonnie Salsman sailed their boat Aisling I (a 1987 Slocum 43 designed by Stan Huntingford) across the Atlantic and into the Mediterranean. Together they explored the coasts of Portugal, Spain, France, Italy, Tunisia, Malta, Greece, Turkey, Albania, Croatia, and Montenegro. They are pictured here in Porto Antico in Genoa. You can read more about their sailing and travel adventures, with cruising notes for many locations, on their blog sailblogs.com/member/aisling.

Aisling at anchor in Elba. issue 60  2018

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Swedish colors under sail: Stefan Holmgren’s Penélope.

Destination: Stockholm Archipelago

By Ernie Godshalk, Boston Station, and David Tunick, New York Station

“ The Swedes are

enthusiastic hosts,

and we have made many friends on both coasts, in particular the officers of GKSS and KSSS. 64

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weden is a spectacular place to cruise: thousands of islands, hundreds of harbors, minimal tides and currents, generally good weather and winds, no lobster pots, little fog, wonderful food, beverages, and lots of singing and celebrations among very friendly people. And the canal that cuts across the country leads to surprisingly large and attractive lakes. The boating opportunities are so idyllic that at the height of the Swedish summer holiday, mid-July to mid-August, the harbors and waterways tend to be busy and in some cases packed.

The authors have spent a combined ten summers cruising in the area – including, in 2017, the west and east coasts, and the Göta Canal.

We are co-chairs of the 2019 Stockholm Archipelago Cruise, organized by the CCA, the North American Station of the Royal Scandinavian Yacht Clubs and Nyländska Jacktklubben (NAS), the membership of which includes many CCA members, and Kungliga Svenska Segel Sällskapet or The Royal Swedish Yacht Club (KSSS), the major yacht club on Sweden’s east coast. The 2019 CCA/NAS/KSSS cruise will commence in Stockholm, on the east coast, and include a large portion of the archipelago, with fleet dinners in Stockholm, Sandhamn, and Saltsjöbaden. We spent five weeks in 2017 in the archipelago aboard our boats, Golden Eye and Night Watch, researching harbors, charter boats, motherships, event venues, and restaurants. Earlier in the summer, we were involved in the 2017 Swedish Cruise along the west coast, organized by the NAS and the Göteborgs Kungliga Segelsällskap or The Royal Gothenburg Yacht Club (GKSS), the major yacht club on Sweden’s west coast. Golden Eye then transited the Göta Canal to get from the west coast to the east coast, while Night Watch sailed the longer route south of Sweden to reach the east coast.

Golden Eye on the west coast of Sweden.

Beatrice Aurora, a classic.

WEST COAST The best cruising on the west coast is found from just south of Gothenburg north to the Norwegian border, a distance of 100 miles.

This was the venue of the 2017 cruise, attended by CCA members (and in some cases their boats) Susan and Doug Adkins (PNW); Josie and Chace Anderson (CHE); Peggy and Carter Bacon (BOS) (on Solution); Dave Brown (NYS) and Sheila McCurdy (BOS/NBP); Nick Brown (BOS/NBP); Dale and Doug Bruce (BOS/GMP); Joanna and Pieter de Zwart (FLA); Barbara and Mark Ellis (ESS); Dianne and Jeb Embree (ESS); Anne and Larry Glenn (BOS/NBP); Ed Kane (BOS/ BUZ); Heather McHutchison (BOS); Sue McNab (PNW); Sally and Bob Medland (GLS); Sue and Harry Morgan (NYS); Phyllis and Nick Orem (BOS); Marty and Paul Rogers (BOS/GMP) (on Canty); Gaynelle Templin (SAF); and the authors (on Golden Eye and Night Watch). Mory Creighton (BOS) had helped deliver Golden Eye to Gothenburg before the cruise. Bjorn Johnson (NYS) helped deliver Night Watch to Stockholm.

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“The 64 locks (plus 45 bridges and two aqueducts, which carry the canal over rivers) give rise to the canal’s nickname, ‘Divorce Ditch.’

”

On the west coast, the islands extend about five miles from the coast, forming channels that provide inside, protected routes as an alternative to going offshore. There are hundreds of harbors as well as spots for a few boats each. The islands are mostly treeless. Tides and currents are modest, allowing for typical Swedish mooring in which the bow is brought into an island where crew may step off, lines are taken ashore and a stern anchor is deployed. For those of us who grew up with tides, this is a “learned skill.” Especially on the west coast, where there are few trees to which to tie, it is common to hammer pitons into the rocks. The local practice is to find a spot that enables tying up with the bow into the wind, i.e., on the lee side of the island.

Larger boats (over 45 feet) often anchor out.

GKSS’s primary facility is at Långedrag, about five miles southwest of Gothenburg. The club is extremely hospitable to visiting yachts. Gothenburg, Sweden’s second-largest city, is attractive and historic, well worth a day ashore.

The major yachting center on the west coast is Marstrand, 15 miles north of Gothenburg. In addition to full marina facilities and a GKSS outstation, the island offers fine restaurants (including the site of the 2017 cruise closing dinner), excellent walks, the well-preserved

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18th-century Carlsten Fort that offers tours with actors in period costumes, and a dramatic venue from which to observe the annual match racing events.

Smögen Island’s harbor is cozy and quaint, and its night life is a particular attraction to younger crew.

A highlight of the 2017 cruise was Sweden’s major holiday, Midsummer, which takes place on the weekend closest to the summer solstice. We were all invited to a private home on one of the islands, just off the normal north-south route. During the summer, much of the population of Sweden moves to vacation homes on the coast or in the mountains. Building the Midsummer maypole becomes a community event, in which we were honored to be included. By tradition, the women gather flowers while the men construct the pole itself. The pole and its two rings are decorated entirely in flowers and greens, then erected – all accompanied by traditional food, akvavit, singing, and dancing. The origin and meaning of this tradition is obscure, but the enthusiasm of participants is decidedly not.

The 2017 cruise also included a traditional NAS hat party, and prizes were awarded in 15 categories.

Läckö Castle, Lake Vänern.

GÖTA CANAL AND LAKES The Trollhätte and Göta canals, often referred to collectively as “the Göta Canal,” connect Sweden’s east and west coasts. From the west, the Trollhätte Canal is reached from the sea through Gothenburg’s harbor. It ends, six locks and +44 vertical meters later, at Lake Vänern, about one-quarter of the way to the east coast. The lake, the European Union’s largest, is itself a major cruising area with over 100 harbors and significant anchorages. Its highlight is the stunning Läckö Castle, built as a private residence, still beautifully furnished and maintained, and accessible to the public.

The Göta Canal proper begins on the eastern shore of Lake Vänern. Twenty-one locks, 20 opening bridges, another +45 vertical meters and 35 miles later, it leads to Lake Vätern, only slightly smaller than Lake Vänern. The highlight of Lake Vätern is Vadstena Castle, in the moat of which there is a marina. Another two smaller lakes, 37 locks, 23 opening and three fixed bridges, -91 vertical meters and 50 miles later (phew!), the boat is back at sea level on the east coast, about 75 miles south of Stockholm. The 64 locks (plus 45 bridges and two aqueducts, which carry the canal over rivers) give rise to the canal’s nickname, “Divorce Ditch.” All are attended by lock keepers, although a few are operated by hand – assistance by boaters welcomed! A local

friend provided a tip to have a candy or cookie ready for the lock keepers, who may be in contact with the locks ahead. Ann Noble-Kiley (BOS), who had joined the crew mid-canal, was Chief Candy Officer.

The entire passage can be accomplished in seven busy and long days, although two weeks or more allows for a more comfortable and enjoyable trip, including a short cruise in Lake Vänern. Air draft is limited to 22 meters. There are ample docking (included in the canal fee), fueling and shopping facilities and restaurants along the way.

EAST COAST Sweden’s east coast offers even more extensive cruising, especially the 200 miles between Kalmar in the south and the northern end of the Stockholm Archipelago.

For example, just east of the exit of the Göta Canal is the beautiful Sankt Anna Archipelago, described by renowned Swedish ballad troubadour, Evert Taube: Sankt Anna Archipelago, I greet you, You wonderful realm on our sinful planet.

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No doubt such a landscape must give birth To witches disguised as angels.

TOP: Golden Eye in a cozy harbor on Sweden’s west coast.

Photo by Peter Denton. MIDDLE: Morty Creighton (BOS) placing mooring pitons in the rock. BOTTOM: Godshalk’s Golden Eye and the Rogers’ Canty, moored bow-to.

The most popular cruising area is the Stockholm Archipelago, ranging from the island of Landsort in the south to the island of Arholma in the north, with Stockholm halfway between. The archipelago is about 75 miles by 25 miles and numbers about 30,000 islands, depending on who’s doing the counting. The best cruising guide to the archipelago, Hamnguiden 8, lists over 300 anchorages, and the number of usable anchorages is at least three times that many.

The archipelago offers many options and the distances are not great, so that cruising can be leisurely. Hamnguiden 8, although available in print only in Swedish, is also available online at havneguiden.no with a convenient “translate” feature. It provides detailed chartlets and photographs that enable selecting anchorages suitable for a particular wind direction. Also shown are the exact locations of shores bold enough for bow-to mooring and pins placed in the rocks to which to tie; since the east coast islands are wooded, in many places there are convenient trees, too. Good places for swinging on an anchor, trash disposal, outhouses, restaurants, and saunas are also shown.

John Robinson (PNW) joined Golden Eye for a week and Ann Noble-Kiley rejoined later. Carter Bacon (BOS) sailed Solution around the south coast to the Stockholm Archipelago – where we rendezvoused – and beyond.

A highlight of cruising the east coast this past summer was the authors being invited to a crayfish party at KSSS’s island facility, Sandhamn. This riotous Swedish tradition might be compared to a combination of clambake, songfest, and children’s birthday party, complete with unlimited crayfish, bibs, ample “appropriate” beverages, singing, toasts, party hats, and smiling moon faces. Golden Eye and Night Watch participated in the races before and after the party: the Crayfish Race and Hangover Race, respectively.

Stockholm is a fabulous destination, one of the most beautiful capital cities in Europe, with many surviving 18th- and 19th-century structures, in varying pastel colors, on seven islands intertwined with canals and water passages. The most popular tourist site is the glasswalled Vasa Museum, home to the three-deck frigate, Vasa, which sank in 1628 in Stockholm harbor, less than an hour and one mile into her maiden voyage, when a breeze caused her to list, putting her lowest gun ports under water – a tough lesson in marine design. She was raised, largely intact, in 1961 and the museum was built around her. The museum will be the venue for the opening dinner of the 2019 cruise.

Stockholm is also the site of the Royal Palace, where it is not unusual to spot the king driving in and out in his Volvo. Other museums explain Sweden’s long history, which includes former consolidations with Norway, Denmark, and Finland.

The island of Gotland, with its beautiful Hanseatic walled town, Visby, is located 50 miles off the east coast and 100 miles south of Stockholm. Gotland is strategically located in the center of the Baltic

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and has a long history, including many changes in sovereignty and extensive trade as far as the Mediterranean. Even today, Swedes are concerned about Russian occupation. Visby has an attractive yacht harbor and many tourist attractions ashore.

IN SUMMARY The Swedes are enthusiastic hosts, and we have made many friends on both coasts, in particular the officers of GKSS and KSSS. GKSS and KSSS are particularly welcoming, with friendly staff and excellent facilities in Gothenburg, Marstrand, Saltsjöbaden, and Sandhamn.

An invitation to a private sauna can be a special treat, followed by a quick swim. A guest sometime joins in splitting wood for the blazing sauna stove.

Summer weather, particularly on the east coast, is generally fair, with occasional strong winds, especially on the west coast. We had great sailing for most of this last summer and in prior summers in Sweden.

Air temperatures are usually in the 60s and low 70s Fahrenheit. Water temperatures reach the low 60s on the west coast and mid to upper 60s on the east coast, so swimming, even without being preceded by a hot sauna, is not uncommon – many Swedes in fact swim every morning, year round.

Careful navigation is essential on both coasts. There are far more hazards than navigation aids, so it is important to have good charts and know where the boat is at all times. In some areas of the Stockholm Archipelago soundings are incomplete, and further care is requisite.

These areas are clearly marked on the charts. It is rumored that both authors have “found” rocks in unexpected places.

Racing is highly competitive on both coasts. GKSS and KSSS sent several top sailors to the 2016 Olympics in Rio. The 1977 America’s Cup boat, Sverige, was sponsored by GKSS and members of the NAS. A major annual race, the ÅF Offshore Race (formerly known as Gotland Runt or Round Gotland Race), starts in downtown Stockholm with a 50,000+ audience ashore, and ends two or three days later in Sandhamn. Participants in the 2019 ÅF Offshore Race will be gathering in Stockholm as our 2019 cruise commences, and there may be opportunities to participate in either the offshore race or the oneday inshore race that occurs the prior day.

Sweden’s boat building tradition has produced many beautiful and long-lived boats, including the classic “skerry cruisers.” These are mostly long, low, narrow bullets of brightwork but also include outstanding Sparkman and Stevens designs.

Two important considerations for cruising in Europe are the “Schengen Agreement,” which limits U.S. citizens to 90 days in the previous 180 days in the Schengen countries (mostly the same as E.U. countries, with a few exceptions), and potential liability for value-added tax on your boat it if remains in the E.U. longer than 18 months.

TOP: Phyllis Orem, Sue McNab (PNW), Gale Sherman, and Dawn Szot decorate the maypole.

MIDDLE: Heather McHutchison (BOS) bringing flowers to the maypole.

BOTTOM: Maypole being raised.

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Clockwise from above: John Robinson (PNW) splitting wood for the sauna; David Tunick (NYS) at a crayfish party; Pieter de Zwart (FLA) enjoying the west coast; Vicki McGrath operating a lock in the Gรถta Canal; Pierre and Karin, the opera singers; Susan and Doug Adkins (PNW) with friends at the hat party.

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“I asked whether, if I could

produce some akvavit, they would join us in Helan Går, and they readily agreed.

”

This article does not describe the southernmost part of Sweden or the High Coast, a dramatic UNESCO World Heritage Site, in the vast Gulf of Bothnia, 225 miles north of Stockholm - on Golden Eye’s agenda for 2018. The lowlands of Skåne in the south, including Malmö, while interesting, are not as appealing as the west coast north of Gothenburg and the east coast’s Stockholm and Blu archipelagos.

On the other hand, the Danish (western) side of the narrow strait between Sweden and Denmark, called the Øresund, offers some excellent cruising and shoreside excursions. These include Helsingør Castle, Copenhagen – especially if you can get your boat into the Nyhavn Canal in the city center – and the world-famous Louisiana Museum of Modern Art in Humlebæk. If you continue along the southern route from the Øresund to the Stockholm Archipelago rather than crossing via the Göta Canal, stop off en route in Bornholm and tiny Christiansø. a slice of Italy in the north. Although part of Denmark, both islands are closer to mainland Sweden.

Ernie Godshalk with Golden Eye moored bow-to.

David Tunick at the helm in the Stockholm Archipelago. Photo by Dan Nerney.

HELAN GÅR This song is usually described as a “drinking song,” which is accurate although it is more important than that. It is often sung at the opening of dinner events and parties; is almost a “national anthem” (and, in fact, was sung in place of the national anthem by a victorious Swedish World Cup hockey team); and brings out the good-natured and songoriented Swedish culture.

An example of the latter occurred during Golden Eye’s Göta Canal transit. During the course of the transit, we had become friendly with Pierre and Karin and we invited them for drinks aboard. Due to Pierre’s appearance and demeanor, I was sure that he was an investment banker, so I asked him. I was dumbfounded to learn that he is a fulltime singer at the Royal Swedish Opera, and Karin is also a professional singer. I asked whether, if I could produce some akvavit, they would join us in Helan Går, and they readily agreed. I was expecting a modest rendition among the four of us but they are each trained to reach the back row. Presently, the harbor echoed their voices – which did not seem out of place to anyone.

Knowing the melody and words in Swedish is a great ice breaker.

The words in Swedish and English can be found at: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helan_Går and a performance at www.youtube.com/watch?v=ffHziD7m_Xs

About the Authors Ernie Godshalk (BOS) sailed Golden Eye, hailing port Manchester-by-the-Sea, a 1996 McCurdy and Rhodes-designed Hinckley Sou-wester 42, to Europe in 2010. He has spent three of the last eight summers cruising the Swedish coasts and the Göta Canal.

Ernie is presently post captain of the North American Station.

David Tunick (NYS) sailed Night Watch, hailing port New York, a 1967 55-foot Sparkman & Stevens yawl built by Abeking & Rasmussen, single-handed, to Europe in 2001. He has since spent seven summers on the Swedish coasts and in the Göta Canal. David chaired the 2005 NAS/CCA cruise in the Stockholm Archipelago. He is past post captain of the North American Station and a member of KSSS. Ernie and David are co-chairs of the 2019 CCA/KSSS/ NAS Stockholm Archipelago Cruise.

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versus

By Doug and Dale Bruce, Boston Station, Gulf of Maine Post

SIMILARITIES This past June, we had the delight of cruising the west coast of Sweden aboard Paul and Marty Rogers’ (BOS/GMP) Canty, as part of a cruisein-company organized by the North American Station (NAS) of the Royal Scandinavian Yacht Clubs and the Helsinki-based Nyländska Jaktklubben. It was a rare and memorable event for many reasons. The best way to explain is by comparing the west coast of Sweden with our lifelong favorite cruising grounds — the Downeast coast near our home in Camden, Maine, on Penobscot Bay. 72

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• Both coasts are scenic, rugged, and beautiful places to cruise by sail or power.

• Both are studded with granite ledge above and below the water, making navigation an exercise in concentration.

• Both have long, colorful histories in the fishing and granite quarrying industries, with remnants of each being part of the charm.

• Both are known for their mix of warm, sunny weather and occasional rainy or foggy spells. (We had mostly the former during our cruise.)

• Residents of both coasts exude a quiet charm that makes visitors feel welcome and easily assimilated into the local milieu.

• Both regions offer the option of sailing in protected waters or out in the open ocean.

• Both have a wide variety of harbors, some isolated and quiet, others in active, interesting small towns, with the occasional small city for good measure.

• Services such as dockage, fuel, water, and showers are prevalent on both coasts and perhaps even more fully developed in Sweden due to the concentration of active boating families living along the west coast.

View from hills overlooking Fjällbacka.

DIFFERENCES • “Mainahs” speak English with a Downeast accent, whereas Swedes speak English with a Swedish accent. To our language-novice ears, Swedish sounds lyrical but totally unintelligible. Fortunately, virtually everyone speaks English fluently and does their best to make American visitors feel welcome and fully informed.

• Swedish culinary skills are exceptional, with a range of delicate flavors that astound and amaze our American palate. Swedes have a magic touch when it comes to the preparation of traditional seafood dishes. Salmon never tasted so good! While Maine has a burgeoning reputation for gourmet restaurants and special treats, we also rely on traditional Downeast favorites like lobster rolls and blueberry pie.

