VOYAGES 2025

Voyages

Chronicles of the Cruising Club of A merica

Commodore’s Column

Welcome to another edition of Voyages!

This collection of articles chronicling CCA members’ voyages on the sea brings many fresh, engaging, and thoughtful perspectives.

Nico Walsh retraces the wake of legendary sailor and explorer Eric Hiscock in Scotland, where our members will soon join the Royal Cruising Club, Clyde Cruising Club, Irish Cruising Club, Western Highlands Yacht Club, and Ocean Cruising Club for the first CCA Scottish cruise since 2010. From the other side of the planet, Robert Hanelt recounts his family’s 1970s voyage aboard their Skylark in French Polynesia. Sheila McCurdy offers a teaser from her upcoming book on the history of the CCA, High Seas and Home Waters, with tales of club leaders, members, and frivolity following World War II. Jil Westcott and John Bell summarize a wealth of information on various weather phenomena in the Mediterranean.

Bill Barton logs his multi-year endeavor to return to Inuit communities in Labrador, despite mechanical challenges and other setbacks. Farther north in Greenland, David Conover reports on a rendezvous with the legendary arctic exploration schooner Bowdoin. From the opposite end of earth on South Georgia Island, Skip Novak blends history, science, and seamanship in his narrative about a scientific expedition to survey wandering albatross populations. You’ll be amused by author R.J. Rubadeau’s recounting of his voyage to the outer reaches of Chile, where disaster seemed to be lurking around every headland. Prepare to be amazed by the high-latitude adventures of 2024 CCA Blue Water Medalist Liev Poncet, written by Ellen Massey.

Melissa Hill recounts sailing with her husband and two young children from the Pacific across the Indian Ocean to South Africa. The Pacific is also the setting for Bill Strassberg’s account of meticulously analyzing and repairing a defective propeller in the Galapagos and for Behan Gifford’s report of assessing major rudder damage on Johnson Atoll, a remote

island that cannot be accessed without U.S. Air Force authorization. Simon Currin, immediate past commodore of the Ocean Cruising Club, shares a wonderfully insightful story of his recent cruising in the Tuamotu archipelago.

Lydia Mullin, onboard reporter aboard the ill-fated Alliance in the 2024 Newport Bermuda Race, brings you into the midst of that near-disaster, where the excellent preparation, training, and seamanship of both rescuers and evacuees paid off with no major injuries or loss of life. Gary Forster shares his story about bringing younger, less-experienced sailors aboard for offshore experience in the Block Island Race. Jill Hearne reminds us that voyaging under power is very much part of the fabric and history of the CCA, and comes with some welcome advantages, especially as we age and wish to continue our adventurous use of the sea.

You will enjoy book reviews of Randall Peffer’s coffee-table book about the maxi Windward Passage during the golden age of maxi racers by R.J. Rubadeau; Lin Pardy’s story of her life afloat and dealing with life’s changing currents by Gretchen Biemesderfer; and Skip Novak’s latest book on his 50 years of sailing the world’s oceans by Peter Plumb.

This summary does not do justice to the time, effort, and inspiration these authors and editor Dan Biemesderfer have put into this issue, but I hope it will entice you settle in your favorite chair and delve into their stories. You’ll be richly rewarded and glad you did!

Finally, Elizabeth and I send our best wishes to you wherever your sailing adventures take you!

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 1,356 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 – John R. Gowell

Vice Commodore – A. Chace Anderson

Secretary – Patricia Ann Montgomery

Treasurer – Kathleen M. O’Donnell voyages editor

Voyages Editor – Daniel R. Biemesderfer voyages@cruisingclub.org voyages committee

Editor of Final Voyages – David P. Curtin (BOS) Past Issues Manager – Cindy Crofts-Wisch (BOS/BUZ)

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), Cameron Hinman (PNW), Amy Jordan (BOS), Charlie Peake (NYS), Krystina Scheller (BDO), Brad Willauer (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, 2002-2010; Doug and Dale Bruce, 2010-2017; Zdenka and Jack Griswold, 2017-2021; Amelia and Robert Green, 2021-2024 design and layout

Daniel R. Biemesderfer; Claire MacMaster, Barefoot Art Graphic Design; Tara Law, Tara Law Design; Hillary Steinau, Camden Design Group proofreading

Daniel R. Biemesderfer; Virginia M. Wright, Consultant; Editorial Advisors

printed by

J.S. McCarthy Printers, Augusta, Maine cover photo

Tazzarin and iceberg in Labrador – photo by C. Newhall

copyright notice

Copyright 2025, The Cruising Club of America, Inc.