• Swedes tend to favor smaller, more affordable boats, both sail and power, which permit a wider range of people of all ages to experience the joys of cruising. In America, “yachting” takes place in somewhat larger craft (and a few mega-yachts), which limit cruising to some degree to a wealthier, increasingly retired segment of our population … an oversimplification perhaps, but, sadly, a touch of truth as well.

• Of course, the biggest difference between Maine and Sweden is the sense of extended history that pervades Swedish culture. There is a cohesiveness to the people, despite the recent assimilation of new cultures, and an appreciation for all things of great beauty, from art to music to architectural and furniture design to the natural landscape and environment, which are revered and respected to an extraordinary degree. We love Maine, and now we have a newfound love and appreciation for Sweden.

Fleet with bows to dock at Hunnebostrand.

OUR CRUISE IN SWEDEN

It all began in mid-June at The Royal Gothenburg Yacht Club (GKSS) in the town of Långedrag on the suburban outskirts of Gothenburg, Sweden’s second largest city after Stockholm. GKSS was established in 1860 and is now one of the largest sports clubs in Sweden, with about 2,700 members. The foundations of the club’s activities are racing, training, and education, with a focus on young people, as well as adult sailors who want to develop skills as seasoned mariners. GKSS also houses a large marina behind a sturdy breakwater, and thus serves as home base to many local cruising sailboats.

We enjoyed a warm welcome at GKSS from Stefan and Maria Holmgren (plus sons John and James), the local cruise organizers, and the team of thoughtful people who helped shape this “best-ever” cruise-in-company — what a caring and convivial group! Here we met the NAS contingent from America, many of whom were CCA members. Together we populated about a dozen cruising sailboats rangissue 60  2018

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One gets used to sailing close to the rocks.

Colorful cabin by the sea at Käringön.

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ing in size from 42 feet, like the Rogers’ Canty and Ernie Godshalk’s (BOS) Golden Eye, to nearly 55 feet, like David Tunick’s (NYS) Night Watch, a handsome Abeking & Rasmussen yawl, to a couple of really big group-charter vessels in the 60-foot range. The 72-foot Loyal, a tall ship from Norway, also participated in the cruise as a mother ship for a group of roughly a dozen NAS members. Loyal makes a stately impression when part of a fleet of modern sailboats.

Sailing through and around (but not over) the many rocks, islands, and fjords presented unique navigational challenges. We used electronic charts on a Raymarine plotter at the helm, an iPad and Navionics charts nearby, and paper charts down below. The hardest part of staying focused on the charts was averting one’s eyes from the dramatic and inspiring scenery.

All along the west coast, numerous beautiful small villages with red roofs and mostly white “topsides” came into view, all looking very clean and inviting. We had a hard time distinguishing between buildings, as the next one looked very much like the previous one.

The marinas where we stopped most nights, all well chosen for their excellent services and well-planned berthing schemes, made the art of anchoring seem like a forgotten part of cruising.

The variety of scenery, from sparsely populated or uninhabited islands to bustling towns with busy streets and many tourists, made for some stark, but always interesting contrasts. Friendly and patient locals were always willing to help “English-only” tourists having trouble finding their way or in desperate need of an ice cream.

The fascinating Nordiska Akvarell (Nordic Watercolor) Museum in Skärhamn, our first overnight stop on the way north, appealed to our artistic and architectural design sensibilities, and left a lasting upbeat impression. Skärhamn also offered a look at a classic west coast village that once depended on fishing to provide a livelihood for its citizens. It

now relies on tourism, much of it waterborne. A guided walking tour of the tiny island of Gullholmen, our second stop, gave us insights and broad perspective into the inventive and entrepreneurial aspects of Sweden’s history in this part of the country. Several cruise participants had a fascinating tour of the world-famous Hallberg Rassy boat-building yard on a nearby island. The small harbor had us all rafted three-deep alongside the docks. No cars, no roads, just countless charming houses, with just enough room between for footpaths. Real estate in this area is now very expensive, so it’s all beautifully maintained despite the houses being so close to one another.

We will not forget the beautiful village of Fjällbacka. Her imposing granite cliffs, looming over the marina, invited a climbing expedition to see the dramatic views and to work up an appetite and thirst, both of which were fully quenched at a superb dinner party at restaurant Bryggan. Here the thoughtful proprietors had hung a welcoming Stars and Stripes. The evening’s grand finale was a stunning Swedish sunset, served up by Mother Nature.

The island of Kalvö offered a change of pace from bustling town to bucolic rural life. We hiked until our sea legs nearly gave out. Again, no cars here. On our second day at Kalvö, our entire group of 60-plus visitors enjoyed a most welcoming and culturally educational Midsummer luncheon party, followed by a barbecue dinner offered by the endlessly gracious Spångberg family, local residents and friends of longtime NAS member Per Settergren. We relished many new and a few familiar taste treats. Strains of Helan Går, a popular local drinking song, still ring in our ears. For those readers joining the club’s Stockholm cruise in 2019, we suggest you build up your alcohol tolerance and learn the lyrics. (YouTube should be helpful.)

A brief bout of windy, wet, and stormy conditions after Kalvö brought us back to the reality of who is really in charge of the weather

Chapel in Käringön at sunset.

in Sweden. Many people blame the storm-and-thunder god Thor for fickle turns in the weather, but we’re not convinced. The boats sought shelter in a variety of harbors. Once the weather cleared, we enjoyed some of the best summer sailing apparently experienced in years, with a strong northwesterly breeze moving us quickly down the coast to our next destination, and big seas breaking dramatically Gullholmen houses and docks.

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over many of the rocks along the shoreline.

Hunnebostrand helped us appreciate how remarkably the time-honored granite industry has evolved together with a surging boating and marina trade in one beautiful landscape. The views from the hilltops were stunning in the clear air. From here, we traveled through the Sotekanalen, a half-natural and half-manmade canal referred to as a “highway for ships.” One saves a few miles’ travel and also enjoys the farms and vacation cottages that enhance the natural scenery along the route.

Smögenbryggan reminded us that Swedish (and American) boat people enjoy a party. We stopped for lunch, and this tourist destination was bustling with activity. Later that evening, in the stately historical town of Lysekil, we saw a sunset that took our breath away. We now dream of returning there to await another burst of “sky magic.”

At Hermanö, near Gullholmen, we anchored out for a catered seafood picnic ashore. Party attire necessitated homemade hats.

Some chose to wear full costumes as well. This included two famous Swedish pirates, Stefan and John, our cruise directors, who arrived with real pistols and swords. They both looked remarkably like Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow, that well-known seafaring scoundrel. It was a fun night with an unforgettable meal of shrimp, lobster, crab, and other local delicacies.

A brisk breeze blew us into the island of Käringön (pronounced “Shar-ing-on”), where Stefan squeezed us artfully into the tiny commercial harbor, arranging us like strangely shaped pieces in a complex jigsaw puzzle. We were greeted warmly by Michael Luft, Stefan’s business partner at Skepparhuset, or “sailor’s hotel.” The strong breeze held many of our group in port the next day, but

Picnic table fare at Midsummer party on Kalvö island.

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Sunset lightshow in Lysekil.

some of us circumnavigated the island on foot, thoroughly relishing the opportunity to explore this alluring community. It reminded us a little of Monhegan Island in Maine. Both are a combination of fishing village and artist community with longstanding homeowners and short-term vacationers thrown together in a tiny place only accessible by ferry or private boat.

The wind died down after two days, and we left at sunrise to reach Marstrand. And reach we did, with our cruising chute up most of the way, steaming along at an impressive eight-plus knots. We ate up the miles and arrived in plenty of time to tour the impressive fortress that looms over the island. Once the principal fortification for the entire west coast of Sweden, this building offers a fascinating glimpse into Sweden’s turbulent history since the castle walls were first erected in 1658.

With its foreboding castle and bustling modern street scene, Marstrand is a study in contrasts: the historic and the modern, the canons in the fort and the loud music on the promenade. A mesmerizing island to explore.

Our closing party at a GKSS “satellite” clubhouse was a triumph of great drinks, inventive food, and entertaining toasts. Stefan and others took deserving bows to a standing ovation from a grateful group. Thank you NAS, GKSS, and others who made this trip so very memorable and left us all with a strong urge to return to Sweden in 2019, even while knowing it will be difficult to top the 2017 cruise. But we also know that David Tunick and Ernie Godshalk are in charge for 2019, and they are a formidable cruise organizing team. We are counting on them to lead us on another encounter worth waiting for. 2

ABOUT THE AUTHORS Doug and Dale Bruce live in and sail from Camden, Maine.

They moved ashore after a five-year stint of liveaboard sailing, mostly in the waters between Newfoundland, Maine, and the Caribbean. After 20 years of big boat ownership and adventuring, they now openly admit to enjoying OPBs (other people’s boats). Fortunately, their longtime friends and indirect family members, Marty and Paul Rogers (BOS/GMP), are generous in sharing their cruising lifestyle. The Rogers’ son, Christopher, is married to the Bruces’ daughter, Heather, and both families are happy to share a grandson, Wes. All now live in Camden.

The Bruces are also known to CCA members as editors emeritus of Voyages.

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Driving Across Sweden

at Five Knots is usually “ What referred to as the

‘Göta Canal’ is, in fact, a combination of two canals, the Göta and the Trollhätte, connecting Stockholm and Gothenburg via Lake Vättern and Lake Vänern.

”

Al Shaheen ready for the season.

By John Franklin, Boston Station

W

e had left Al Shaheen outside Stockholm for the 2015–16 winter. The idea of sailing across Sweden via the Göta Canal arose when we were planning to join the 2016 Ocean Cruising Club (OCC) Arctic Rally to the Lofoten Islands, starting from Bergen. The canal route appealed as perhaps the least weather-dependent and warmest route to the Skagerrak in late April. As it transpired, Al Shaheen was at the back of the storage shed, and that, with other factors, conspired against us getting to Bergen for early June. We did, however, drive to Bergen from the U.K. to meet with the participants and see them off, spending a very pleasant couple of days with OCC Port Officers Jan Isaksen and Eli Steffensen and their crew, Mike Bowker.

I was lukewarm about subjecting our newly repainted hull to possible damage by maneuvering her through the turbulence of 64 locks — it just didn’t seem the place for an oceangoing yacht with two-meter draft and an 18-meter mast to be. But we had also made a commitment to provide an adventure for Connor, our 15-year-old South African grandson who had never been aboard a boat before, so a transit of the Göta and

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Trollhätte canals seemed a safe way of doing that and getting us to Sweden’s delightful west coast with an agile young crew to do all the legwork in the locks!

What is usually referred to as the “Göta Canal” is, in fact, a combination of two canals, the Göta and the Trollhätte, connecting Stockholm and Gothenburg via Lake Vättern and Lake Vänern. Heading east to west, we first transited the Göta Canal, one of Sweden’s best known and most popular tourist attractions. The canal has been called the Swedish “construction of the millennium,” or Sweden’s biggest-ever construction project. The 190-kilometer (103-nautical-mile) canal was built between 1810 and 1832 by 58,000 Swedish soldiers, who dug most of it by hand. It stretches from Mem on Sweden’s east (Baltic Sea) coast to Sjötorp on Lake Vänern, reaching 91.8 meters above sea level at its highest point. It contains 58 locks, 21 marinas, many canal-side mooring wharves, and 45 remote-controlled opening bridges. The very substantial transit fee includes a stay in each of the marinas for five nights, and some locals use this as their annual vacation.

All the locks are manned and operated by lock keepers, although often one lock keeper operates a group of locks, which may incur a long wait while he or she handles boats through the other locks. During the summer peak season (mid-June to mid-August), the locks are operated by college students, who all speak perfect English. Their relative lack of boating knowledge is made up for by their very cheerful and helpful nature. The lock keepers generally do not handle your lines, so when ascending, you have to land a crew member before you enter the lock, who then runs ahead and takes your lines. The incoming water causes a

great deal of turbulence, and it is essential to keep the bow line tight and the bow pinned to the wall as the boat rises. The preferred technique is to run a bow line from a ring ashore through a fairlead or snatch block forward, and to lead the line back to a sheet winch in the cockpit. The stern line is set up tight vertically and left secured. As the boat rises, the bow line is kept tight with the sheet winch, and the boat edges forward.

Descending is much easier and faster, without any turbulence. You enter a full lock, and the crew can step ashore with the mooring lines.

If reeved as a “slip line,” you can recover your lines in the empty lock without getting off the boat.

Water is very plentiful, so if yours is the only boat, lock keepers will normally lock you through without waiting for other boats to fill up the lock. This has the great advantage that you can take a middle position without the worry of surging into other tightly packed boats in the turbulence. In busy periods, there will often be four boats in a lock, and it helps to be in the second tier to lessen the effects of the turbulence.

There are a few other pitfalls to watch out for. Wind on the rig is a problem, especially when entering a water-filled lock, as there’s no shelter from the walls the way there is when entering an empty lock.

When descending, it is also essential to remain clear of the sill under the upstream lock gate as the water level falls. When there’s excessive water in the canal, there is only about 150 millimeters (six inches) freeboard on the stone walls when some of the locks are full, and it is very difficult to prevent fenders from being squeezed out. Also, fenders pick up grit and slime from the stonework, which mark, or even scratch, the topsides.

there’s “Whenexcessive

water in the canal, there is only about 150 millimeters (six inches) freeboard on the stone walls...

Passenger ship Lindon.

There were ice cream stalls at almost every lock.

” A couple of the locks were self-drive.

Recessed bollard in the Trollhätte Canal. issue 60  2018

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The Trollhätte Canal, between the Kattegat on the Swedish west coast and Lake Vänern at 44 meters above sea level, is very different: opened in 1800, it was constructed for the passage of seagoing ships up to 4,000 tons. Nowadays over 3.5 million tons of goods are shipped through the canal annually. It is 82 kilometers (44 nautical miles) long, of which 10 kilometers is man-made and the remainder is a natural river waterway, the Göta älv. The canal is dredged to a minimum water depth of 6.3 meters. The locks are huge by comparison, being six to eight meters deep with double bottoms, giving a very even distribution of water and almost no turbulence. Each lock movement takes between 8,000 and 12,000 cubic meters of water.

The locking technique for small craft is to hook the bight of a line over small bollards in recesses in the lock wall, or to pass a bight through the side rails or rungs of steel ladders, also recessed in the walls.

We followed the example of several others and used a boat hook to grip the ladders and simply hold the boat in place. The ladders and bollards are spaced about 10 meters apart and 2.5 meters vertically, so with a 10-to-16-meter boat, it is possible for two crew to hook on to one bollard and one ladder at once. As the water falls or rises, the lines must be transferred onto the next set of bollards above or below and the line to the ladder moved accordingly. It sounds difficult, but with no turbulence in the lock, it is all very easy and relaxed. The locks are operated by staff in the control room, and it all happens very smoothly without any sign of human intervention.

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Bridges on both canals are mainly remotely operated, but the larger ones on the Trolhätte Canal have a bridge tender. The small remotely operated bridges can be quite frustrating as you must get quite close to ensure that the camera has seen you, but you are never quite sure, and there is no mechanism for progressing the operation when you experience a long delay. It is no use making a lot of noise with a horn, because there is no one in attendance locally! On the Göta Canal, bridges and locks operate from 0900 to 1700. Navigation is permitted outside these hours but is limited by locks and bridges. Railway bridges have very specific and limited opening hours and often require quite a long waiting period. Waiting in the Trolhätte Canal is a problem, as there are very few pontoons or wharves suitable for small craft, and it usually means gilling about in midstream, coping with the wind, current, and other traffic, and trying not to be blown into the shallows or against industrial docks.

Many old passenger boats, some still using their original steam engines, ply the canals between Stockholm and Gothenburg. These vessels are often moved through the locks at night to avoid disruption to the leisure traffic. Nonetheless, one often finds that locks — or even a staircase of locks — are closed while a passenger boat is brought through. This can be frustrating if you have a tight schedule, so it is best not to have one and enjoy the sight of these old vessels being maneuvered through.

How long does it take? The Göta Canal between Mem and Sjötorp normally takes six to seven days to transit in peak season. If you continue through Lake Vänern and the Trolhätte Canal to Gothenburg, add another three to four days. It would be difficult to do it much faster than this due to lock and bridge opening times, bridge delays, lock delays due to other craft, and lock closures to allow passage of one of the several passenger boats. It is best to take your time, have a relaxed schedule, enjoy the scenery and the experience, explore locally, and don’t get frustrated by the inevitable delays. We had a schedule and took 12 days, which was rushing it — 20 days would have been more enjoyable.

We started our trip from Saltsjöbaden near Stockholm and spent several days sailing the 110 miles through the Stockholm Archipelago southwards to Mem at the western end of the Slätbaken and the entrance to the Göta Canal. We then spent a few days moored at the delightful old town of Söderköping, waiting for our crew to arrive and sampling the goods at the world’s largest, and probably most expensive, ice-cream parlor! One of the oddities at Söderköping was the large number of Syrian refugees, and it was disorienting to hear so much Arabic spoken in this aquatic backwater. Leaving Söderköping, we progressed westwards through Lake Asplängen where we anchored, then through Norsholm with its railway bridge, and into Lake Roxen, where we plugged away against a 20-knot headwind before ascending a seven-lock staircase into the Berg Basin marina for the night. Next morning, we had a long wait for a passenger vessel to come down before we could continue. We were pleasantly surprised the next day by a visit from a drone operated by OCC Port Officer Mike Westin, and we stopped for a couple of hours to share a drink with Mike and his father, who were researching information for a guide to Sweden’s inland waterways that Mike was producing.

Söderköping Summer Festival.

In Borensburg, we came across the only manually operated lock in the canal, which Connor operated for us (all the others are operated hydraulically with electric controls). After Borensburg, we entered Lake Boren and then a flight of six locks up to Motala, where we berthed alongside for the night outside the town. From Motala, we motored into the vast Lake Vättern and spent a few hours at Vadstena Castle before crossing the lake to Karlsborg and Forsvik, where we spent the night under the lock. We had a delightful and unexpected meeting with friends Peter Holliman and Lore Haack-Vörsmann on Orion and spent a pleasant evening telling the usual stories of adventure. Next morning, we passed through the Forsvik lock — the high point of the canal at 91.8 meters above sea level — into Lake Viken, then to Tätorp and a long stretch of narrow winding channels to Töreboda for the night.

The next day, 18 locks took us down to Sjötorp on Lake Vänern and the end of the Göta Canal.

We did do some sailing on Vänern on the first day, and we had a very pleasant secluded anchorage for the night. We should have stayed a day or two but, anxious to get Connor to Oslo airport for his return

to South Africa, we set off for Vänersborg, 38 miles away at the entrance to the Trolhätte Canal, plugging against a southwest wind and a nasty short chop in the shallow water — a thoroughly miserable trip. The marina in Vänersborg wasn’t too impressive either — very shallow and few places with sufficient depth to moor. It was a mistake to miss out on exploring Lake Vänern, as there are some interesting places to visit — take the time to do so.

From Vänersborg, we started down the Trolhätte Canal, passing through the first lock at Brinkebergskulle without mishap and much relieved by how easy it was. Then a flight of four locks at Trolhättan dropped us 32 meters down the almost vertical escarpment alongside some of the fascinating old locks, now disused but preserved for display, and a canal museum. Still feeling a need to press on, we carried on downstream and, immediately before the next lock at Lilla Edet, went into a delightful little marina with a very narrow, hidden entrance. There we met an Irish boat, Oisin Bån, with two Irish Cruising Club couples aboard, and had another pleasant evening, this time of Irish tales and talk of mutual acquaintances. issue 60  2018

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is a busy road bridge with a stated height of 18.3 meters, which they are reluctant to open at rush hour — which, of course, it was. Having a mast height of 18 meters, I didn’t want to risk it and requested an opening, having quoted our height as 19 meters!

We emerged from that bridge only a few hundred meters from the entrance to the only marina in the center of Gothenburg, Lilla Bommen. A huge square-rigged ship marks the entrance, but its bowsprit overhangs half of it, making it difficult to assess whether there are any vacant berths before being committed to entering. Our approach turned into a nightmare as, with 25 knots of wind under our stern, we got halfway in before we were chased away from the only vacant hammerhead berth. As we tried to turn against the wind in a very restricted space, we very nearly got run down by one of the many ferries whose berths occupy one side of the marina. Eventually emerging unscathed but shaken, we managed to berth with three friendly Norwegian yachts alongside the river wall in front of the Opera House. We later learned that Lilla Bommen is the most expensive marina in Sweden, so although our berth was not very comfortable with the wash from countless ferries, at least it was free.

Söderköping from above the canal.

We logged 220 nautical miles and spent 12 days over the transit, with 64 locks and what felt like as many bridges.

In retrospect, we did it too quickly and didn’t spend enough time exploring the towns we passed through. It was certainly an enjoyable experience with attractive scenery on the whole, but at times it was stressful handling a seagoing boat in and out of locks with crosswinds. It certainly taught me a lot about boat handling in confined spaces! ✧

The next morning, we passed through the Lilla Edet lock — the last of 64! — as soon as it opened and then had to wait an hour for a 10-meter bridge under repair to be opened for us. About 20 miles farther on, we had another long wait at the 13-meter bridge at Kungälv. This is an industrial area with no yacht-friendly wharves for mooring, so we had to gill about to stem the current and deal with the cross-wind. The final bridge before Gothenburg

USEFUL REFERENCES: The Göta Canal gotakanal.se/en/ The Trollhätte Canal kissen.co.uk/trollhattan.php sjofartsverket.se/sv/Batliv/Trollhatte-kanal11/Eng_Tys-versioner/trollhatte_eng/ Eight NV charts covering the Göta Canal and Trolhätte Canal nvcharts.com

Vadstena castle.

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Lilla Edet marina.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR After a 40-year career in the oil and chemical plant design and construction industries, culminating in 11 years as chief executive officer John Franklin of a Saudi Arabian group of companies, John retired in 2000 and built a 42-foot ocean-going sloop, Al Shaheen,, to a custom design by Michael Pocock, former commodore of the Ocean Cruising Club (OCC). John sailed away from the United Kingdom in 2002 on an intended one-year North Atlantic circuit, which took 11 years to complete. Joined by non-sailor Jenny Crickmore-Thompson in the Caribbean in 2004, John and Jenny sailed the Caribbean, the Bahamas, the East Coast of the United States, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland before returning to the U.K. via the Azores in 2013. After re-fitting Al Shaheen, they led an OCC Baltic Rally to St. Petersburg in 2014, visiting seven Baltic countries.

They spent another two years in the Baltic visiting Finland, East and West Sweden, southern Norway and Denmark before returning to the U.K. in 2016. From 2012 to 2016, John served as commodore of the OCC. When they are not sailing, John and Jenny split their time between the United Kingdom and South Africa, and have explored much of the African continent overland.

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A CRUISE INTO

HISTORY Exploring the Skagerrak and Kattegat

By Lynnie Bruce and Max Fletcher, Boston Station, Gulf of Maine Post

A

fter cruising upper Norway in 2015 and southwest Norway in 2016, we set our summer's sights on a clockwise sail from Holland to southern Norway, western Sweden, and Denmark, then back to Holland via the Kiel Canal. We had been granted temporary residence under the Dutch-American Friendship Treaty, which greatly enhanced our flexibility to live and travel in Europe without the restrictions of the Schengen Agreement and made this itinerary possible. We started out in the historic town of Hoorn, just a half-hour train ride north of Amsterdam, our wonderful winter base. The distances being relatively short, we would be able to cover a wide variety of interesting ground.

We exited the inland IJsselmeer Sea in mid-April via the Lorentz Locks, and made our way to the island of Terschelling to stage for the 300-mile passage to Norway. Lows frequently cross this part of the North Sea, particularly early and late in the season, so we weren't surprised to find no reasonable weather window for the next week or so. We left Juanona at the marina and took a ferry to the mainland, where we rented a car and headed to Germany. The Hanseatic towns of Lübeck and Bremen have well-preserved medieval streets and excellent museums, which made the road trip diversion well worthwhile.

The wait for decent weather resulted in an easy, two-night crossing to Farsund, a town just west of Lindesnes at Norway's southernmost tip. The next day we met three 30-something Scandinavians on a 40-footer tied next to us at the town docks. They were heading for the Caribbean, and their imminent departure for Scotland would be the first significant voyage of their lives. We spent an evening sharing notes and enjoying the camaraderie that so often occurs with kindred spirits. This chance meet-up with young folks turning dreams into reality was the first of many this summer, and we were inspired by their attitudes toward life.

We headed to the nearby island of Selør, where the Vikings wintered part of their fleet because the harbor didn't ice up and was strategically situated. We explored remnants of their settlement and a local couple took us up a hill to the rocky ruins of the ancient church. A signpost lists the kings who have lived at or visited Selør, from Olav Haraldsson in 1016 through Olav V in 1983.

Later that day, a father and his three children brought their runabout alongside for a visit. During the conversation, we learned that diving was not allowed in the harbor on the assumption that there must be a great deal of Viking material left on the bottom. They assured us that anchoring was permitted.

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Juanona anchored at Selør.

“We headed to the nearby island of Selør, where the Vikings wintered part of their fleet because the harbor didn't ice up and was strategically situated.”

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“We realized that we would intersect the path of the cruise being undertaken by the North American Station (NAS) of the Royal Scandinavian Yacht Clubs ... Reaching the stunning bay at Kalvö ahead of their arrival, we anchored and the next day watched as the fleet came in by ones and twos and dropped anchor.”

The south coast of Norway is far tamer than the dramatic scenery of the west coast. But it does offer some lovely cruising in sheltered waters with several interesting towns along the way. Mandal was the birthplace of several sculptors, including Gustav Vigeland. Later in Oslo, we visited an entire park built around his work, along with an adjoining museum that explains the sculpting processes he used. All over southern Norway, there is a delightful abundance of sculptures on display in towns large and small.

Blindleia (Blind Lead) is a charming, 12-mile-long winding waterway through an archipelago of islands and skerries. Some of the cuts are barely 30 feet wide, but with little tide or current to deal with, navigation is not particularly difficult. Being early in the season, we had a couple of picturesque anchorages to ourselves.

Leaving Blindleia, we went to the Maritime Museum in Grimstad, only to discover it hadn’t yet opened for the season. Someone inside noticed us peering through the door and welcomed us in for a tour, commenting, “Please excuse the mess, we aren’t quite ready yet.” We encountered that sort of hospitality throughout our Scandinavian travels.

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Continuing up the coast, we discovered that the painter Edvard Munch spent several years at Kragerø and painted several of his classics there. The town has a lovely walk to a dozen spots where Munch set down his easel. A signboard duplicates each painting, along with background information.

We kept our summer schedule completely open, which allowed us the flexibility to plan our sailing with the weather in mind. Having decided to detour the 55 miles up the fjord to Oslo, we timed it so we could enjoy a spinnaker run most of the way. A week later, a northerly wind gave us a smooth sail back down the fjord.

Anchored in a small cove just outside Oslo, we heard a knock on the hull from a young fellow in a kayak. He and his partner had cruised their sloop to the Caribbean and were looking forward to heading out again. They invited us to dinner, during which we quickly bonded over shared experiences. Later in the summer, we met up with Snorre and Ingunn again on the Danish island of Samsø.

Oslo was well worth the detour and deserved the full week we gave it. Two of the world’s most famous polar ships, Fram and Gjoa,

Replica Viking boat at Samsø.

are exhibited in a museum that provides a wide-ranging overview of the heroic age of exploration. Its treatment of British explorer Robert F. Scott, loser to the Norwegian Roald Amundsen in the race to the South Pole, was tactful and respectful. We also gained new appreciation for the explorer Fridtjof Nansen, whose work with prisoners of war and refugees earned him the Nobel Peace Prize in 1922. The nearby Kon-Tiki Museum houses a comprehensive overview of explorer Thor Heyerdahl’s life, as well as his balsawood raft Kon-Tiki and papyrus boat Ra II, on which he crossed oceans. We learned that Heyerdahl brought attention to the abundance of tar in the ocean, which helped lead to laws banning tankers from discharging oil on the open seas.

Crossing the border to Sweden’s Bohuslän province, the coastline gradually lost its trees and morphed into rocky, barren islets. Nature reserves abound, along with small villages dotted with red and white houses. The northernmost Koster Islands and nearby Kalvö Archipelago lived up to their billing as amongst the most beautiful on this coast.

We realized that we would intersect the path of the cruise being undertaken by the North American Station (NAS) of the Royal

Scandinavian Yacht Clubs, which we had recently joined. Cruise organizers Ernest Godshalk (BOS/BUZ), David Tunick (NYS), and their Swedish counterparts graciously included us in the weekend events. Reaching the stunning bay at Kalvö ahead of their arrival, we anchored and the next day watched as the fleet came in by ones and twos and dropped anchor.

The half-dozen or so United States flags in the anchorage doubled, in one day, the total number of U.S. flags we’d seen since arriving in northern Europe three summers ago. With many CCA members on the cruise, it felt like being back home to see familiar friends and make new ones. On June 23, Midsummer’s Eve, we toasted the dressing and raising of the traditional maypole with some classic Swedish treats.

We continued down the coast with stops in small towns such as Fjällbacka, which lies under huge, dramatic cliffs. An easy hike provided an outstanding view over the outlying islands, including Ingrid Bergman’s summer home on the rocky island of Dannholmen.

The Swedes love to moor their yachts alongside rock faces by tying to rings and pitons driven into the rock. Such deep-water rock faces are abundant and clearly noted on chart books of the area. Some harbors seemed to have nearly every available rock face occupied. The upside for us was plenty of room for anchoring in most harbors.

Gullholmen proved to be a beautiful 800-year-old fishing community, where we took long walks in wildlife preserves on the island of Härmäno. We again met up with the NAS cruise for a special seafood dinner overlooking a lovely anchorage. It was clear the cruise had been most successful and a great camaraderie had built amongst its participants.

We made our way to Styrsö, a small island near the outskirts of Gothenburg, to see our friend Michael. He had been one of the crew we’d met in Farsund, getting ready to sail to Scotland. Michael runs the Café Öbergska, which he co-owns with his family. We had a memorable reunion and could not have been more impressed by the spirit and enthusiasm with which Michael and his staff run this enchanting summer retreat. On Styrsö, as on several of the other Swedish islands, chance meetings led to invitations into homes, and we made many friends we hope to see again.

Heading off to Denmark, we’d been told not to miss the islands of Læsø and Anholt. We apparently weren’t the only ones who received issue 60  2018

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Above: Friends from home - Marty and Paul Rogers (BOS/ GMP) and Doug and Dale Bruce (BOS/GMP).

Below: Crowded harbor at Læsø.

A brisk sail enroute to Fjällbacka.

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the message, for when we arrived at Læsø, we found an already full harbor, well on its way to becoming jammed. It was now mid-July, and summer holidays had just begun for the Swedes. We were in a corner with several boats outside us and a seven-boat raft-up in front of us.

We soon learned that everyone takes it all in stride, and many hands pitch in for any boat movements. In fact, this form of docking offers the perfect opportunity to become acquainted with your neighbors while feeling part of the local cruising world. Nonetheless, we resolved to head for the less congested areas of Denmark’s Little Belt strait and the islands of the South Funen Archipelago and save Anholt, certain to be just as busy, for another time.

Ebeltoft proved to be a captivating stop, with well-preserved medieval streets and a gem of a museum called Farvergården. This was a small traditional dye works with the original dyeing vats, drying racks, and associated equipment, some dating back to the shop’s 1773 origins, all explained with excellent signage.

The historic city of Aarhus, second largest in Denmark, was an easy bus ride from Ebeltoft. The city was celebrating its well-deserved honor as the E.U.-designated 2017 European Capital of Culture. Along with Maastricht, Ghent, and a few other European cities, Aarhus strikes us as underappreciated and overshadowed by their better-known brethren of Bruges, Amsterdam, and Copenhagen. Aarhus seems an eminently livable city, with a futuristic new library, automated underground car park, and an ongoing plan to preserve and expand the many green areas of the city.

A 20-minute bus ride landed us at the Moesgaard. This impressive museum provides an outstanding overview of human development from the Bronze Age to the Vikings. It showcases the commonalities between people everywhere and throughout human history. The art museum in Aarhus is reportedly world-class, but we decided to revisit Denmark via a road trip at a later time and get back to cruising the islands.

We headed for beautiful Samsø, which was such an important port in the Viking age that they built a 500-meter canal to facilitate access to the west coast of the island. The outlines of the entire canal are still clearly visible.

Cruising south, we entered the area known as South Funen (the islands south of Fyn) which came highly recommended. The island of Lyø has a storybook little village. A ferry took us to the old town of Faaborg, with its many medieval structures and a wonderful art museum. We couldn’t sail through the area without visiting the small island of Skarø. Despite a year-round population of under 50, the island is the supplier of ice cream for Singapore Airlines. Of course we had to try some, and yes, it was delicious.

Our last port in Denmark turned out to be one of the loveliest. Ærøskøbing lived up to its billing as arguably the prettiest town in the country. Dating from about 1250, it became a shipping and trading powerhouse, but fell into economic decline with the advent of the steamship in the 1800s. As with Rothenburg in Germany, the economic decline meant no money for modernizing, so old houses and buildings were kept “as is.” What was once a disadvantage became a huge asset, with fairy-tale homes and beautifully preserved streets. Nearby Marstal houses an impressive Maritime Museum, showcasing its long and important role as a maritime harbor.

By now, we were in Cuxhaven and watching the long-term weather

patterns. We had booked flights home to Maine in late August, and to get back to our winter base in Hoorn, we had to negotiate the German Bight and the North Sea. After transiting the Kiel Canal it is only 170 miles to the entrance to the Frisian islands at Vlieland, but the prevailing winds make it challenging to head west. In addition, the currents and shallows in both the Elbe and the Frisian entrances need to be considered. With a favorable 36-hour stretch of moderate winds in the offing, we were not surprised to find ourselves in the company of a few dozen boats, mostly Dutch, making the same journey. Beginning at 0330, engines started up and boats, one by one, peeled away from raftups in Cuxhaven harbor to head out to the favorable current flowing out the Elbe. Throughout the night, we were in sight of many boats, giving it the feel of a friendly overnight race.

We entered the IJsselmeer via the same lock we’d left from three months earlier. Settling Juanona into her now-familiar winter quarters in Hoorn, we reflected once again on our amazing good fortune at being able to spend so much time in such an interesting part of the world. We have already begun thinking about 2018 and a likely cruise into the Baltic, with a new appreciation for the rich cultural history of the Skagerrak and Kattegat. 2

ABOUT THE AUTHORS Max Fletcher grew up racing and cruising in Maine.

He has sailed extensively in New England and the Canadian Maritimes, the Mediterranean and the Pacific Ocean. On Christopher Robin, his Westsail 32, he sailed from Maine to New Zealand, across the Southern Ocean and around Cape Horn. Max is a member of the Boston Station, Gulf of Maine Post.

Lynnie Bruce grew up in Virginia, where she sailed with her family before moving to Maine. Max and Lynnie were married in 2001 and live on Orr’s Island in Casco Bay, Maine, when not out cruising on Juanona, their Nordic 40. Together they have sailed from Maine to the Azores, the United Kingdom and northern Europe. For the past two years they have been exploring Scandinavian waters on Juanona.

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Catching the ebb on the Salt River at Owl's home port of Mt. Clemens, Michigan.

Put-In-Bay, Ohio.

The Cruise of the Owl

by Bill Hickman, San Francisco Station

I

t was the summer of 1952. The Eisenhower/Stevenson race was in full swing. I was in my junior year, studying naval architecture at the University of Michigan, and had been offered a summer job at Jakobson Shipyard in Oyster Bay, Long Island. Practical experience is very useful to a designer: it helps to prevent designing something that can’t be built.

I decided to get there from Detroit by sea. My boat was a Luedtke interlake catboat, 22 feet by 8 feet, a Marconi-rigged centerboarder designed by Charles D. Mower and built in 1918. Auxiliary power was a 7-horsepower Scott-Atwater outboard, which never failed to start. This turned out to be fortunate. Cooking was on a charcoal

Half-hull model of Owl.

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grill in the cockpit, and berthing was on two Army surplus canvas stretchers upon which one could sleep, if he got up periodically to rest. Someone had appended a crackerbox cabin over the cockpit, which was awfully ugly but kept the water out. The same cannot be said of the bottom planking. There was no icebox, but none of us had as yet discovered alcoholic beverages, an oversight that has subsequently been remedied.

My crew consisted of my college roommate George and two Princeton types. On a beautiful morning, we caught the ebb from our slip in Salt River at the north end of Lake St. Clair. This was simple, as in the Great Lakes there is nothing but ebb, as we were to

discover later. In midafternoon, we passed under the Ambassador Bridge between Detroit and Windsor, Ontario. By late afternoon, we were anchored for the night off Middle Sister Island in Lake Erie, a sanctuary apparently operated by the Ohio Black Fly Breeders Association: “We Breed ‘Em, You Feed ‘Em”.

Early the next morning, we were under way after a hurried breakfast of what appeared to be blueberry pancakes, except we didn‘t have any blueberries. We sailed into Put-In-Bay for a look, but did not stop. Late that afternoon, we moored alongside George’s father’s 38-foot Matthews cruiser at the handsome Mentor Harbor Yachting Club. There we had a badly needed shower and a very fine dinner.

At this point my entire crew mutinied.

After a short layover, we were under way again. My new crew was Steve, a college roommate. As the day went on, the wind picked up from the north, and the sky took on a greenish cast. Pretty soon it was obvious that we had better find shelter, and we found a small river leading to a small settlement, which shall remain unnamed as some people have long memories. The wind was so strong that it was actually pushing Lake Erie onto the Ohio side, and water was flowing up the river.

I was carefully watching the channel and did not notice the power cable until, first, sparks came showering down from aloft, and, second, all the lights in the town went out. For three days, we were subjected to hostile looks by passing strangers. In due course, the storm blew itself out, and we proceeded under power to Erie, Pennsylvania, where I spent a day splicing in a new forestay and

shrouds, a skill I learned in the Sea Scouts.