Copyright 2025, respective author(s) of each article, including any photographs, drawings, and illustrations. No part of this work may be copied, transmitted, or otherwise reproduced by any means whatsoever except by permission of the copyright holders.

VOYAGES 2025

4 Destination Disko Bay by David Conover, Boston, Gulf of Maine Post

18 Eulogy for Alliance by Lydia Mullan

28 Pulling Your Prop in Exotic Places by William Strassberg, Boston, Gulf of Maine Post

36 Rachas in Estero Las Montanas by R. J. Rubadeau, Boston, Gulf of Maine Post

44 South Georgia Albatross Survey by Skip Novak, Great Lakes Station

54 Crossing the Indian Ocean by Melissa Hill, Great Lakes Station

62 Actually It’s Not Dark Over Here by Jill Hearne, Pacific Northwest Station

68 Chinese Bread and Chinese Fair in French Polynesia by Robert Hanelt, San Francisco Station

74 Tazzarin — North to Nunatsiavut: A Voyage to Newfoundland, Labrador and the Inuit Lands by Bill Barton, Boston Station

86 Tuamotu 2024 by Simon Currin, Boston Station

92 Rudder Woes on a Micronesian Detour by Behan Gifford, Pacific Northwest Station

100 Channeling Eric Hiscock by Nico Walsh, Boston, Gulf of Maine Post

108 Weather for Cruisers Heading to and in the Mediterranean by Jil Westcott and John Bell, Boston, Naragansett Bay Post

116 Pay It Forward: The Block Island Race 2024 by Gary P. Forster, New York Station

122 A Profile of Our 2024 Blue Water Medalist, Solo High-Latitude Sailor and Southern Ocean Circumnavigator Leiv Poncet by Ellen C. Massey, Boston Station

130 History of the CCA – History of the CCA After World War II by Sheila McCurdy, Boston Station

134 Book Review – On Sailing — Words of Wisdom from 50 Years Afloat by Skip Novak

Review by Peter S. Plumb, Boston, Gulf of Maine Post

135

Book Review – Westward Passage: A Maxi-Yacht in Her Sixth Decade by Randell Peffer

Review by R. J. Rubadeau

136 Book Review – Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond –Sailing Through Life’s Changing Currents by Lin Pardy

Review by Gretchen Dieck Biemesderfer, Essex Station

138 FINAL VOYAGES Salutes to departed members. Edited by David Curtin, Boston Station, Buzzards Bay Post, and Daniel Biemesderfer, Essex Station 158

Destination

On this expedition, the past does not leave all at once, nor does the future arrive at once.

My Good Hope 56-foot aluminum sloop ArcticEarth is meeting up with the 103-year-old Arctic research schooner Bowdoin today on a dock in Ilulissat on the western coast of Greenland, 220 miles north of the Arctic Circle. We are preparing to sail farther north into Disko Bay as

By David Conover, Boston & Gulf of Maine Post

a two-boat convoy for several days. The mood is keen excitement and curiosity all around. In addition to the joys of being on a small boat in these waters, I have a job to do, a commission from the Maine Maritime Academy (MMA) to record digital still photographs and motion-picture video of a timeless icy

Disko Bay

The seal-hunting competition begins and ends on the rocks in front of the Lutheran Zion Church. Built in 1779, it is the oldest church in Greenland.

seascape and the Bowdoin, the oldest active Arctic research boat in the world and official sail vessel of the state of Maine, doing its thing. Ten rapidly seasoning students and a professional tall-ship crew are aboard the Bowdoin, ably led by Captain Alex Peacock. They are the most recent of the MMA staff, students, and

academy supporters to have cared for this vessel over the last third of its noteworthy life. Onboard ArcticEarth as expedition leader, I have assembled a naturalist and Arctic writer, an environmental lawyer, a retired professor and former captain of the Bowdoin, and our skipper, Magnus Day, and his mate, Julia Prinselaar.

Ilulissat is 1,900 miles away from the boats’ home waters of Penobscot Bay, Maine, but both places are within one oceanic region, the northwest Atlantic. I like to think of Baffin Bay and the Gulf of Maine as the same neighborhood in the context of the whole planet. In that spirit, my general question on our own travels back and forth between the two is “what are the local Arctic happenings that have global resonance?” ArcticEarth is beginning the fourth mission of the summer, one of the 22 expeditions we have hosted since launching our specialty charter operation in 2020.

Today is June 21, Greenland National Day as well as ullortuneq (the “longest day of the year”) for the Inuit and others who live here. The occasion has been maintained as a day of celebration and identity by Greenland ever since its island people began navigating a course away from Denmark and towards self-rule in 2009. Among the festivities in town today, residents are boarding the Bowdoin to look around and take a step into the past. With their iPhones, they take pictures of the sails, the ice-bucket lookout aloft, the high bow, and other special features for this purpose-built boat. One hundred years ago, residents of Ilulissat visited the same vessel, captained by Donald MacMillan, and were curious and intrigued by his collection of “modern” scientific and media equipment. Perhaps their curiosity in the 1920s — their step into their future — was a crossroad with those visiting the Bowdoin today. Back then, the Ilulissat locals were almost exclusively Inuit who hunted and fished from qajaqs (kayaks). Today, in the era of the new Arctic, the locals are a mix of Inuit, Danes, Filipinos, South Africans, and Sri Lankans, many drawn from the global economy as laborers and managers to construct one of three international airports on the west coast of Greenland that will soon host direct flights to and from the United States and Europe.

Earlier this morning, before the Bowdoin arrived, I was up on the hill in town with current shipmate Andy Chase. We first met in the early 1980s when Andy sailed with the Sea Education Association (SEA) as a third mate on the well-known Westward in the early ’80s, and I was a slightly younger student learning

celestial navigation and researching a term paper in the archives of the Mystic Seaport Museum. The topic of the 20-pager was — ironically — the Arctic schooner Bowdoin, named after the college I was attending. I wrote about the boat’s construction at the Hodgdon Brothers boatyard of double-framed/doubleplanked white oak for the hull and a 5-foot-wide band of Australian greenheart (or ironwood) at the waterline. I noted that the rig had no topmasts nor bowsprit to keep sailors safely close to the deck. The vessel details interested me, but my underlying motivation for the paper was a fascination with ice, isolation, and self-reliance within a small group on a boat. These had also been topics of interest to my adventurous parents, who had raised me and my three siblings on boats and near the water. My interest in science and the new Arctic came later.

Little did Andy Chase know at the time, but he would go on to play a pivotal role integrating the Bowdoin into its sail-training role at MMA, keeping it active and also keeping it connected to its northern roots for the next 35 years. He is on board ArcticEarth for this trip to provide historical perspective. From the rooftop of a four-story Great Western hotel on top of the hill, Andy scans the horizon with binoculars, eager to be the first to see the wooden masts and signature ice bucket of the vessel that he captained to Greenland himself in 1985 and had stewarded for many years prior to retiring as a professor of marine transportation from Maine Maritime last spring. So far, he sees only low-level fog and the tops of massive and steady ice drifting out of the nearby Sermeq Kujalleq (Greenlandic), also known as Jakobshavn Glacier (Danish). This is one of the fastest-moving glaciers in the world. Ice flows into the sea at an average rate of 60 feet per day. I have my long lens trained elsewhere, on a few light fiberglass speedboats already in view in the foreground. About eight to ten are idling off the shoreside Lutheran church. Having the opportunity to be in Greenland on National Day several times over the past 20 years, I knew what was coming. Sure enough, a gunshot. “Look,” I point out to Andy, “they are beginning the competition.” Most of

Andy Chase beholds Bowdoin.

Binoculars atop Great Western Hotel.

the outboards throttle up and zoom north through the ice at a pace that feels perilously bold to my piloting sensibility. One boat slips quietly south around the corner, however, into the fjord of the Sermeq Kujalleq. With no sighting of the Bowdoin, we decide to stroll down towards the church to confirm what I anticipate we will see next: a ritual of identity.