With the mast fortunately intact and restepped, we proceeded under sail toward Buffalo and passed under the Peace Bridge, marveling at the large bow wave set up by the stone bridge sponsons. Soon thereafter, the current seemed even more rapid, and we felt, rather than heard, a low roar getting nearer and nearer. A quick look at the chart confirmed that we had missed the turnoff at Tonawanda and were on the short list to be the first catboat over Niagara Falls.

Prudence suggested a reversal in course, and the Scott-Atwater did not fail us. We crept slowly up the New York shore, with “old cold nose” rigged and ready to let go. About nine o’clock that evening,

on Owl, as has been suggested, “isSleeping a challenge. Although I was six-foot-one, I was three inches shorter than Steve, so I was allotted the so-called berth on the port side of the centerboard. This required some acrobatics to reach, as there was not much clearance between the top of the centerboard casing and the housetop.

”

The author steering Owl. Note the wood stove for cooking.

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Peaceful weather in the Erie Canal.

Owl in a big lock.

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we moored alongside the sea wall just below the towering lock gates of the first Erie Canal lock at Lockport, skipped dinner and crashed.

Sleeping on Owl, as has been suggested, is a challenge. Although I was six-foot-one, I was three inches shorter than Steve, so I was allotted the so-called berth on the port side of the centerboard. This required some acrobatics to reach, as there was not much clearance between the top of the centerboard casing and the housetop. Steve slept in the starboard berth, which only required crawling in like a dog. The next morning, we were awakened by peals of bells and found that we had moored right in front of the church. As Steve invariably slept in the buff, the sight of him backing into the cockpit must have caused some comment at matins by the ladies taking a pre-service stroll along the sea wall.

We completed the necessary paperwork and entered the massive lock. The only other boat in there was Malabar X, a shapely Alden schooner headed east. We moved at a leisurely four knots, pushed by the faithful Scott-Atwater outboard, until somewhere between Rome and Utica we sheared a propeller pin and came to a halt. I was elected to play the role of the Mule Named Sal (a song about the Erie Canal’s conversion from mule to engine power, otherwise aptly known as Low Bridge, Everybody Down) and we towed to the next civilized port where we found a spare.

Then came miles and miles of serene country, without another boat coming our way. We soon found out why. Lock 9 was down for repairs, and the canal was drained between lock 8 and lock 10. As we were a small, shoal-draft boat, a borrowed trailer soon solved our portage problem, but we had to say goodbye to the lovely Malabar X, stuck there until the lock was repaired.

We proceeded through the beautiful Finger Lakes region, crossed Lake Oneida in a torrential downpour, which required us to steer a compass course between the buoys, and finally arrived at the five “staircase” locks at Troy. These took us down into the Hudson River, where we again stepped the mast. We had been told to expect a broad issue 60  2018

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The author after making six wire splices.

reach all the way to New York City, but as it happened, a hurricane was sniffing around and we had 20 knots right on the nose. We soon tired of this and sought a mooring for the night, which we found behind a large rock on the east side of the river, quite close to a lovely colonial mansion sited between the river and the New York City railroad tracks.

We were beginning to think of dinner, as cocktail time did not yet exist, when we saw two heads swimming out from shore. I invited them aboard. As they crawled out of the water, one of the heads said, “This is Gore Vidal”. I introduced my crew and myself, but the head said, “No, you don’t understand. This is GORE VIDAL”.

I should explain that Steve and I were both engineering students,

and consequently had not the faintest idea who Gore Vidal was. I have since read some of his books, which are rather good. We were invited ashore to meet Mr. Vidal’s stately mother, ensconced in the colonial mansion. She was very pleasant and courteous to us as we stood dripping on her parquet floors. She showed us a music stand that had once belonged to Felix Mendelssohn. We had just missed Tennessee Williams and the composer Samuel Barber.

The next morning, the wind had returned to its customary quarter, and we had a spanking good reach down the Hudson, past the United States Military Academy at West Point and the nowabandoned castle ruins at Bannerman Island, and finally moored for

were beginning to think of dinner, “asWecocktail time did not yet exist, when we saw two heads swimming out from shore. I invited them aboard. As they crawled out of the water, one of the heads said, ‘This is Gore Vidal’. I introduced my crew and myself, but the head said, ‘No, you don’t understand. This is GORE VIDAL’.

”

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Gore Vidal's house on the Hudson River.

of the summer, I sold Owl “Atforthea end pittance and returned to the

Portage around lock 9.

the night at the New York University crew dock in the Harlem River.

The following afternoon, we picked up my former Sea Scout skipper, “Monk” Farnham (NYS), then editor of Boating Magazine, who piloted us through Hell Gate and out into Long Island Sound as night fell. Owl was leaving a glowing ribbon behind her as we slipped into Oyster Bay and anchored alongside the 110-foot yawl Manxman.

I had never seen phosphorescence before. We had a fine dinner with the Farnhams, who lived in the gatehouse of the former J.P. Morgan estate. For a change, we slept in a bed.

On the following day, Steve picked up a berth as crew on Kawamee, a large steel motorsailer that was going on the annual New York Yacht Club cruise, and I went to work at the shipyard.

university. She was leaking pretty badly.

Those ' drinking water' boat builders used steel and brass screws interchangeably. I heard later that she had been broken up as a derelict. I got more use out of that boat and learned more from it than from any of the many boats I have owned since.

”

At the end of the summer, I sold Owl for a pittance and returned to the university. She was leaking pretty badly. Those “drinking water” boat builders used steel and brass screws interchangeably. I heard later that she had been broken up as a derelict. I got more use out of that boat and learned more from it than from any of the many boats I have owned since. I received my degree and went into submarine service, where my experience sleeping aboard Owl was very helpful. 2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Bill Hickman learned to sail on Lake St. Clair in Michigan on Owl, a catboat which he restored with his father in 1950. He was taught marlinspike seamanship and navigation by his Sea Scout skipper, “Monk” Farnham (NYS). After receiving a degree in naval architecture from the University of Michigan, he served in the Navy submarine service, retiring as a commander in the U.S. Navy Reserve. He worked in a small shipyard in Sausalito, California, as a naval architect and construction superintendent, and for 25 years owned a hydraulics business. Putting his talents to good use, he built seven boats for himself including a steamboat, all made of wood.

When not sailing or designing boats, Bill enjoyed playing the piano and concertina. He is pictured here sailing his Doughdish H12, Mud Hen, on the Intracoastal Waterway near Stuart, Florida. Sadly, Bill passed away on August 15, 2017.

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Parker and Olivia on the bowsprit.

Sailing with Grandchildren on the Bras d’Or Lakes 96

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Wilson Fitt, Bras d’Or Station

M

any years ago, when our three children were small, we spent an idyllic week on Cape Breton’s Bras d’Or Lakes on our Herreshoff 28 ketch, putting the bow up on the shore at Marble Mountain and pitching the tent on the beach.

The kids swam, learned to row the dinghy, and messed around in boats to their hearts’ content.

They say you can’t go back, but this summer we did just that, this time with two of our grandchildren — Olivia, aged 10, and her first cousin Parker, aged 12 — aboard our 38-foot traditional cutter Christina Grant. It was one of the best weeks we have had in years, sailing, swimming, fishing, rowing and still messing about in boats.

The cruise started, sans grandchildren, from Chester, Nova Scotia, up to Halifax for a couple of days of showing family and guests around the harbor during the Tall Ships Festival. They were thrilled with the experience, some of them never having been on a sailboat before.

Leaving the hustle of the city behind, we spent a few days along the remote Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia, with stops in familiar and new anchorages, finally arriving at the St. Peters Canal, gateway to the Bras d’Or Lakes, escape hatch from the cold gray waters of the North Atlantic and home to general manager Gerry’s dependably friendly welcome at the St. Peter’s Marina.

One more day’s sailing and we were in Baddeck, start of our main event for the summer.

The kids were driven down to Baddeck by their fathers. They seemed happy to escape back-seat imprisonment and walk uptown for ice cream and snacks, then go aboard to stow their stuff in the two lockers that we had cleared out for them. The indisputable wiring difference between boys’ and girls’ brains was evident. Olivia carefully unpacked her stuff and laid it out on her berth to show to her grandmother before stowing it tidily. Parker jammed his knapsack into the locker without even bothering to open it, and spent the rest of the week digging about blindly for anything that seemed clean or dry.

Next morning was spent shopping for provisions (kids that age eat more than grownups!), snazzy sunglasses for Olivia and fishing lures for Parker. Right after lunch, we got under way in bright sunshine and a brisk southwesterly for a downwind run along Great Bras d’Or Channel to Surprise Cove.

The lovely things about cruising in the Bras d’Or Lakes are that

Olivia at the helm.

“Next morning was spent

shopping for provisions (kids that age eat more than grownups!), snazzy sunglasses for Olivia and fishing lures for Parker.

”

the brackish waters are warm and protected, the scenery is beautiful, the next anchorage is rarely more than a few miles away, and there is a reasonable probability that you will have it to yourself. Surprise Cove, about seven miles from Baddeck, is an old gypsum quarry reached via a shallow, narrow passage that extends from the head of Big Harbour (not actually very big at all) to a deep, enclosed basin surrounded by gypsum cliffs. CCA member Waring Partridge (NYS) owns much of the shoreline thereabouts and hosted one of the memorable events of the CCA 90th Anniversary Cruise in 2012.

Regrettably, he wasn’t in residence when we were there this summer.

This anchorage set the tone for the rest of the week: everyone in for a swim, followed by the old folks settling down with their books and the young folks exploring the shore in the dinghy, fishing issue 60  2018

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Top: Olivia jumps.

Bottom: Sneaking out of Surprise Cove.

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(with sparse results), more swimming, and waiting patiently for late afternoon snacks to materialize.

We have an old copy of Cruise Cape Breton with sketch charts of the various anchorages that have been republished in many subsequent guides. On the Surprise Cove page, there is a note in my handwriting that says “biggest mosquitoes in Cape Breton.” We had no problem during the day, but the note came true as darkness fell and our defenses were shown in need of some upgrading. Who’d have thought that mosquitoes could find their way through a dorade box?

The morning dawned bright, still, and mosquitoey. We moved out to reanchor close to the beach, across from Waring’s property where there was a bit of breeze, and enjoyed breakfast and morning dips. The wind came up briskly from the southwest, and we had a lively beat back up the Great Bras d’Or Channel. The kids hoisted the sails with some help, ground the double headsail sheet winches at each tack, becoming more efficient each time, and rode the end of the bowsprit between tacks.

This day’s voyage was all of 12 miles, up past Baddeck to the Washabuck River (dubbed “Wash-yer-butt” in pre-adolescent fun speak). This is another spot with a long CCA history. The late Charles Vilas and the very present Henry Fuller (BOS) are, with many others, responsible for the preservation of much of the Washabuck shoreline in its natural state. We picked Indian Cove from among the several excellent anchorages, and enjoyed a repeat of the previous day’s strenuous afternoon agenda.

On the third day, calm and clear, we decided to go to Iona for a shore excursion to visit the Highland Village, a living museum that explains and celebrates the Scottish history and traditions in Cape Breton. My family roots are here, so this is of particular interest to me. Iona is a small village where the Barra Strait, crossed by highway and railway bridges, connects two major portions of the Bras d’Or Lakes. We anchored off the popular swimming beach on the north side of the bridges and soon realized that the walk up the hill to the museum was longer than we remembered from a previous visit. But, as luck would have it, a phone company guy said that he would give us a lift if we could all crowd into the cab of his truck, which we accomplished in a jumble of arms and legs.

We had an excellent lunch at the pub next to the museum entrance with an absolutely fabulous view over the lake, followed by a delightful couple of hours in the exhibit houses. They are organized chronologically, starting with a stone hut from the Scottish Highlands, moving through the first log houses that settlers would have built on arrival, then to more elaborately finished houses, barns, and workshops. The kids announced that this was one of the highlights of the whole cruise.

We walked the couple of kilometers back, mostly along the old rail line to avoid the hills and road traffic. As in many parts of Cape Breton, old farms have left behind the remnants of apple orchards. We stopped to pick small hard apples from one of the trees along the rails, and later made surprisingly good applesauce for breakfast.

The day was wearing on, so we upped anchor, another children’s task now that we have a nice electric windlass and wash-down pump,

Parker and Olivia rowing in Surprise Cove.

“The lovely things about cruising in the Bras d’Or Lakes are that the brackish

waters are warm and protected, the scenery is beautiful, the next anchorage is rarely more than a few miles away, and there is a reasonable probability that you will have it to yourself. and backtracked a couple of miles to the always lovely Maskells Harbour, birthplace of the CCA. There was time enough for the kids’ obligatory swim and messing about on the beach while I walked up the hill to Boulaceet Farm, owned by Harry Anderson (BDO), Larry Glenn (BOS/NBP), and Dev Barker (BOS). Harry had been there a few weeks before and Larry was expected a few days hence, but Dev was home, so he and I had a chance to share a drink and a chat.

The only downside to Maskells Harbour is that an outfit in Baddeck that rents jet skis by the hour apparently tells everyone that Maskells is the place to go. Jet skis are the mosquitoes of the boating world: highly annoying, buzzy things that make you want to give

”

them a swat. But unlike mosquitoes, they go away as the sun dips, leaving everything in peace.

The fourth day, with rain threatening, we motored back down to Barra and under the bascule bridge, waving to the bridgemaster, much to the delight of the kids. A lovely sail took us through a series of narrow but deep and winding channels between islands, into Denys Basin and thence to the old wharf at Orangedale. Parker’s diligent fishing finally resulted in several small mackerel and a trout, too small to keep but still very satisfying. The rain had started in earnest by late afternoon, so we had a quiet evening playing team Scrabble, the boys finishing way ahead of the girls. issue 60  2018

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Parker at the masthead.

Olivia in bosun's chair.

After another very still night (by now we had the mosquito defenses effectively deployed), we got underway early in the damp morning for Pellier Harbour, kids still curled up in their berths. This was an 11-mile trip, short enough for a late breakfast on arrival.

Here we were able to put the bow of the boat on the steep beach, as we used to do so long ago at Marble Mountain. Pellier Harbour is a lovely spot, with only two houses visible on the far shore and no sign of life. It seems to be far enough away from Cape Breton cottage country to keep the jet skis and motorboats away. We had the anchorage all to ourselves to swim, fish (but not catch), mess about on the beach and be very lazy in the warm sun.

The sixth day dawned with a good stiff westerly breeze. We tucked a reef in the main and beat up West Bay, headed for the Crammond Islands, Parker and Olivia working the winches enthusiastically at each tack and dipping their hands and legs in the water on the leeward side as we heeled over. The distance covered was eight miles in a straight line, just about far enough for a windward thrash in my opinion. It must seem repetitive by now, but the Crammond Islands provide another uninhabited, very protected, sandy beach harbor. There is a bit more traffic but nothing objectionable.

In the afternoon, I asked the kids if they wanted to go up the mast in the bosun’s chair. They got to the lower spreaders on the first try, then screwed up their nerve to go to the upper spreaders.

By the time the cruise was over, Parker was at the masthead. Olivia

afternoon, I asked the kids if they wanted to go up “In the the mast in the bosun’s chair. They got to the lower spreaders on the first try, then screwed up their nerve to go to the upper spreaders. By the time the cruise was over, Parker was at the masthead.

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”

went all the way a few weeks later, along with one of her 10-year-old friends. This is no small feat for children of this age. I am pretty white knuckled up there and most people wouldn’t go up on a bet.

That brought us to the final day of the cruise, back to St. Peter’s on yet another bright day with no wind to speak of. Of all the unlikely things, the kids had become fascinated with the CCA yearbook by this time and spent endless hours looking at the pictures, debating which boat they liked best and drawing ever more elaborate designs with features like hot tubs, trampolines, and elevators.

When we rounded the final corner to St. Peter’s Marina, they shouted with excitement over a boat flying the CCA burgee and immediately went to the book to see who it was. It turned out to be the lovely Maverick, a 2015 Hanse 505 owned by Nancy Jamison and Steve McInnis (BOS). The kids were thrilled to have a tour and deeply impressed by the space (“They even have bedrooms!”) and all

the fancy features. Our traditional wooden boat may never look the same to them again.

One more night aboard and then Olivia’s father, our eldest son Jason, arrived to deliver both kids back to the real world, leaving us to venture back into the gray Atlantic to get the boat home again.

What a wonderful week we had together! 2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Wilson has been cruising the coast of Nova Scotia since he was a teenager. He and his wife, Thelma Costello, built their 38-foot Bill Atkin cutter Christina Grant in their backyard, launched it in 1999, and with various combinations of family and friends as crew, sailed it to the Caribbean, Bermuda, and Newfoundland. In 2009 Wilson singlehanded Christina Grant transatlantic to Scotland, where he and Thelma spent two years exploring Scotland and Ireland. He returned from Ireland to Nova Scotia in 2012, doublehanded with one of his sons. Back home in Nova Scotia, Wilson oversaw the restoration of the Bluenose II, replica of the legendary Grand Banks fishing schooner, racing champion and Canadian icon Bluenose.

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By Linda and Steve Dashew, New York Station

Sea Trial Voyaging A Tale of Past and Present

An ocean-going osprey we met a thousand miles from land.

By Linda and Steve Dashew, New York Station

W

e are 1,100 nautical miles from Flamenco Marina on the Pacific side of the Panama Canal.

The breeze is behind us for the first time in almost 6,000 nautical miles. Thirty days ago we were partaking in the wonders of Fiji, and now we are within four days of the canal. The crew of FPB 781 Cochise is comfortable, rested, and enjoying this voyage.

As unlikely as the preceding sounds, the bird circling us is even more unusual than the route we are taking. My wife Linda and I both recognize that this is no ordinary sea bird, but we simply cannot come to grips with what we know it to be. It is an apt metaphor for this time and place in our lives.

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Fiji to Panama? You might think that’s a misprint, or that we are crazy. It is dead upwind against the prevailing west-going current. Almost as unbelievable as the huge talons extended by this “sea bird” trying to grip the port boom topping lift on Cochise.

We’ve been fooling around with yacht design for more than 50 years now, cruising yachts for the last 40. We have learned that yacht design is, at its foundation, the art of compromise.

Race boats are easy; there are always the rules against which you are working. Designing for long-distance cruising is far more difficult. For us this begins with safety, boat speed, and sustainability, all of which have to be factored into the plans. And then

comes the big one — draft. Boat speed and draft are synonymous, but “excess draft” limits where you can go and can be a major safety impediment. We’ve been aground several times in remote places where, with another six inches of draft, we would still be there. Our personal target is usually six feet fully loaded.

At the other end of the equation, we want to be able to work off a lee shore in a real blow with breaking seas. The answer for us, historically, came in the form of hulls that

“

We’ve been fooling around with yacht design for more than 50 years now, cruising yachts for the last 40. We have learned that yacht design is, at its foundation, the art of compromise.