“Who is a Greenlander?” Natuk Olsen, an Inuit/Dane friend from Nuuk, had received this comment from a faculty reader of her doctoral dissertation. Natuk’s topic was the impact of a rapidly changing climate on the diet and identity of Greenlanders. A valid question, I thought with the new Arctic in mind, but one that seemed to exasperate Natuk as she told me about her research over coffee at the university back in 2017. “Here we are all Greenlanders,” she had said, “Inuit, Danes, yes, but also fish and whales and the plankton they feed upon, and seals.” Her words stuck in my mind, and by the time Andy and I reach the shore today, a freshly killed seal is being cut up on the rocks. The speedboat that went south had returned with this bounty within an hour, the undisputed winner of this year’s seal-hunt competition in Ilulissat. Raw bite-sized pieces of its liver were already being distributed to all who wanted a taste. Andy takes a nibble, but I decide to pass on the temptation this time — as a Mainer, I have my own diet and identity, which includes childhood memories of wildly overcooked liver and other essential animal organs

highly valued by my mother but not as much by her four kids. I do appreciate the historic role of fresh liver for the Inuit, however. Liver was the highest source of vitamin C historically available in these high latitudes prior to the limes and lemons now shipped to markets at exorbitant prices. “Beyond nutritional basics, we establish our identities as Greenlander humans by eating Greenlander seals in the fullest sense of community,” Natuk had explained. Seal-catching competitions on National Day are popular in many of the larger 50 (or so) settlements along the west coast. The winning hunters — and the losing seals — are whisked off to each town’s barbecue, with leftovers distributed for consumption among the community.

The Bowdoin eventually does arrive at the dock, and I am soon interviewing two students. One is Lucas, an engineering student with a focus on power generation. He reports, “It was mind-blowing to get up for watch one day and see that there’s ice out there!” The second student, Nicho, is in MMA’s ocean sciences program, hoping to graduate and get a job providing technical marine support on research vessels at Woods Hole. On a tour below decks, Nicho pulls out his laptop to share measurements from the conductivity-temperature-depth (CTD) measurements that he and his student colleague, MacKenzie, have conducted en route to Greenland from Maine. They will also be collecting eDNA samples with kits that ArcticEarth and the Ocean Genome Atlas Project

Rendezvous at the Royal Arctic dock.

Liver was the highest source of vitamin C historically available in these high latitudes prior to the limes and lemons now shipped to markets at exorbitant prices.

provided (OGAP was a partner on a science mission in 2023 and also our first science mission this year). These kits will reveal any DNA shed by any passing marine life, from the largest whales to the smallest plankton. I wonder if these students have ever considered plankton as fellow American citizens, vital to their American identity?

Ilulissat is culturally rich, but after a few days here, we are itching to head out to explore the region to the north — ideally under wind power. The next morning is windless in Disko Bay.

Typical. Approximately 80 to 90 percent of ArcticEarth’s transit time within fjords and bays in the summer is light to no wind. Usually, it either blows directly out of the fjord or directly in. On this morning, Andy and I film aboard Bowdoin, while Magnus skippers ArcticEarth up ahead. Captain Peacock is grateful for Magnus’ years of ice-piloting experience — with ArcticEarth and with many previous vessels in the high latitudes, including Skip Novak’s Pelagic fleet. Our goal today is Equi Glacier in the northeast corner of Disko Bay. The two boats travel well together. Bowdoin is 88 feet overall, but the overhanging

Fresh seal liver is a source of vitamin C

The winning seal hunter has dropped the seal off for community consumption.

transom and bow only extend the waterline length when the vessel is under sail and laid over a bit. Otherwise, under power and upright, the two boats have matching cruising speeds between 6 and 6.5 knots on average. Primary intership communication is VHF, with Starlink in the wings. For the daily gam, both boats have inflatable tenders that can be easily launched from deck. Andy Chase relays that the most frequent rig underway for the Bowdoin historically has been engine with foresail alone, sheeted centerline. Wind power was most useful when making the longer passages outside the fjords and bays where wind is more likely. The sails reduce the need for burning — and carrying —lots of diesel fuel on the longer haul legs around Nova Scotia and Newfoundland to and from Greenland and Labrador. This advantage of sail for passage-making is one that ArcticEarth also enjoys. The average five-month seasonal distance logged is 4,500 nautical miles, of which 35 percent is wind-powered.