”

used most of their length for waterline and were of moderate beam, coupled with a modest-sized rig that could be used efficiently by a short-handed crew. By pushing some of the underwater hull volume into the ends of the boat, we could go faster with less drag. A side benefit was a slightly flatter midsection, which allowed for a longer keel span within the limited draft. The negative came in light-air sailing, where we could be losing as much as four to six miles per day — but this was a small price to pay for the benefits received, especially where the engine would be used in light airs anyway.

Beowulf at the start of the Caribbean 1500.

The five-day, three-hour mark she set – with motoring allowed – still stands as the record.

Of all our sailboats she was the favorite.

The Dashews’ passage route from Fiji to Panama. issue 60  2018

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Beowulf with her trade-wind cruising rig. Being an apparent wind machine, she used an articulating bowsprit and full-width travelers for main and mizzen control. She was very well behaved, and only once did we have to cut away a spinnaker.

“

Having spent an entire lifetime heaping epithets upon powerboats and their operators, this decision to investigate voyaging without sails was not taken lightly. But when we looked at the benefits that might allow us to continue voyaging in our dotage, we were seduced into proceeding.

With our first attempt at an optimized-for-short-handed-voyaging yacht, the 62-foot cutter Intermezzo II, we found an acceptable formula with a loaded draft of five feet nine inches, and waterline half entry angle in the 17-18 degree range. We knew we wouldn’t be winning any races on handicap with these proportions, but that was not the goal. Intermezzo II was comfortable enough that a long beat up the East Coast of the United States in a northeast breeze was an acceptable proposition. Intermezzo II would average 170 miles a day upwind, and close to 200 miles per day off the wind in the trades. Our first long passage, from Cape Town to Antigua, was exceptionally comfortable, taking just under 30 days for the 6,000 miles.

A series of yachts for like-minded cruising friends followed, with narrower forward waterlines and rounder sections. We were gradually pulling volume out of the middle of these yachts and adding it to the overall length. This increased usable interior volume, as well as paying dividends 104

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”

Cochise’s crew entering the lagoon at Ra’iatea. Your humble correspondents left, and our crew, Steve Parsons, right.

at higher speeds with increased waterline length. The benefits, in terms of average passage times, were substantial. We were now counting on 185–235 miles per day compared to 164–180 when we first started cruising.

With the 68-foot ketch Sundeer, we took this design approach to an extreme, searching for even more upwind comfort.

Indeed, Sundeer was a very pleasant ride in all types of sea states.

We brought her from Nuka Hiva in the Marquesas Islands to southern California, a sailed distance of 2,880 nautical miles, in 16 days. But we gave away performance in the upper speed ranges to achieve this comfort. After a relatively quick 20,000 miles with Sundeer, we felt a somewhat lighter configuration with just a touch more volume in the ends would be optimum, and the Sundeer production series followed.

The 78-foot ketch Beowulf took us to the edge of the tolerable comfort spectrum, insofar as upwind passages were concerned. A very fine half entry angle of 11 degrees, coupled with up to three tons of water ballast and an eight-foot draft, worked well with her 56,000-pound (loaded for cruising) displacement.

So well, in fact, that almost half the 20,000 miles we did with her were upwind. Beowulf’s ability to rack up the miles downwind — 300 miles per day was the norm for the two of us — often made it possible to take advantage of weather events that turned what otherwise would have been upwind trips into a more advantageous wind angle. The Marquesas to San Diego in 12 days and three hours, where just 18 hours were hard on the wind, springs to mind as an example. Honesty requires that we include a passage from Panama to Curacao, which remains the family standard for unpleasant conditions. (Regardless of which direction we headed, the wind always shifted directly onto the nose). Winds of 25–35 knots and short, steep seas were served up as a reminder not to mess with Christmas trades.

will let you in on a closely guarded secret: The acronym FPB, by which these un-sailboats are known, does not stand for functional, fast, or fine power boat. The true meaning can be determined by process of elimination, and this clue: the fourth letter of the first word is a rectangular flag made up of yellow and blue squares.

True sailors will be dubious of course, which is as it should be. But the potential comfort and boat speed that might come from a rig-less version of our sailboats — half entry angles at 10 degrees, very narrow waterline beam (since sail-carrying stability is not required), and sufficient waterline to move at 260 miles a day while sipping diesel — held our interest. And so, a dozen years ago, FPB 831 Wind Horse came to be. Comfort and quickness coupled with ease of handling combined to entice us to numerous upwind destinations, even while enduring a certain level of self-loathing for designing, building, and voyaging these creatures.

Sixty thousand nautical miles followed in seven years of part-time cruising, wherein Wind Horse averaged 11 knots overall at seven gallons of diesel per hour, inclusive of all auxiliary power requirements. So there seemed to be something to this so-called dark side. But then we were forced out of retirement to work on several other FPB projects — a part of the Faustian bargain with which we had saddled ourselves.

Where the preceding FPB hull designs were riffs on our sailboats, FPB 781 Cochise is very much a new breed. There is significantly more displacement on a similar waterline length, with a hull shape that minimizes wetted surface. The ends of the hull are both deeper and narrower.

It was a broken main boom while dealing with an unforecast hurricane off the coast of Mexico that got us thinking about … heresy. The dark side. Running off at speed with the spiral bands of a hurricane in the center of your radar will sometimes make you think strange thoughts …

Having spent an entire lifetime heaping epithets upon powerboats and their operators, this decision to investigate voyaging without sails was not taken lightly. But when we looked at the benefits that might allow us to continue voyaging in our dotage, we were seduced into proceeding.

Realizing most other CCA-ers have probably grown up with similar feelings of ill will toward the sail-less crowd, we 73-foot cutter Deerfoot II, and what was probably the first mainsail roach past the backstay. A mistake that was to become a big step forward in cruising rig performance. issue 60  2018

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“

...the subject of the route back to the U.S. was taken up. Consumption of local grog during dinner on October 6 led to a rigorous parametric analysis. The following morning, we arranged to top off the fuel tanks, contacted Fijian customs for an outward clearance, and bought a dozen curry dinners for the freezer.

”

Cochise enjoying Fijian waters.

Cochise was launched on June 10, 2016, in New Zealand. Initial sea trials had gone well, so with basic items checked out we decided on a quick visit to Fiji to test the air conditioning and fridge systems in a warmer environment than the miserable winter we were having in northern New Zealand. The 1,100-nautical-mile ensuing passage was uneventful, and within a few days of arrival we knew we were OK systems-wise. To be sure, we dallied in the lovely Fijian winter weather. But four weeks into this extended period of sea trials, we began to think of ways we might put Cochise’s weatherliness to work. Of the many options, the one which appealed the most was an early return to the States. A promising basketball season was quickly approaching in the U.S., and we began to consider the route options between Fiji and both East and West coasts of the United States. The West Coast was one with which we were very familiar. But we were now thinking about a return to Greenland and Svalbard, so the East Coast of the U.S. would be ideal.

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We can stand just about anything motion-wise for a couple of thousand miles. But Fiji to Panama? That’s in excess of 6,000 nautical miles.

Cochise was anchored in Port Denarau harbor. While ashore visiting friends with whom we had buddy-boated halfway around the world, the subject of the route back to the U.S. was taken up. Consumption of local grog during dinner on October 6 led to a rigorous parametric analysis. The following morning, we arranged to top off the fuel tanks, contacted Fijian customs for an outward clearance, and bought a dozen curry dinners for the freezer. On the afternoon of October 8, we were outside the pass at Cloudbreak, the renowned surf spot, watching the locals playing in triple overhead (20-foot-plus) surf, after which we pointed our nose into the northeast trades and began our quest towards Panama.

With all of the hype about long-range weather forecasting

Surfer at the legendary Cloudbreak, Fiji.

you’d be excused for believing forecasts 24 hours out. However, we have learned to take all forecasts with a degree of skepticism.

Within 24 hours it is blowing a steady 25 to 35 knots, 50 knots in the squalls, and of course we are in the middle of the Lau island group and its reefs.

Once clear of Fijian waters, the weather settled down to a steady 12–16 knots out of the east-northeast on our nose. With just a single wave system to contend with, Cochise finds an easy rhythm at 10.75 knots. The bow drops on the occasional square back, and then lands with a soft swoosh.

We are used to doing passages by ourselves, but the advent of maturity and pressure from the family has us trying out crew for the first time. We are accompanied by Steve Parsons, a professional sailor with vast Southern Ocean and South Pacific experience. This allows us the luxury of three hours on and six hours off for watches.

Seven days after leaving Fiji, Bora Bora is outlined off the port bow, and then the pass into Ra’iatea’s central lagoon is behind us. Clearance is quickly obtained from the gendarmes, and after a slight delay we have our duty-free fuel permit. A dinner out, a long walk, and we are ready to go again. We move to the fuel dock and begin to load up.

Cochise carries a lot of fuel, 4,700 gallons in tanks which are integral with the hull, forming in effect a double bottom.

The tank tops go from hull-side to hull-side with air vents on the port side. We heel the boat to starboard by running the dinghy out on its boom to make sure the tanks can expel all air and are 100 percent filled.

Having a pretty good idea of the fuel Cochise burns in varying wind and sea states, we estimate that at 10.5–11 knots we should have at least a 15 percent fuel safety factor for a direct shot to Panama. We can always add fuel in Atuona in the Marquesas Islands, or stop in the Galapagos, but the direct route is cleaner and simpler. If the weather gets worse, we anticipate range can be extended by slowing down. The big question is ocean currents. How much will we lose (or gain!) by trying to harness equatorial countercurrents?

Friday, October 16. Cochise slips quietly out the pass at Ra’iatea with her crew of three looking forward to being at sea again. A few hours later and Huahine, our favorite island in the Societies, is to leeward, a lagoon’s width distant from the massive surf breaking on the outer reef. We are tempted to stop, but the paperwork drill and our curiosity about the remainder of the voyage keep us pressing on. And then what turns out to be a 50-pound wahoo hits our newly acquired “meat line” and we are distracted from thoughts of tropical idylls.

Cochise has two watch standing areas. Offshore we use either the forward end of the great room or the upper deck.

Where short-range visibility is critical, when we are working our way through coral, ice, or lobster traps, the height provided by the enclosed flying bridge makes it the place for keeping a close eye on the sea’s surface.

In the olden days, when we were sailors, keeping the boat moving at its best required 100 percent concentration. When we weren’t trimming or changing sails, we were noodling the weather. Between GRIB files, polar plots, waves, and currents, picking the best course took all the available bandwidth between our ears. With a powerboat like Cochise, we can easily average an 11-knot up or downwind VMG, but we are still working the weather. In this case we are looking for the lightest headwinds and smallest hit or best push from the current.

At least four times a day, we check fuel consumed by each of the 230-horsepower John Deere diesels. This data comes from the engine computers and has proven very accurate. At the same time, we make a log entry and place a waypoint on the chart. With distance run and fuel burned, we get gallons per nautical mile for that segment of the trip. This includes parasite loads such as hydraulics, the stabilizers, and electrical loads, as well as the effects of windage and rough water drag. On the passage to Panama, we are using about .85 gallon per nautical mile.

Take the distance to go and the fuel left with which to do it, and we know where we stand. If we have extra reserve we can save it, or speed up a bit and trade time at sea for some extra fuel burn.

Or, if we are nervous, slow down and extend our range.

On October 22, we adjust course slightly to the southeast to coast along the reef edge of the uninhabited island of Tiki in the Tuamotu archipelago. We visited here 39 years ago with a boatload of visitors from nearby Takaroa. With the anchor set on the edge of the barrier reef and nothing but the wind holding us off the coral, this was not the most restful stop. But the fresh fish and coconut crabs caught by our passengers made for wonderful eating.

Cochise’s lower helm station, at the forward end.

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Welcome to the Gulf of Panama. Shot with a 20-millimeter lens. We estimated the strike to be within ďŹ ve boat lengths. Several were closer.

The next day we note that Fatu Hiva, the easternmost of the Marquesas Islands, is just 45 miles north of our course. The best pamplemousse on the planet for four hours? We send an email to vessel control in Papeete, advising them of a short maintenance stop.

Three days later and we’re approaching Fatu Hiva, its stark outline slowly filling in with vegetation until we can see the goats climbing unimaginably steep trails. And then the anchor chain sings its happy song as our 340-pound Manson Supreme anchor finds the bottom. After things cool down in the engine room, we will give it a thorough check. In the meantime, we trade with the locals for pamplemousse and bananas and settle in for the night.

Departing Fatu Hiva around its north side, we hook a 50-pound mahi mahi and then another big wahoo. With the freezer now full of fresh fish, the meat line is retired.

Progress toward Panama varies with current. Some days we lose an average of .25 knots per hour, other times it is 1.5 knots

Bay of Virgins, Hanavave, Fatu Hiva: still a favorite after three visits over 40 years.

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down the drain. And occasionally we even have a slight gain.

Our speed through the water is averaging 11 knots. Speed made good is right at 10.

It is hard to explain just how comfortable Cochise is making us. For most of this trip, the wind and waves have been within 20 degrees of the bow. Sitting in the great room, watching the oncoming seas, and feeling the combined speeds of the waves and Cochise, you brace for the inevitable impact, but it does not come. Yes, the bow does lift a bit, and then there is the back of the wave, and the hull does drop into the trough, but it does this softly, with a swoosh rather than a smack. Rarely are the decks wet and there is little salt accumulation on the windows.

We come back now to the unusual visitor who has finally made his landing on the port boom. Sea birds do not have talons like these, and there is only one raptor of which we are aware that carries its prey head-forward to streamline air flow.

Welcome aboard, seĂąor osprey. What he is doing out here is his secret. He spends a few hours with us, and then flies off.

Seventy-two hours of mostly fair wind and seas, courtesy of a tropical disturbance on the Caribbean side of Panama, and the marina at Flamenco Island lies just beyond tomorrow’s sunrise.

We sit around the table having dinner, keeping watch through windows that provide almost 360 degrees of visibility. We are comparing passages as this one winds to a close. Steve Parsons talks about the trips he’s made to South Georgia and Antarctica.

Linda and I submit two Cape Town to the Virgin Islands passages, a year apart. These are of comparable length to what we have just achieved, but downwind. The first time was 37 days at sea, the second 30, as previously mentioned. And none were anywhere near the comfort level of this upwind voyage.

As if to teach us a bit of humility, the weather gods in the Bay of Panama turn on their lightning machine. We have numerous nearby strikes, but no damage occurs. And then the clouds clear as the sun rises, revealing anchored ships awaiting their turn through the canal. Flamenco radio advises that we are to proceed to Flamenco Marina and await clearance.

By 0830 customs have departed, the Q flag is removed, and the engines have cooled down. With 11,000 miles now on the GPS, sea trials are officially complete. It is time to start cruising. ✧

About the Authors Linda and Steve Dashew have authored eight books about yacht design, construction, seamanship, and voyaging. They and their children are pictured here in Bora Bora in 1977 aboard Intermezzo. (Note the banana stalk in the background.) More than 300 of their articles have appeared in major magazines around the world. Sixty-six of their yachts are out cruising. FPB 78-1 Cochise is the first of this series, of which three are now completed. Linda and Steve have recently retired so they can devote themselves full time again to cruising. Their four most recent books are available for free download. To get your copies of Offshore Cruising Encyclopedia, Mariners Weather Handbook, Surviving the Storm, and Practical Seamanship, visit SetSail.com.

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Why in theWorld Would You Go to the

Solomon Islands?

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by Amy Jordan and Roger Block Boston Station

“W

hy in the world would you go to the Solomon Islands?” This was the response we kept getting from our sailing friends when we described the first destination on our planned northerly route out of the Pacific cyclone zone for 2012–13.

With order only recently restored after the violent ethnic conflict referred to as “The Tensions,” an unemployment rate of 34 percent, rampant government corruption, and one of the Pacific’s highest malaria rates, the country would present some challenges.

Were we nuts? We hoped not.

The classic Coconut Milk Run across the Pacific had so far been a wonderful experience but definitely not a solitary one.

When the time came to decide where we’d spend our second Pacific cyclone season, we felt torn. issue 60  2018

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“After winding our way through

several twists and turns of coral, the local helmsman signaled that we should drop our anchor.

”

ther William and Es From a practical standpoint, the opportunity for land travel and easy access to boat repairs made Australia very tempting, but the urge to set out on our own was strong. Although we knew very little about the journey to Micronesia, the draw of less explored cruising grounds finally won out. We would head north. The Solomon Islands would be our first stop on the route less traveled. Would our friends be proven right? Would the crime and poverty make us regret our decision? We would soon find out.

We left Espiritu Santo in northern Vanuatu at the end of September 2012. In the spirit of getting off the beaten path, Roger had his heart set on making landfall at Indispensable Reef, a seldomvisited corner of the southern Solomon Islands. The trip northwest to the reef would take us four days, so we had to hope the mild forecast we received as we departed Espiritu Santo would remain good through our arrival. The passage was quite nice from a sailing perspective. As it turns out, we had some of the last good wind we would have for several months. Unfortunately, the day we arrived at the reef the winds picked up and the clouds rolled in. The scant information we had gleaned about where to anchor within the reef didn’t allow us to anchor in confidence in what were less than optimal conditions. After several unsuccessful hours of trying to find a comfortable anchorage in the many alleyways of coral, prudence suggested that we continue our journey to a more hospitable place. Roger’s dream was left unrealized as we were forced to forsake our visit to Indispensable Reef. We perused the chart and decided to continue on for another night, heading northeast to the island of Rennell.

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William and Esther’s beach.

Rennell is the larger of two islands that compose the Rennell and Bellona Province of the Solomon Islands. At 50 miles long and eight miles wide, the island is the second largest raised coral atoll in the world. Because of this, much of the island’s coastline is bound by 400– to–500-foot-high cliffs. At its eastern end is Lake Tegano. The lake, once the atoll’s lagoon, is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

After a night of beating to windward, we saw our planned destination in the early morning light. All we knew about our landfall was that it was called Kangava Bay and that it was on the lee side of the island. Neither our paper nor our electronic charts had any detail on the area. Just as we were tucking behind the bay’s headland, we saw a small runabout in the distance also heading into the bay. The helmsman signaled that we should follow him. On the bow of his boat was a woman wearing a pink pareo, seated with her feet tucked under her like Copenhagen’s Little Mermaid statue. This, we thought, ought to be interesting.

After winding our way through several twists and turns of coral, the local helmsman signaled that we should drop our anchor. Once we were secured, William and his wife, Esther, came alongside and invited us to their home. They indicated a beach to the south and said to come in whenever we were ready. After a shower and a nap, we launched the dinghy and set out to meet our hosts.

The shoreline we approached was shaped like a fingernail moon and backed by a jungle-covered cliff. There were two small houses on

Esther

Vanessa and Roger making dinner.

Fishing success in Rennell. stilts and an array of smaller out-buildings. We were greeted by William and several of his grandchildren who were visiting from Lavangu, the village across the bay. Esther, whose English wasn’t as good as William’s, was in the cooking platform preparing the evening meal. William gave us a tour of the beach. He explained that one house was where he and Esther lived and that the other was an accommodation for tourists. He had placed a listing for his Kangava Bay property on a bulletin board at the Solomon Islands Visitors Bureau in Honiara. Unfortunately, the difficulty of getting to William’s property discouraged all but the most adventurous holiday-makers. In four years he had had three guests.