After two days, the convoy rounds a peninsula and heads southeast into a fjord increasingly thick with bergy bits, brash, and bigger bergs. The source is the Equi Glacier, deep within this fjord and the place where an occasional thunder and wave heralds the most recent ice to break off the great Greenland ice sheet. Shipmate and friend Philip Conkling writes, “Although an eerie calm engulfs us, the periodic glacial roars convey an uneasiness to the scene’s spectral beauty.” This is Philip’s fourth

trip to Greenland. The first three trips were with the businessman Gary Comer on board Turmoil, and led to a 2010 book titled The Fate of Greenland. With contributions from oceanographer Wally Broecker, glaciologist George Denton, and climatologist Richard Alley, that book lays out the evidence and process of abrupt climate change. ArcticEarth has provided boat support this year and in 2022 to another scientist who contributed to the understanding of abrupt climate change and more recently to the understanding of what is in the meltwater from the Greenland ice sheet. But the expeditions of Paul Mayewski and the Climate Change Institute at the University of Maine are another story.

After several hours of headway, we gaze upon the broad face of the Equi Glacier. It is now only a few miles away, even though the distance looks like it is just a few hundred meters. The difficulty gauging distances by eye is one of many remarkable features when sailing in this landscape, where the massive scale of reference objects must be carefully balanced by tools like the radar or the chart plotter or — even better in an area where charts are often inaccurate — a simple handheld rangefinder. This tool is considered “essential” on board ArcticEarth by skipper Magnus and Julia. We are now pausing within the thickening brash ice, and students on the nearby Bowdoin are completing a CTD cast. Where will we anchor to rest? A forecast indicates we might be in for some active wind from the southeast.

MMA Students Nicho and Lucas give me a tour below decks on the Bowdoin.

(Courtesy of Maine Maritime Academy)

Ilulissat residents try the wheel. (Courtesy of Maine Maritime Academy)

Nicho shares a detail of the Bowdoin.

(Courtesy of Maine Maritime Academy)

The Ilulissat Qajak Club is one of the largest of Greenland’s 24 kayak clubs.

The 2024 ArcticEarth route, 4,500 miles.

ArcticEarth-Bowdoin route within Disko Bay. Opposite: Bowdoin hull shape sheds ice from the propeller.

Magnus and Alex decide the convoy will head to the fjord’s nearby leeward shore. It is 10 p.m. The late-hour sunlight is on the low end of its descending arc, a filmmaker’s dream light. Until August 13 at this latitude, the sun will never drop fully below the horizon. As shadows lengthen, I launch the drone and fly alongside and over the Bowdoin. I want to see its distinctive hull shape from this angle. Most vessels see their greatest beam length roughly halfway between bow and stern. For the Bowdoin, designer William Hand slid that aft 10–15 feet. This beam at this point means that the hull continues to push brash ice away from the vessel when underway for a longer time than if the beam was at the halfway point. Why go to all this trouble? Because ice is less likely to hit the propeller. That very real damage is the Achilles heel of small vessels piloting through ice. ArcticEarth has a spare prop and can also swing up the keel and rudder to make a swap-out repair ourselves.

The crew anchors, and we enjoy a late meal, mussels mariniere, thanks to this evening’s chefs, Philip and Sean Mahoney. They collected the feast on the beach yesterday. A bit later, groggy and catnapping in my bunk, I awake to a freshening breeze. Greenland’s version of a descending — or katabatic —wind has arrived. A similar wind can be seen in other parts of the world: the bora in the Adriatic, the Santa Anna in southern California,

the Barber of the South Island in New Zealand. In Greenland, the air falls off the Greenland ice sheet into a deep temperature differential. This evening in this anchorage, the katabatic arrives with a blast. Within 10 minutes, wind speed increases from 0 to 40 knots. ArcticEarth has 400 feet of half-inch chain and a 121-pound Rocna anchor. We are holding fast. A hundred yards away, the Bowdoin has two 500-pound fishermen’s anchors, with ¾-inch chain. They start to drag on the first one, so their crew readies the second anchor. That one holds. Anchor watch continues through the light of 1 to 10 a.m. The wind moderates.

Andy Chase notes that “the MMA students are growing in ways that they may not even recognize, but their parents and friends will see it when they get home.” I ask Andy to speak more about why sail training on a traditional ship is of value. “There are many reasons,” he says, “but one simple one is that young folk these days have lost their sense of direction. I don’t mean psychological or spiritual, I mean actual compass direction.” For the convoy today, the compass direction is northwest, even though we navigate with true direction only (on ArcticEarth, we use true at all latitudes, just to keep things consistent and simple). The formerly ice-choked fjord has been blown clear, so the convoy hoists sails and heads towards Atta, a snug harbor and a small settlement of camps.