This was a shame, since William loved to “talk story” and the property was a tropical paradise. We spent a few hours relaxing and putting names with faces. Before we headed back to the boat, Roger made plans to accompany William on his next morning’s daily fishing trip.

At 5:30 a.m. William, Roger, and a young man who lived at the top of the cliff headed out to fish. The trip was successful, and by mid-morning Esther was hard at work smoking 20 bonitos in an earth oven. William took us by boat to see Lavangu where his grandchildren and an assortment of other relatives lived. The landscape was lovely, with hedges of orchids and grassy pathways. Roger assisted William’s granddaughter Vanessa in deep-frying (and sampling) a fair number of ring cakes, which looked suspiciously like doughnuts. Back at William and Esther’s beach, we all gathered for dinner. The process of its creation was humbling. Half the meal was boiled in pots over open fires, while the other half was cooked underground with hot rocks. The menu included bonito, slippery cabbage, manioc, taro, cucumbers, and several other things we were somewhat unsure about.

We were joined by the neighbors from the top of the cliff as well as by chief Fred, a local village leader, and his associate who had stopped on their way to the east end of the island, paddling their new dugout canoes. After dinner we all sat around and talked story until we thought we might not be able to find our way back to the boat in the dark.

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“... we were awed by the courage and bravery of the

U.S. Marines fighting half a world away from home, hampered by limited supplies, greatly outnumbered, and unaccustomed to the sweltering equatorial environment.

”

Edson’s Ridge, Guadalcanal.

This cycle of fishing, visiting, cooking, helping with projects, and chatting went on for over a week, interrupted only by market day. On market day, William and Esther packed up their dried fish and a pile of coconuts and took them to the market in Tigoa at the west end of the island. Every trip required a great deal of effort, since securing one of the island’s few vehicles was difficult and the drive over the one coral road took many hours. Over the days, we had fallen into a comfortable rhythm and sadly, well before we were ready, it was time to push on.

The evening before our departure, we gathered for one last feast.

We knew it was a special night when Esther dispatched one of the family chickens for our meal. We had a lovely evening, and after several previous failures, I finally made a culinary contribution that was widely appreciated. You can never go wrong with fudge brownies.

In the morning William and a handful of grandkids who were on their way to school stopped to say goodbye. Not long after that, a teary Esther paddled out and presented us with several handwoven pandanus shoulder bags. It was very sad to leave, but we were very grateful that we had stumbled on this special place.

An overnight sail brought us to Marau Sound at the southeastern tip of Guadalcanal. We needed to check into the country at Honiara, 60 miles up the coast, so we knew we couldn’t linger in this lovely spot.

We spent only one evening, anchored in Marapa Bay, warily watching a crocodile that was hoping we’d come in for a swim.

Honiara, the capital of the Solomon Islands, is noted in cruising circles for having one of the least appealing anchorages in the Pacific.

In its open bay with poor holding, the options were few. We could drop our anchor out in the bay and hope for mild weather, or we could get a bit of protection from the wind and seas by mooring stern-to,

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secured to a wall built of what appeared to be giant concrete children’s jacks. We opted for the later. The wall itself was a bit unnerving, but when a large decrepit fishing boat became our neighbor, the fear of inclement weather became palpable.

The city itself wasn’t any more alluring than its harbor. A decade of ethnic strife, pitting outsiders from the nearby island of Malaita against the Guadalcanal islanders had left the city in a sad state of disarray. Many buildings were still uninhabitable, and the roadways were in dangerous disrepair. Violence had abated with the 2003 arrival of RAMSI (Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands), but as of 2012 this group’s work was not done and it was still trying to nurture the fledgling Solomon Islands government.

We spent a week in Honiara provisioning and lugging jerry jugs of fuel to the boat, getting our visas for Papua New Guinea, and becoming immersed in the history of America’s first offensive land engagement of World War ll, the Battle of Guadalcanal. During our tours of Red Beach and Edson’s Ridge, we were awed by the courage and bravery of the U.S. Marines fighting half a world away from home, hampered by limited supplies, greatly outnumbered, and unaccustomed to the sweltering equatorial environment.

On the evening before our planned departure from Honiara, our longtime and painfully close neighbor, the very rusty fishing boat Bokai, left town. We celebrated quietly and were thrilled the following morning to find no one had taken her place, greatly easing our departure maneuvers. With stern lines removed and our anchor up, we breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the Western Province.

The Marovo Lagoon is located in the Western Province of the Solomon Islands. At 270 square miles, it is the world’s largest saltwater

lagoon. Inside the lagoon are hundreds of small islands. The proposed UNESCO World Heritage Site is home to a hugely diverse array of sea life, a variety of which we hoped to encounter during our visit.

In addition to its sea life, the lagoon is known for its very talented woodcarvers. From utilitarian bowls to high-art canoe prow figureheads, the creations of these wood artisans were remarkable. It can be very difficult for the carvers to find a market for their creations without traveling to large towns such as Honiara or Gizo, which represents a huge expense for them. Therefore, the appearance in their

neighborhood of a cruising yacht is always a cause for excitement.

Shortly after we anchored inside the Mbili Passage, completing our overnight passage from Guadalcanal, we were invited ashore for a carving show. It was our first, but it would not be our last. Over the coming weeks we would meet many carvers and examine many, many carvings. Alas, a small sailing vessel can hold only so many woodcarvings so there came a time when we had to disappoint some of our talented visitors.

We worked our way slowly north in the lagoon, enjoying the empty anchorages and wonderful snorkeling. Eventually we arrived at Uepi Island, home of Uepi Island Resort, at the northeastern edge of the lagoon. The resort is one of the original dive operations in the area, and operators Grant and Jill are the longtime stewards of this small piece of paradise. We had arranged with them in advance to anchor behind the island and to spend a few days diving. The creatures we encountered on our dives were spectacular, with sightings of scalloped hammerhead sharks, pygmy mantas, and GIANT giant clams. The dive guides, all local, were full of tales about the lagoon and their home islands. The resort took seriously their responsibility to the community.

Their efforts to promote conservation of the local reefs was a given. Their Uepi coral and fish ball.

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Roger with Aldio Pita.

Canoe prow carving at Uepi.

livelihood depended on it. But they were involved with a variety of other projects as well. Foremost amongst these was the creation of a nonprofit called Solutions pa Marovo. The group raises funds to support local education and health-care initiatives, which they feel are two of the area’s more pressing needs. Their successes have been notable.

The town of Gizo is the capital of the Western Province and the country’s second largest town, with a population of 6,000. The island and surrounding area were occupied by the Japanese during World War II, and John F. Kennedy’s boat, PT-109, was sunk just a few miles away.

“The program was offered to try to provide islanders with a sustainable income that did not involve logging.”

After several great days of diving, we headed west. We were equipped with a mud map from Grant to get us to Nono Lagoon, home of Mbareho Island. During our travels we had heard about an artist named Aldio Pita who lived on Mbareho. He was known for his beautiful woodblock prints, which captured the natural world around his island. Grant’s map proved accurate, and we were soon safely anchored off Mbareho Island. We hadn’t really considered how we’d locate our artist, but there was no need to worry. As our dinghy approached a small dock not far from our anchorage, we were greeted by a man who introduced himself as none other than Aldio Pita.

Over two days Aldio told us his story. Many years ago he had been selected by an outreach organization from New Zealand to receive training in his craft. The program was offered to try to provide islanders with a sustainable income that did not involve logging. During that time he learned how to make paper out of the plants he had access to at home. That was over 20 years ago, and he is still creating. During our visit however, he was suffering from a paper shortage. Apparently the apparatus he used to create the paper had a broken part. We asked if he could create one of his prints on a spare piece of canvas from our boat. “Yes, not a problem.” Kesoko, the fishing god, now looks out at us from a wall in our New England home.

From Mbareho we headed north and west. After visits to Tetepare Island and the Vonavona Lagoon, we made our way to Ghizo Island.

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We came to Gizo for several reasons. We wanted to dive the wrecks surrounding the island, and ultimately we needed to check out of the country.

Our first order of business, however, was Zelita and Mary trade to drop off the crew of five, who we had flowers for popcorn. picked up at Lola Island in the Vonavona Lagoon. We had met Thomas, Romaine, and their three kids several weeks earlier at Uepi Island. They were in the midst of a very off-thebeaten-path trip around the world (though not by sailboat), so we hit it off. We encountered them again at the Zipolo Habu Lodge on Lola Island. As we were pulling up our anchor to leave Lola, we saw Thomas paddling a small boat in our direction.

“Did you say you were going to Gizo?” he asked.

“Yes, but it will take us two days because we can sail only in good, midday light.”

“That is no problem for us if it is no problem for you.”

An hour later the crew arrived alongside in the lodge’s launch, bearing bags of groceries and luggage. This wonderful French family turned out to be the perfect boat guests. Twelve-year-old Alex spent hours at the helm while his younger sister, Inez, watched for coral

our friends described to us was far from being the one they needed.

Thomas, Romaine and kids.

heads from the foredeck. Four-year-old Louis smiled and watched the world go by. In our evening’s anchorage, Thomas and the two older kids braved a swim, while Romaine and I nervously scanned the waters for crocodiles. We sighed with relief when the entire crew was safely back onboard. In the evening Romaine made a delicious meal with produce we bought from two women in a passing dugout. It was fun to share a special few days with such kindred spirits.

Gizo was our last major stop in the Solomon Islands before we headed north to Papua New Guinea. The checkout process with immigration was frustrating, though in hindsight somewhat entertaining. The immigration official had broken his leg, so we had to meet him at his house. When we finally found him, he didn’t have any checkout forms. We explained that we had hired a car and driver to get to his house, and we would rather not make another trip. Finally he relented and, borrowing our pen, scribbled something on the back of a blank piece of paper. Fortunately he did have the official stamp, so he put his seal of approval on our departure “paperwork.” We were free to go. We related the tale to our driver, who just shook his head, said “shameful” and suggested some wantok (Solomons’ version of nepotism) connections.

Our parting memory of Gizo is of the afternoon before our departure, which happened to be Election Day in the U.S. We had become friends with Lawry, the owner of the popular local bar PT-109, and on several occasions had had great discussions with him about world affairs and politics. On the day of the election, we squeezed ourselves into Lawry’s upstairs office and watched the presidential election results come in. It was enlightening to experience something so quintessentially American so far from home and through the eyes of a politically passionate Solomon Islander.

The Solomon Islands face a host of challenges. With 900 islands spread across 11,000 miles, a strong central government is crucial to help its far-flung citizens improve their economic status and to protect the islands from unscrupulous logging and mining interests. The government

Despite the problems they faced, the Solomon Islanders we met were open and generous. They shared their concerns about the future, including the education of their children and the need for employment options in an increasingly cash-driven society. On Rennell, William had voiced disappointment over promises made by the mining companies that weren’t being kept. Grant and Jill on Uepi were working tirelessly to help their neighbors gain access to better education and health care. Mbareho’s Aldio Pita was saddened that the damage done to the Marovo Lagoon by reckless logging practices had almost certainly prevented its elevation to UNESCO World Heritage Site status, and in Gizo Lawry hoped that his country’s elections could someday provide them with capable leadership. Each person we met was striving in the best way they knew how to succeed in these changing times. Each shared their hopes and their homes with us.

This step off the beaten path? Why in the world would one go there? It is not the trip for everyone, to be sure. But for Shango, it was all we had been hoping for. A journey filled with experiences that continue to live on in our memory. Thank you, Solomon Islands!

AMY JORDAN AND ROGER BLOCK live in Newburyport, Massachusetts. They are pictured here on the “spice” island of Banda Neira in Indonesia. When they met, Amy owned Shango, a Prairie 32, and Roger sailed Great Notions, an Ericson 35. They now cruise together on Shango, a Pacific Seacraft 40. In 2015, they completed a five-year circumnavigation on Shango, and this article results from those travels. Prior to their circumnavigation, they had enjoyed multiple trips to the Caribbean and the Bahamas, and they are in the Bahamas now. Although Shango often finds herself far afield from her home port of Newburyport, if the winters in Maine were a bit warmer and the sailing season longer, she would be just as happy there. Amy and Roger’s travels can be found at svshango.com.

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Adventures in

By Ron Schaper with photos by Andrea Dowling Florida Station

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French Polynesia Sailing with Friends on a Catamaran Charter

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Anchored in Bora Bora.

“Ewww … canned sardines! Gross!”

“Hey, we like ‘em … what about this bar soap, who’s gonna use that?”

G

et eight sailors together to plan provisioning for a two-week charter in French Polynesia, and a lot of different preferences will be expressed. Sunsail offers options of zero, partial, or full provisioning, but even with the lists, it’s hard to know exactly what you’ll get.

Some of us want to have the adventure, and hopefully, the cost savings of shopping for our food and supplies in the local markets when we arrive on Ra’iatea. Others are happy to pay the charter company to provide this. As you might guess, we agreed on a partial provisioning by the company. The ladies would supplement by grocery shopping in the main town, Uturoa, while the guys would be tasked with lugging it back to the boat. Additionally, I was put on notice that I was to catch lots of fish for our evening feasts in paradise.

So, let’s try to get things organized so we can save time when we get on the boat. Who is in which cabin? The Sunsail Leopard 44 has four cabins, each with its own head, so there are no bad choices, but better to decide now than have a race for firsties. The ladies each picked a number out of a hat and made their stateroom choices. We then made a list of assignments for each of us to check: sails, rigging, and anchors; engines and generator; provisions, refrigerator, and freezer; bilge pumps, batteries, and electrical gear; charts and navigation; bunks and linens; and dinghy, outboard and gas, and rented kayaks.

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Actually, there were 14 of us setting forth on this distant adventure: four couples on our boat, and three other couples aboard an identical Sunsail 44. They chose the “zero provisioning” option, so when we first boarded the boats we were surprised to see multiple boxes of food on their boat and none on ours! Oops … the charter company had provisioned the wrong boat! But we soon had the stuff aboard, and the ladies quickly had it stowed. Meanwhile, the guys attended to their checklist items.

When it came time to move the boat out of the tightly packed Marina Apooiti, the guys all looked at each other: Who’s going to do what? A couple sauntered off to the bow to deal with the two moorings holding the med-moored catamaran off the concrete dock. The others went aft to deal with the stern lines, which left me at the helm, the first to learn how this boat would handle in close quarters.

As the stern lines were eased off, the boat moved ahead on the tightly drawn mooring lines. The moorings were then dropped; I put the engines ahead until the mooring balls were amidships, then to neutral as we glided forward. As soon as they appeared clear of our stern, I moved the starboard engine into forward and the port engine into reverse, which easily pivoted the boat in a 90-degree left turn out of the marina.

Captain Ron approves of old school paper chart navigation.

Out in the lagoon, clear of the many moored boats, we raised the mainsail, made easy with the electric winch at the helm station. Tacked to each corner of the cockpit hardtop were two mainsheets to control the boom. This arrangement does not allow the type of control provided by a more expensive traveler system, but on a charter boat, it was to be expected. As soon as we were motor-sailing through the marked channels and the mainsail felt 23 knots of breeze just ahead of the beam, the boat began to round up, despite full down helm. Only with aggressive use of the starboard forward engine could we straighten her out. With a traveler, it would be easy to just dump the main to relieve the pressure. With two separately clutched mainsheets to deal with, it was not so quick, and the boom went more up then out. John Antweiler’s rope-burned fingers were all part of the catamaran learning curve.

We soon fell into roles aboard: John became our primary navigator and pilot, with Nancy Danvers taking bearings and plotting courses.

Dennis Tynan commandeered the mainsail and jib setting and furling operations. Graham Danvers and I took turns at the helm and sail trim. Judy Antweiler made sure everyone was well fed and hydrated.

Gwen Tynan created lovely quick sketches, which she water-colored

Dinghy ride around Taurere Point, the southernmost tip of motu Piti Aau in the Bora Bora lagoon, headed for a snorkel in crystal clear waters with view of Taha’a. beautifully. And Andrea busily photographed every imaginable scene resulting in nearly 4,000 high-resolution images.

Without any formal plan, we traded positions without egos getting in the way. When we made meals aboard, everyone easily became involved in a relaxed sort of way. Like a big family, we all pitched in. No one had to be assigned to clear the table or do the dishes; it just got done. Well, not everything! Both Dennis and I had issue 60  2018

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Going airborne on passage from Ra’iatea to Huahine.

“More than once on this cruise,

we heard the crew ask, ‘Imagine what this would be like in a monohull?’ It would not be as relaxed or easy to move about the boat, that is for sure.

”

brought fishing lines and numerous lures and hooks, counting on our usual fishing prowess to provide fresh fish for our clan. Despite trolling at every opportunity, both offshore and inside the reef, the only fish I landed was a two-foot-long remora caught while on a mooring. This provided a few moments of excitement but nothing for the table.

It was not a long sail from Ra’iatea to the southeast side of Taha’a, into Haamene Bay, where we picked up moorings off L’Hibiscus Restaurant (reachable on VHF channel 68) and dinghied ashore for a cold Hinano beer and a lovely dinner. This east-southeast-facing bay did not afford much protection and the winds were strong, so the water was quite choppy. While picking up a mooring for the first time in these conditions was challenging, and lowering the dinghy broadside in the chop channeling between the hulls made for some wet seats, the boat itself held steady on her bridle and was very comfortable with minimal pitching and no rolling. It would have been a sleepless night in my 40-foot sloop.

In the morning, we sailed a dozen miles to Tau Tau, a nearby motu, or islet, to anchor, then had a short dinghy ride to the beach.

There, between motu Maharere and motu Tau Tau, is the most beautiful snorkeling spot I have ever seen. This sea garden is amazing,

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The Tau Tau coral garden in the Taha’a lagoon with Bora Bora in the background. with a diversity of live corals, colorful fish, and sea life, and is best swum from the west to drift back with the current.

A note about the currents in Polynesia: When I first learned that high tide occurs every day at noon and midnight, I thought my gullibility was being tested, but it is true. These islands are far from any significant land masses for water to push up against, and so their tides are strictly solar in nature and only result in a few inches of rise and fall. The islands are encircled by reefs, and the waves crashing over

Passage to Bora Bora with Taha’a in the background.

Private motu in Ra’iatea lagoon.

Paarara Mountain Artist Studio, best place for hand-painted pareus.

them push water into the lagoon. The water then exits through the navigational passes in the reefs. The wave action on the reefs sets up an inshore current between the motus. The current flow through the passes on some islands can reach six knots when the effect of large swells combines with an ebb tide.

during excavations.) Today, almost every home harbors several dogs of various lineages. Most of these hounds are a conglomerate breed, resulting in mostly medium- to large-size animals. One must assume that the yorkies, shih tzus, and chihuahuas would have likely been consumed by their larger brethren!

Later, after snorkeling, we picked up a mooring in protected Hurepiti Bay, off Sophie Boutique, for a walk ashore amongst the tropical splendor of bananas, papaya, and wild hibiscus. It is well worth taking a 4x4 island tour to visit the vanilla plantations and black pearl farms. You may also top off your water tanks at Sophie’s dock.