Captain Alex Peacock watches over student CTD cast.

Our time in convoy with the Bowdoin will soon be wrapping up. Captain Peacock has his sights set on traveling a bit farther north on his own, across the 70th parallel, before turning south for Maine. We wish to explore a fjord that ArcticEarth has never visited before heading around the southern tip of Greenland and then north towards Scoresby Sound on the east coast. The convoy says our respective good-byes, Julia presents some of her fresh-baked muffins to the Bowdoin cook, and we reposition our boat. The goal today is a trip to a nearby channel where the birds and an occasional spouting whale appear active at a distance. What is happening? A light rain begins. Little do we know the biggest surprise of the whole trip is just ahead.

Five of us launch the Bombard Commando tender and head for the channel. On the charts of our Garmin (Navionic), our Olex (user-generated), and our iSailor (Wartsila), this channel connects our fjord with a much larger inner fjord. A lot of sea life must pass through. Thus the collective naturalist question aboard concerns capelin, the small northern fish that are still actively schooling, much to the pleasure of the seabirds and whales of Disko Bay. Will they be concentrated and running through this channel en route to the spawning beaches within the inner fjord? As we get closer, we see that a singular humpback is swimming towards the channel. We follow. The current flowing through the channel is against us and building as we get closer to the entrance. Soon our headway over the bottom is nil. The whale continues, obviously carrying a little more horsepower in its glorious flukes and pectoral fins than our Yamaha 9.9HP. Magnus steers us

to the beach, where we jump ashore and make way with our iPhones and binoculars. The latter will not be necessary, it seems, since the spouts are just 20 feet off the channel’s beach. I am seriously regretting my decision to leave my camera on ArcticEarth due to the rain and the departure of the Bowdoin. But also — paradoxically — I’m feeling free from the imagemaker’s imperative to “shoot shoot shoot.” It has always been critical to jump back and forth between life’s balcony and life’s dance floor. I take a breath and walk closer to the spout.

Whales are some of the most photographic creatures I know, from above or below the water. The curves have been majestically honed by movements up and down through the seas over many millennia. The skin textures and tones are rich. The eyes liquid, gateways to the infinite. The movements are surprisingly quick for such a mass. Notwithstanding these attractions, a whale is technically “un-photographable … literally impossible,” the whale illustrator Richard Ellis told me once in an interview, setting the context for his own visual renderings, “If you are close enough to see all the detail of the skin texture, the eyes, and all,” he said, “you are too close to frame the whole creature without distortions of a wide lens. And if you are far enough away from the whole whale to see its entirety, the water is often too murky and you also miss the detail. Out of water, the body is unsupported by the water column and distorts. Hence, the impossibility of photographing or filming the true and complete whale. Illustrations are necessary.” The explanation is persuasive and also jives with what underwater cameramen have told me. A mysterious gap will always exist between whale recorder and recorded whale. As I get closer and closer to the whale, I sigh in the pleasure

MMA students MacKenzie, Tyler, and Nicho retrieve CTD.

(Courtesy of Maine Maritime Academy)

Philip and Sean take a turn with the mussels collected from the beach.

of knowing that the unrecorded world is alive and well. This pleasure and reality lasts about 10 seconds.

Philip, Sean, and Andy all remark on the pungent smell of the fishy exhales as we walk downwind of what looks like a moderately sized humpback.

I’ll let Philip describe what happens next:

Everyone takes out their iPhones hoping for a shot of this spectacle when the whale surfaces again within 15 feet of the shore chasing capelin, which are flipping themselves out of the water to avoid the open maw of the humpback. None of us has been this close to a feeding whale before, and we are all stunned and exhilarated.

The feeding whale rolls on its side and swims back out into the channel, where it is whisked out toward the mouth of the gut, where it blows and then submerses again, cruising the interface between the fast-moving existing current and the slower-moving back eddy at our feet. We watch as the humpback repeats its previous maneuver chasing the capelin ahead of its gaping mouth until it lunges again to the surface and shots its giant baleen-edge mouth on another gulp of capelin. The screaming, wheeling fulmars

are diving just slightly beyond the arc of the turning whale to pick up any stragglers.