The dogs loudly announce visitors and can be very aggressive.

We found this out on a lovely, seemingly deserted motu in the Bora Bora lagoon. We landed our dinghy on a coconut palm-fringed beach, only to be greeted by six charging, snarling mongrels. With their teeth bared, heads lowered, and hair standing up on their backs, they chased me into thigh-deep water and only backed off when I grabbed an oar for protection while Nancy stood tall in the dinghy with arms raised up, roaring back at them like a she-bear. They meant business! We quickly retreated into deep water. Soon a caretaker of sorts appeared out of the coconut grove, recalling the dogs in a Tahitian dialect. We tried to converse with him in our limited French. We gathered that the motu was privé, or private, and therefore taboo, and that les chiens — the dogs — bite! Lesson learned: Places posted as privé/taboo do not necessarily have tail-wagging, friendly pups.

Note: Sophie’s dogs and roosters are friendly. It is said that there are more dogs than people in the Society Islands. We were told that before frozen beef and lamb shipments from Australia and New Zealand became commonplace, dog was a regular protein item on local menus. (It should also be remembered that not too many generations ago, human flesh was at times consumed by some islanders. In their multi-deity, pre-Christian religion, human sacrifice, though not necessarily outright cannibalism, was practiced. One of the most sacred marae, or ceremonial spaces, in the Polynesian Islands is Taputapuatea on Ra’iatea, where over 5,000 human skulls were reportedly found

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Heavenly Bora Bora lagoon, Taurere Point, motu Piti Aau.

“While some moorings will be marked privé, most are either

placed by The Moorings or Sunsail, or set by local businesses and restaurants, which waive a fee in return for your patronage.

”

After a few days of getting used to the comforts and handling of our catamaran, it was time to head out through the reef and sail offshore. An early morning start took us from Taha’a to the magical island of Bora Bora. The prevailing southeast trade winds make this a nice downwind sail. Despite winds in the mid-twenties and big, rolling swells, the Sunsail 44 cat was smooth and comfortable. As a lifelong monohull sailor, I was amazed how well the boat handled the active sea conditions. More than once on this cruise, we heard the crew ask, “Imagine what this would be like in a monohull?” It would not be as relaxed or easy to move about the boat, that is for sure.

Surf breaking on the reef, Ra’iatea.

Bora Bora Yacht Club.

A sailor’s must-visit spot is the Bora Bora Yacht Club, a crossroads of world cruisers. Our timing proved perfect. While we enjoyed our cold Hinano beers, tropical drinks, and lovely local fish dinners on the yacht club dock, we watched the full moon rise over the looming and distinctive 2,385-foot high peak of Mt. Otemanu.

Just past the small town of Viatape, worth a visit for its shops and grocery stores, we arranged to pick up a mooring at the south end of the island in Povai Bay off Bloody Mary’s, the well-known restaurant and bar. A note on the moorings in this area: Due to the steep drop-off from the shores of these volcanic islands, moorings are often found in 80 to 100 feet of water, certainly not comfortable anchoring depths.

While some moorings will be marked privé, most are either placed by

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Just inside the inlet, Bora Bora lagoon.

The Moorings or Sunsail, or set by local businesses and restaurants, which waive a fee in return for your patronage. The moorings are regularly checked by the charter companies.

Upon entering Bloody Mary’s sand floor, there is a “shoe check” on the side. On a large iced table, the local fish of the day are displayed for your questions and choosing, and the host takes your selection directly to the chef on station behind the table. This is a true over-thetop tropical restaurant experience.

A short dinghy ride away, at the southern end of To’opua Island, is a superb snorkeling spot, loaded with friendly, colorful fish and many varieties of coral in transparently clear water.

We found numerous references to the famous Bounty of Mutiny on the Bounty fame. We were told variously that “this is the beach where the original Bounty landed her crew” or that “Opunohu Bay on Mo’orea is where the Marlon Brando Bounty movie was filmed.” There is apparently even some talk of building a new Bounty replica to capitalize on the ship’s continued lure. The original Bounty mutineers, in their quest for paradise, were all captured or met tragic deaths. As many sailors of the time were forced to go to sea or recruited from prisons, their commanding officers ruled with iron fists to maintain order. This created a tense atmosphere that could turn volatile at any time. It has been said that the moral of the story is to beware: Tahiti captivates her visitors, but if you want to make it your paradise, be careful to pick the right partners.

Though there were eight of us aboard, with another six on the accompanying boat, for two weeks, we did indeed pick great partners to explore the glorious Polynesian islands for the cruise of a lifetime.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS Growing up in a commercial fishing family and spending summers on a small island, Ron could not help but be a sailor. Years of running and delivering, cruising and racing sailing yachts have provided plenty of experiences to share. Captain Ron holds a 100-ton USCG license.

Andrea Dowling is descended from a long line of sailors and traces her Caribbean roots back to the tiny Dutch island of Saba. Based in Barbados, her grandfather traded throughout the Caribbean in his own cargo schooners. Literally sailing since before she was born, Andrea is also passionate about travel and photography.

Andrea and Ron currently sail their Sabre 402, Endurance, out of the Fort Lauderdale area, where they also run Captain Ron Yacht Charters. They can be found at CaptainRonYachtCharters.com.

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Shipwre c k Tierra de in l Fuego

by Skip Novak | Great Lakes Station

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Ascent of Hovgaard Island: Dropped off on the Penola Strait side, we skied up and over the top, then back down to the anchorage on the west side.

I

t is rare to leave the Antarctic Peninsula earlier than need be. No matter how much time you allow for a cruise in that splendid and awe-inspiring environment, it’s never enough, and the return across the Drake Passage is done with regret, if not trepidation.

In February 2017, my Swiss-Italian charter guests, on their sixth cruise with Pelagic Australis, were somewhat disappointed with the adverse weather conditions. We had planned an eight-day ski mountaineering trip on Anvers Island but, due to miserable drizzly weather with continuous low cloud, enthusiasm for what would be a major undertaking had ebbed, evolving into doing short day trips from the boat. I always blame the comfort of Pelagic Australis for these easily made decisions to forego the camping. The bad weather continued unabated, so we sailed farther south, searching for the edge of the polar high, but without much luck.

The highlight of this foray in search of better weather for our skiers was a skin up to the summit of Andresen Island and a fast ski down, all astride the Antarctic Circle, followed by a less than relaxing night at anchor amongst rocks off the abandoned British Antarctic Survey station on Detaille Island. The next day the team needed no convincing to head back north, rather than my proposed offshore passage around Adelaide Island and into Marguerite Bay. The thought of a rolling sea had put the alpinists off their lunch. Instead, we motored through brash ice and bergs on what turned out to be the only blue-sky day

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“... Just after setting off from the peninsula, we received an email ... that a 10-meter Belgian yacht with a solo sailor on board had been blown ashore in Bahia Aguirre — exactly where we planned to make our first stop.

”

we had, spending a marvelous evening in the Fish Islands in Crystal Sound, after having reconnoitered the ice-bound anchorage with our drone or unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV). This has become more than a toy, and is now standard equipment for serious polar sailing. Without the UAV, we would have probably given the attempt to find shelter there a miss and kept on going.

Channel. After the 50 shades of gray in the south, the lush beech forests would be easy on the eye, and we could stretch our legs across the spongy, boggy terrain that the locals call la turba. Bushes on the margins of this solid sea of sphagnum moss are peppered with ripening calafate and manzanita berries well worth picking for the crumble, a good antidote to any bad memories of “mal de mer.”

Dull gray weather persisted, but we mustered some limited enthusiasm for a few more day ski trips in the Penola Strait. Luckily, all but one of the team had been on the Antarctic Peninsula before, some twice, and knew what it could be like, so they were resigned to the decision to head back to Tierra del Fuego early, not least of all to beat a major depression that would be approaching the western Drake Passage in three days’ time. Seasickness is always an issue for non-sailing mountaineers, so there were no dissenters with this plan. Motor sailing it was, and we were “pedal to the metal.”

Just after setting off from the peninsula, we received an email from Roxanna Diaz of Ushuaia Logistics, our fixer at the “end of the earth,” explaining that a 10-meter Belgian yacht with a solo sailor on board had been blown ashore in Bahia Aguirre — exactly where we planned to make our first stop. His EPIRB alarm put in motion a rescue by the Argentine Navy on February 18, and he was taken to Ushuaia.

There he signed a document with the prefecture, agreeing that he was responsible for removing his boat from the beach at Bahia Aguirre.

Easier said than done, but we decided that we would try to lend a hand.

To burn off the charter time remaining, I had proposed a four-day visit to the infrequently visited Argentine coast east of the entrance to the Beagle

Motoring north through Crystal Sound on the only clear, sunny day we had in two weeks.

Bahia Aguirre is 80 miles from Ushuaia. There are no roads anywhere near the bay, only the vestiges of a issue 60  2018

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The abandoned estancia buildings at Bahia Aguirre gave Alex shelter during his ordeal.

“A southerly buster caught him out and, in a jiffy, he dragged and was on the beach.” horse trail leading to an abandoned estancia. On horseback, it is two days’ riding to the head of the road; on foot, it takes five days. I know, as I walked this route in 1993 and it was arduous trekking. Roxanna Diaz took charge of the coordination from the outset.

One of my colleagues and an old hand in the area, Olivier Pauffin de Saint Morel (aka “Popof ”), set out on his 14-meter Kekilistrion with the shipwrecked Belgian skipper and took him back to Bahia Aguirre.

His yacht was now high and dry, and there was some concern that fishermen would pilfer her contents. Another friend of ours who was ahead of us on the return from the Antarctic, Igor Bely on Kotic II, dipped in and tried but could not pull the yacht off. She had walked herself further up the beach in the surf, and the keel was now well buried in the sand. Our arrival would coincide with a higher tide, so of course we were more than willing to have a go.

By the time we arrived on February 24, a week had elapsed since the boat went ashore. The “bahia” in Bahia Aguirre is a slight misnomer.

It is an enormous rectangle, five miles long and fully exposed from the southeast to the southwest. Puerto Español, a small cove in the northwestern corner, gives some protection from a southerly but is

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not evident to a newcomer. The puzzle of why the Belgian skipper anchored on the open main beach would later be revealed.

We brought Pelagic Australis within a few hundred meters of the wreck. But rather than risk a big surf landing with the inflatable, we made contact, backed off, and anchored in our usual spot in Puerto Español. That afternoon, we trekked two hours around to the estancia, crossing the main river that empties a broad valley. At some point in the recent past, this was a working cattle farm. In 1993, I had spent two nights there with a French friend while on a two-week trek across the “toe” of Tierra del Fuego, and again the following year on a solo trek. Absentee-owned, four rough-hewn cowboys were in residence.

Their job was to roam around the hinterland on horseback and muster wild cattle into a manageable herd, killing any bulls in the process, then drive them out to the head of the road to the west. This was a hard life, even for Argentine cowboys, as they were essentially marooned for 11 months of the year in a very remote area. They had a radio, but it never worked while I was there. They were provisioned once a year with the basics, then left to their own devices eating off the hoof, wing, and fin. Visitors by yacht were rare. The cowboys are long gone, and the buildings have fallen into disrepair.

The Swiss were put to work digging out the keel and rudder to ease the snatch off the beach.

The tow line is already attached.

Gianni and Romolo, hitting the rum bottle in the shack during a violent squall.

Alex carries the last load of personal effects from his shelter in the abandoned estancia before Mira is pulled off.

Approaching the dilapidated farm buildings, we had to give a wide berth to a lone bull who pawed the ground while huffing and snorting. A herd of wild black horses galloped across our path on their way down to the beach, their long manes flying in the wind. These are the only remaining residents. In this big-sky expanse of semi-tamed wilderness, once occupied but no more, the mood was melancholy.

year-long delivery from Europe in his yacht Mira during which most everything on board broke or came adrift, he finally made it down the Argentine coast, headed for Ushuaia. At some point during a storm, a line got caught in the propeller, so he sailed into the open anchorage in Bahia Aguirre and dropped anchor in front of the estancia, admittedly exhausted. A southerly buster caught him out and, in a jiffy, he dragged and was on the beach. This was not the first shipwreck on this coast when a southerly kicks in. In 2010, a Polish yacht came ashore not far away, in Bahia Sloggett, with the loss of two crew members. They were

And so was the 42-year old Belgian skipper, Alex Van Cauwenbergh, understandably so. He explained that after a hard,

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Re-launching the dinghy off the beach was wet work.

We lost count of the trips in and out while ferrying Mira’s gear out to Pelagic Australis.

We winched Mira in after we pulled her off the beach, and brought her alongside.

Alex gives the thumbs up. Notice the heavy list to port.

Skip and Alex with Mira alongside in Ushuaia at the Club Afasyn. Job done.

blown off the deck in 100-knot winds while grounded after dragging their anchor. Luckily, Alex landed on a sloping sandy beach, avoiding some nasty rocks only 100 meters away.

We made a rescue plan, sketched in the sand with stick and finger.

We would get close enough with Pelagic Australis to get lines ashore and try to pull him off with brute force. The higher of the two tides the next day was predicted for the pre-dawn hours. We would call him on his hand-held VHF at 0500. After trekking back, my Swiss guests feeling better after the Drake Passage and having smelled solid ground, we settled down to our dinner at anchor. Our thoughts were with Alex, cooking his own meal by candlelight.

Since rejoining the yacht, he had, during low tides, removed from the boat all loose equipment, all movable lead ballast, and a fair part of the fixed interior. All of it was now piled up in a disorganized heap on the beach above the high-water mark. A cockpit hatch had come adrift during the grounding, so everything was saturated with diesel-contaminated bilge water — a right mess. Alex was sleeping in the abandoned farm building, where there was a functioning woodburning stove.

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The next morning was windy and pitch black, so the plan was scrubbed. By mid-morning the wind had eased, so we reanchored in 10 meters about 150 meters from the beach and landed with the inflatable, all hands ashore. We had time to kill until the afternoon

“A cockpit hatch had come adrift during the grounding, so everything was saturated with diesel-contaminated bilge water — a right mess.

”

high tide, so to keep busy and ease the operation to come, we spent the next four hours digging the keel, rudder, propeller, and much of the hull out of the sand. This was something the Swiss really got stuck into. Mountaineers are always handy with shovels, although the wet sand was heavier than snow for sure.

During one fierce rain squall, we all retreated into the farm building, built a fire, and put the kettle on. A rum bottle appeared.

Alex was asked by one of the Swiss businessmen where exactly he was from in Belgium. He replied that he was a citoyen du monde, or citizen of the world. This did not go down well, and I thought to myself, yes, why stop there and not d’universe. A Bernard Moitessier moment if there ever was one. The squall passed, and we took up the shovels once again, finishing the job with a trench down below the waterline, which was now rising on the tide.

We set off late on the afternoon of the 26th with Mira secured on the end of our nylon anchor rode, riding comfortably 130 meters astern. Once around the corner of the bay and heading west, it was an uneventful tow as we came onto a spell of calm. We steamed into and up the Beagle Channel at five knots. We docked in Ushuaia on the afternoon of February 27. Alex remained in Ushuaia, hosted by the Afasyn yacht club while rebuilding Mira, following which he intended to carry on up the west coast of Chile. Meanwhile, my Swiss mountaineer guests returned to the fastness of their Italian Alps, having enjoyed the added bonus of helping to rescue a sailor in need.

Meanwhile, skipper Dave Roberts and crew Thomas Geipel and Kirsten Neuschäfer on board Pelagic Australis were preparing to run two of our floating shore lines into the beach with the inflatable. The plan was to attach one to the bow and the other to the stern, so when the bow line spun Mira 90 degrees, the stern line would also be loaded, and she could be dragged off on her side along a path of least resistance.

With the lines attached and rigged, we returned to Pelagic Australis, leaving Alex on board Mira. Still well short of the high tide, we gave it “full welly.” Our 55-ton displacement and 250 horsepower spun Mira around with a few snatches, and soon she was bumping along the outer sand bar with spray flying across her deck in the surf line. When she reached deep water, Alex gave us the thumbs-up, and we brought him alongside, then reset our anchor. And now the real work began in earnest as we embarked all the kit ashore with the inflatable straight onto the foredeck of Pelagic Australis. We lost count of the trips. Finally, stage one completed, we motored back to Puerto Español for the night. The rum and cigars came out after dinner in celebration.

Before we could put Mira in tow, she had to be emptied of sand that had accumulated on her port side over the week ashore, entering via a sprung cockpit hatch. It was impossible to remove all the sand, so the boat had a 10-degree list to port. Reloading Alex’s gear off our deck took us all morning. The interior furniture he had removed was now handy as dunnage to brace the various equipment to starboard to put Mira back in trim and ready for the tow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Skip Novak has participated in a number of ocean races, including four Whitbread Round the World Yacht Races (now the Volvo Ocean Race) since 1977. Wishing to combine sailing with his mountaineering skills, honed in New Zealand, the Alps, and on expeditions to East Africa, Sikkim, Nepal, Patagonia, South Georgia and Antarctica, he built the expedition yacht Pelagic in Southampton in 1987. He has since spent every season in Antarctic waters, where he runs Pelagic Expeditions. In 2003, Skip launched Pelagic Australis, a 23-meter, purpose-built vessel for high latitude sailing, to augment the charter operations of the original Pelagic. In 2015, Skip received the club’s prestigious Blue Water Medal for his lifetime of voyaging to high latitudes. In 2016, the Royal Cruising Club awarded him the Tilman Medal, named in honor of Bill Tilman, famous mountaineer and exploratory yachtsman, in recognition of his “sailing to climb” expeditions in high latitudes.

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Photo by Tristan Peloquin.

A SAD TALE Monterey Sinks 200 Miles South of Bermuda

By Les Crane, Bermuda Station

editors’ note: In this thoughtful article, Les Crane recounts the events leading up to and during the sinking of his beloved Monterey.

In the aftermath, Les identifies many important lessons learned from the traumatic experience. His suggestions have been reviewed by members of the CCA Safety & Seamanship Committee.

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T

o encourage yachts to join in the 2017 America’s Cup festivities, I had been working with Spirit of Bermuda and the replica yacht America in the spring of 2016 to create a race from Antigua to Bermuda. Once the idea was in motion, I began thinking I should bring Monterey, our 56-foot Farr Pilot House sloop, back from Greece to join the race and take advantage of a Bermuda customs hiatus that would allow us to use the boat in Bermuda to watch the racing.

Monterey had left Bermuda following the 2004 Bermuda Race, traveling to Scotland via the Azores and Ireland. Following summers saw us join the Royal Swedish Yacht Club for a cruise in Sweden, sail the Atlantic coast to Lisbon, and then enjoy the Med, including the Balearics, Corsica, Sardinia, Italy, Malta for the Middle Sea Race, Croatia, Greece, and Turkey.

We put our plans in motion in May 2016, sailing the boat to Gouvia, Corfu, for some service including replacing our 16-year-old rudder bearings. In June, we made our way via Puglia to Malta, and in September, Malta to Las Palmas for more prep before joining the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers (ARC) 2016 in November for a fabulous 17-day passage to St. Lucia. We brought the boat up to Antigua, hauled, painted the bottom, and launched in early May, ready for the Friday, May 12, start of the inaugural Antigua Bermuda Race, which I was chairing.

Shortly after James joined me on the 0400 watch, he called out saying there was water in the forward head. I investigated and, presuming it was due to the toilet intake valve being stuck open, called for the helm to stand the boat up as I opened the seacock and pumped the room dry with the shower pump. Returning to the galley, I was surprised to see water on the floor boards. I opened the engine compartment and found perhaps a foot of water in the leeward corner.

Calling all crew up, I closed the seacocks on the thru-hulls as we tried to identify the source of the water. We had a laminated chart of the boat’s plumbing with the seacocks highlighted. Regrettably, many of us need reading glasses and a large-type, numbered list would have ensured nothing was missed.

We knew that Esprit de Corps IV (EDC), a Volvo 60, was about five miles behind us and Spirit of Bermuda 10 miles behind. Before leaving Antigua, we had had some issues with the boat’s VHF and had replaced and tested the antenna. The VHF worked fine in communications with another competitor, Morning Star, during the race, but it took some “local knowledge” to ensure it was working properly — the push-totalk button was fickle. Kit got on a hand-held and hailed EDC with no response. At this point, we were merely looking for them to come and stand by as we attempted to solve our problem. I was on the satellite phone calling Rescue Control Centre (RCC) Bermuda to alert them of

“The boat was filling surprisingly fast — much more than would be

explained by a broken or detached hose. I told Kit to up the broadcast level to include ‘MAYDAY’ and had Jock send up a parachute flare.

”

We had 21 boats participating in the 935-mile race, ranging from the graceful 105-foot gaff schooner Eleonora and a Volvo 70 to two Pogo 12.50s. Conditions were expected to be light, with concern about a few potential holes in the wind. Like in the ARC, the cruising division rules allow motoring. (Boats must declare engine hours for their handicap results to be calculated.) We had a great crew of six, including five CCA members — Jock Macrae, Cam Macrae, Bob Medland (all GLS), James Watlington (BDA), and longtime friend Kit Tatum. Jock, Kit, Bob, and I had grown up together, sailing at Royal Canadian Yacht Club in Toronto.

Monterey had a nice start, managing to pull past two Volvo 60s on the first tight reach along the south coast of Antigua. Boats spread out under spinnakers, heading north. The expected calm arose later that afternoon, and Monterey resorted to the iron genny for an hour, then back to sailing when the wind filled in. Occasional calms continued through the next days. We were making good time, and by 1815 EDT Tuesday we were about 270 miles from the finish. Tuesday evening saw the breeze drop out, and we were back to motoring. The wind filled in about 0230 Wednesday, and we set sail, reaching along very nicely, making seven to eight knots. I’d been up to help set sail, then returned to my berth to rest ahead of my 0400 watch.

our situation and our position. Meanwhile, Jock and Cam had been trying to use a large manual pump without success. They then got the flares out and set off a red. The boat was filling surprisingly fast — much more than would be explained by a broken or detached hose. I told Kit to up the broadcast level to include “MAYDAY” and had Jock send up a parachute flare. Bob and Cam got the life raft ready, but were under instructions not to launch it. The parachute flare did the job.

Jock called out that he could see EDC’s lights shift toward us. Shortly thereafter, they came up on the VHF. While it was still pitch dark, the weather conditions were benign with an 8- to 12-knot breeze, but there was a swell that prevented EDC from coming alongside. We would need the life raft to transfer to EDC. The boys launched the raft. Of course, it inflated upside down. As Jock and Cam drew the lanyard in, Bob and I were able to get on the sugar scoop and muscle it upright in the lee of the boat. We were now safe.

I went below again to reassess the situation. The boat was bow down with three feet of water in the forward cabin. With the volume of water in the boat, it was now totally impossible to determine the source. I could not see anything that could be done and was concerned that the boat might become unstable as it filled with water. The boat was replaceable, while someone getting trapped or hurt was another matter. issue 60  2018

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Monterey at the ARC finish line. Photo by Colin Horne.

“We stood by Monterey with her lights blazing

”

like the Titanic until 0700, by which time the bow was awash.

I decided to abandon ship and get everyone in the eight-man raft. The raft being held tightly to the stern made this quite simple. It was now about 0500, just 45 minutes after realizing the leak was more than just a flooded head.

EDC was approaching at this point. We cut loose and drifted away from Monterey. EDC came near, with skipper Gilles Barbot being mindful of the drogue that was streaming upwind of us. We caught their line, pulled to their stern and were helped aboard. They were well prepared and welcomed us with jackets and warm liquids. It was now 0520. I updated RCC Bermuda on the sat phone, asking them to call my wife who in turn would call the other families. RCC patched in the U.S. Coast Guard, who had been monitoring our situation. I asked what we should do about the life raft that was drifting behind us, thinking we should pierce and sink it, but was told that if it was marked with the boat’s name (which it was), it could be left. We stood

by Monterey with her lights blazing like the Titanic until 0700, by which time the bow was awash. There being nothing further to do, we rejoined the race. Monterey posted a scheduled position on Yellowbrick at 0730 but not at 0830, presumably bracketing her demise.

In about an hour we had gone from tranquility, a beautiful evening sail, to the deck of our rescuer, fellow racer Esprit de Corps IV.

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EPILOGUE Once aboard EDC, I learned the previous watch had heard a loud bang at around 0330. They investigated but could see nothing and presumed it was just a rigging noise. There was no jarring of the boat.

While the boat was in Croatia in the winter of 2009–10, the mast was taken out. When I returned in the spring, the mast had been reinstalled with the shrouds so tight that three inches had to be taken out of the backstay to provide tension. I was assured that the mast had previously been much too loose. I subsequently released the shrouds, but wondered if perhaps this had created some sort of creeping failure.

There was no sign of loosening in the rigging before the boat went down.

I learned a few days after returning to Bermuda that a Farr PH 60, an earlier variant of our boat design, went down abruptly in 2002 (co-incidentally also south of Bermuda). The owner, whom I have met, believes he hit something that penetrated the boat, but as in our experience, he did not feel a jarring of the boat.

Two other Farr Pilot Houses have had significant flooding from blown stern glands that overcame their pumps. The owners were able to save the boats by getting to shore.

On circulating my experience to other skippers on a Farr PH

owners’ net, an original owner who had been closely involved in the build of the boats thought that the bow-thruster housing might have failed. The Lewmar thruster retracts vertically from its flush housing using a worm gear. The opening through the bottom of the hull is about 8 by 10 inches. It had never occurred to me that this might be a vulnerability, but in thinking it through, it does seem feasible.

The box, while original equipment, may have been installed with less structural integrity than the heavily engineered hull. The water would have flowed under the forward floorboards. We originally focused on the engine room in looking for a source of the flooding. By the time we were in the bow, water was already floating the floorboards. We presumed water was collecting forward from the bilges as there is less flotation in the bow, causing the bow to dip. Had we considered and identified the bow-thruster as the source, we might have been able to diaper it from the outside, or secure the forward workroom door in a water-tight fashion, to hold the two feet of water that might remain once we had been able to pump the water out of the rest of the boat.

The boat sunk in water about two miles deep, so we will never know. We had sailed 40,000 nautical miles on the boat and had spent 14 wonderful summers aboard. It is a loss we will not get over.

LESSONS LEARNED We had spent a great deal of time aboard the boat through the summer and fall of 2016. Three of the six aboard were part of the ARC crew.

We had been upside down in the bilges working on pumps and float

July 2017 dinner at Royal Canadian Yacht Club: Back row - Jock Macrae, Cam Macrae, Bob Medland (all GLS); front row - Kit Tatum, Karen Marshal, the author, EDC captain Gilles Barbot, and EDC first mate Maxime Grimard. Photo

by Courtney Macrae. switches, along with other equipment. Perhaps our familiarity had created some overconfidence. While I’m not sure we would have been able to change the eventual outcome, in hindsight, there are things we could have done better.

FLOODING DRILL In advance of a significant offshore voyage, we should have conducted a flooding drill in addition to a man-overboard drill.

The flooding drill should be carried out while at a dock with a fresh water supply to fill the bilges and test the pumps. Time is very short. In our case, we had 45 minutes of desperately trying to save the boat. Once the water level is significant, it is very difficult to trace the source. Organization optimizes your time.

ASSIGN RESPONSIBILITIES: The crew should be divided into three groups, each with a distinct responsibility. They should not leave that responsibility until complete. We suffered from people moving from one function to another.

Flood Investigation Identifying the source will get more difficult as more water enters the boat. Early identification is key. Have a large-print, laminated, prioritized, numbered list and map of all seacocks and other possible sources of flooding.

Open and close each seacock during the drill.

Be familiar with all other possible sources of flooding such as the stern gland, bow-thruster, and rudder tube gaiter.

Be equipped with a powerful waterproof torch.

Pump Team Know the locations and switches for all bilge pumps and their overboard outlets.

Change from float to manual switches.

Engage auxiliary pumps.

Ensure output from overboard outlets.

Engage an electric 4,000-GPH portable trash pump with a rolled up two-inch hose that allows unrestricted outflow.

Practice diapering the outside of the hull with a mat or sail to reduce inflow.

Communications Know how to access your current position.

Train with the ship’s VHF and handhelds.

Train with a sat phone. Ensure that the sat phone has all emergency numbers pre-programed.

Do a test call to authorities.

AIS: Know how to locate and identify nearby boats on the AIS. EPIRB: Know how to activate the EPIRB. Flares: Know how to access flares and be prepared to set them off.

Life raft: Know how to prepare and launch the life raft.

Grab bags: Have someone responsible for putting passports, computers, and phones in grab bags. Put crew jackets in a garbage bag.

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Ode to Monterey Oh, they built the Monterey, to sail the ocean wide, The finest ship around, could handle storm & tide, But fate can intervene, and destroy your fondest dream, It was sad when the Monterey went down.

CHORUS It was sad (so sad), mighty sad (too bad), It was sad when the Monterey went down (to the bottom of the…)

Captain and crew, knew exactly what to do, It was sad when the Monterey went down.

Many friends have been onboard, and sailed to distant shores, With a host of memories, of adventures on the sea, It hurts to know she’s gone, but it’s best we move along, It was sad when the Monterey went down.

$300 trash pump we should have had.

EQUIPMENT Monterey had a variety of pumps, but they were unable to meet the flow. Include the following: 1,100-GPH pump, leading to a 0.75-inch hose set amid the keel bolts to keep the bilge as dry as possible.

The boat was right on track, when they heard a fateful crack, And the sailors up on deck, decided to check it out, So the crew did look around, but nothing could be found, It was sad when the Monterey went down.

With the water rising fast, the good ship couldn’t last, So we fired off our flares, a bursting in the air, Then up comes Esprit de Corps, summoned by the Lord, It was sad when the Monterey went down.

2,000-GPH main pump, leading to a one-inch hose set atop the keel bolts which only activates when the 1,100-GPH pump is overwhelmed.

1,000-GPH pump in the forward cabin.

1,000-GPH pump in the lazarette.

3,600-GPH manual pump in the rear of the engine room. The suction on ours was misplaced, leading to its being reported as not working. Had a team been assigned to attend solely to pumps, this may have been found. Had we done a drill, it would have been found.

Manual Whale pump in the cockpit; the lead to the suction on ours was too long to be effective.

We should have had a portable, 4,000-GPH electric “trash” or “crash” pump with a two-inch exit, leading to a flat two-inch trash hose that could be led on deck. It would

So there’s little need to mourn, or to walk about forlorn, We’ll soon be back at sea, with a ship called Monterey III, And we’ll all rejoice again, with fellowship and gin, It was sad when the Monterey went down.

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need to have 40-foot lead wires and alligator clips. The 800amp hours of house batteries would have kept this going for a considerable time. All pumps are degraded by insufficient exhaust piping, and a two-inch trash pump hose would be a big improvement. The whole kit would cost less than $300 and fit in an ice bag or similar storage container.

We should have had a clearer chart of thru-hulls, with a large-print, numbered list.

OTHER OBSERVATIONS Monterey was a first-class design, built in a professional yard in Sweden.

About 50 boats were built before the BSI Marine yard was forced to close in about 2006 due to high labor costs. We had weathered some particularly strong conditions in Monterey without incident. We thought she was a battleship, but she had an Achilles’ heel.

I was surprised at how modest the snaps that held the Switlik life raft lanyard to the cradle and the lanyard to the bow of the life raft were. In a stronger breeze, they might have deformed. While I realize the attachment to the raft must have a breakaway value to prevent a sinking boat from towing it down, I’d rather see something stronger.

When launching the raft, the lanyard should probably be wrapped on a winch and the crew should be wearing gloves. Even at 12 knots, there was a lot of windage. In 35 knots it would be huge. You need to have the ability to bring the raft right up to the boat, so no one goes in the water unnecessarily. Climbing from the water into a raft can be a seriously difficult exercise.

Challenger, a Whitbread 60, was 22 miles behind us and saw our parachute flare. The recent Category 1 World Sailing Offshore Special Regulations remove parachute flares from the required SOLAS package in favor of electronic means of attracting attention. In my opinion, this is a mistake. Having a manual device affords a different type of reliability.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Les Crane grew up in Toronto, sailing at Royal Canadian Yacht Club.

He moved to New York in 1974 and cruised in a variety of boats on Long Island Sound before purchasing the first Monterey, a Stephens 47, in 1985. The 1989 Marion Bermuda Race was his first offshore experience, finishing second in class in a roller coaster of a race. He upped stakes, emigrating to Bermuda and, in the process, winning his class and the Overall Performance Trophy in the 1992 Newport Bermuda Race. He participated in all the ensuing Bermuda races until being shorebound during the 2002 race while he served as commodore of Royal Bermuda Yacht Club. He purchased the second Monterey, the boat featured in this story, in 2003.

We were extraordinarily lucky to have this event happen in 12 knots of breeze and warm water, near other like-minded boats.

Generally speaking, it is much more likely to have happened in a big sea, in which case the consequences could have been very different.

POST SCRIPT We had a tremendous experience aboard our rescue ship Esprit de Corps IV. Skipper Gilles Barbot ensured that all the additional crew from Monterey were assimilated and kept busy during the day-and-a-half trip to Bermuda. Everyone took a turn at watch. As you might imagine, we had quite a party for them in Bermuda. Later that year in July, Gilles and his first mate, Maxime Grimard, brought their two Volvo 60s into Lake Ontario to participate in the Lake Ontario 300. We all gathered at Royal Canadian Yacht Club. I presented Gilles with a commemorative life ring. Bob and Sally Medland passed song sheets around the formal club dining room, and many present joined in as we sang Ode to Monterey, composed by Kit to the tune of the well-known Titanic song: “It was sad, mighty sad …” A night to remember.

ADDENDUM

By Monterey crewmember Bob Medland (GLS) It was a night to remember for all six of us: Les, Cam, James, Jock, Kit, and me. Over the years, Les derived a great deal of joy and countless memories sailing Monterey some 40,000 miles with family and friends. The six of us on board with him for the Antigua Bermuda Race had shared in many of the memories he had accumulated over the years. Les had equipped, maintained and cared for Monterey well over all those years. We all have known one another for many years and we were familiar with the boat. These were factors contributing to the safe transfer of all of Monterey’s crew in the early hours of Wednesday, May 17, 2017, to Esprit de Corps IV. Another factor, as Les noted, was the organization of Gilles Barbot, skipper of EDC, and his crew.

On behalf of the Monterey crew, I submit there is yet one more reason that contributed to our safe transfer, and that is Les himself. For sure, it was a serious situation that we were facing for the first time in our long sailing lives, and yet there was no panic. Right from Les’ command of “all hands on deck,” there was a resolute and well-organized execution by the crew, first to attempt to remedy the problem and then, sadly, to abandon ship.

When confronted with the extraordinary event in those early hours, about 200 miles south of Bermuda, Les responded in an orderly and controlled fashion, providing sound, capable leadership … and always placing the safety of the crew first and foremost. The crew responded calmly and effectively, because after years of knowing Les and sailing with him we were all supremely confident in his ability and leadership.

The crew and our families will be forever grateful to Les for the superb seamanship and leadership he exhibited.

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Last Words from the Editors

Zdenka and Jack Griswold

T

hese ‘last words’ are actually our first as the new editors of Voyages.

And it is fitting, we think, to lead off with a big thank you to our predecessors, Doug and Dale Bruce. The process and relationships they developed over the years to produce Voyages let us slip into our new roles quickly and ascend a not-too-precipitous learning curve at a moderate pace. We also have appreciated their being ‘on call’ whenever we have had a question. Of course, we might quibble with their estimate of three hours a day for three or four months! But we have thoroughly enjoyed putting this issue together. First and foremost has been working with all our contributors.

We think you will agree that we once again have an outstanding collection of articles and photographs from, literally, all over the world.

They span the Arctic to Antarctica, and the Pacific to the Atlantic.

There is a wonderful tale of a cruise on the Erie Canal in the 1950s; the story of the loss of a yacht at sea and some of the lessons learned; and a look back at the writing of Desirable and Undesirable Characteristics of Yachts. We were fortunate to receive no fewer than four articles about cruising in Sweden, which appear together starting on Page 64: a surefire way to whet one’s appetite for the upcoming 2019 Sweden cruise.

Taken together, this year’s articles are a wonderful testament to the breadth of experience and the sense of adventure that define our club.

We also want to thank our outstanding team of designers whose creative talents do so much to make the magazine what it is. They are: Claire MacMaster of Barefoot Art Graphic Design, Hillary Steinau 2 of Camden Design Group, and artist Tara Law ✧. Note their unique graphic signatures which appear at the end of each article.

The indispensable Virginia Wright of Camden, Maine, assists us in proofreading and editing Voyages.

Finally, a word of thanks to the many club members who have volunteered their assistance. Jim Binch and the club officers have provided unconditional support and encouragement; Maggie Salter,

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as editor of Final Voyages, did yeoman’s work in tracking down twenty-eight obituaries; David Pratt helped with photographs; and our excellent crew of editorial advisors (see the masthead on Page 1 for a complete listing) helped shape each article for publication.

You may be interested in what happens with the magazine once it is published, other than being sent to the membership. Voyages is also distributed to selected yacht clubs and sailing publications in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom, and copies are made available for distribution to non-member participants at the club’s Safety at Sea seminars. Some of the major sailing magazines have, in the past, picked up a number of articles for publication (with the author’s permission, of course). We are also exploring options for online availability of the magazine in the future.

We welcome any and all comments and suggestions for Voyages.

And, most of all, keep those wonderful articles and photographs coming!

Second Shots Bonus images from the issue ...

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Dinner with cruising friends in Genoa.

Daysailers at The Royal Gothenburg Yacht Club.

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Sculpture in Oslo.

Dan Strohmeier 47 Photo courtesy of Cheryl Strohmeier

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Bora Bora lagoon.

Intermezzo at Cocos (Keeling), Indian Ocean.

Gearing up to ski in Antarctica.

The Places We Sailed