It is a mesmerizing spectacle that we cannot get enough of. Over and over and over the whale cruises back out to the entrance to the gut, blows once, submerges, and then cruises back within 10–15 feet of the shore. Because the water along the edge of the gut is only 15–20 feet deep, we watch it refine its technique. When it first submerges at the mouth of the gut, it swims the first 100 yards at cruising speed of 4–5 knots. Then it flicks its powerful flukes once or twice to triple its speed over several lengths as it shoots forward while using its flippers like giant underwater wings of a pterodactyl. The surface of the water is dappled with fleeing capelin as the giant maw of the whale breaks the surface expelling the water from the sides of its baleen for another mouthful of capelin. The humpback repeats this underwater ballet almost 100 times during the next hour and half. Everyone puts away their cameras except for David who has sent back to the boat for his tripod and big camera and keeps filming the ballet to capture every thrilling image.

Never in life, we all agree, have we witnessed anything more heart-stopping in nature. Thank you, Greenland.

Bowdoin through ice keyhole. (Courtesy of Maine Maritime Academy)

Only later do I realize that this set of Greenland images got away due to a combination of rain on the lens, poor light, and too many creative risks with focus and depth of field. For some reason, this loss does not upset me.

Our time with the humpback is over. ArcticEarth pulls anchor and slowly heads back out to Disko Bay.✧

Feeding humpback whale. (Sean Mahoney photo)

ArcticEarth and guest Michael Spencer take a closer look at sediment on a small berg.

Bowdoin under sail and sun.

All photographs by David Conover.

ArcticEarth and Bowdoin at anchor.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David and his two sisters and brother grew up around boats and the mountains, inspired by the adventures of their parents Connie and Deedee Conover (CCA members). After college, with a 100-ton USGC license, David skippered a 51-foot aluminum sailboat, completed two transatlantic crossings and five years as an educator at the Hurricane Island Outward Bound School in Maine. With Christopher Knight of the New Film Company, he co-produced a film for NRK Norway about Arne Brun Lee and the 1990 Two-Star transatlantic race, during which he and Arne were dismasted. For three decades, he has led Compass Light Productions, producing over 30 films in the Arctic and over 600 films worldwide for Discovery, PBS, and National Geographic. Compass Light has been ranked among the Global Top 100 Production Companies by Realscreen. David and his family recently completed 43 years of service as seasonal caretakers for the Curtis Island Lighthouse in Camden, Maine.

Left to right: David Conover, Andy Chase, Sean Mahoney, Philip Conkling.

hours later,

A Euology for Alliance

Lydia Mullan | Reprint courtesy of SAIL Magazine

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is J/122 Alliance ... We’ve suffered catastrophic damage; the boat is sinking. There are nine souls aboard.”

If you spend any substantial amount of time on the water, you’ll hear a lot over the VHF. Swearing, squabbling, scolding … eventually, you’ll think you’ve heard it all. But there is nothing quite like hearing the haunting ancient turn of phrase, “nine souls aboard.” Especially when you’re one of the nine.

The 53rd Newport Bermuda Race began auspiciously enough on June 21, 2024, with hundreds of boats — racers and spectators alike — cheerfully crowding Narragansett Bay, shouting back and forth to friends and rivals while circling the start line. Our boat, the J/122 Alliance, slipped among the throng, excited to get our racing season’s biggest offshore event underway.

A boat with an Irish harp emblem and green and orange racing stripes skirted by us, and my teammate called out to them. “Hey, what are you drinking, Guinness or Jameson?”

“Heineken!” someone shouted back, eliciting a laugh from both crews.

We didn’t know it at the time, but by race’s end we were going to be very friendly with that boat.

Our crew of nine consisted of Alliance’s owners, person in charge Eric Irwin (60) and navigator Mary Martin (61); watch captains Sam Webster (30) and Connor O’Neil (31); tech expert Bill Kneller (71); chief morale officer Eddie Doherty (56); assistant navigator Julija O’Neil (33); bow assist Mary Schmitt (22); and me (29), the bow person and on-board reporter.

Six of the nine were engineers, and the majority of us had sailed more than 1,000 offshore miles together. The boat was fastidiously maintained, and we’d met regularly during the offseason to prepare for the race, complete with pop quizzes and hours of assigned of lectures on weather, routing, safety, and more. Though the race only requires 30 percent of the crew to have offshore Safety at Sea certifications, almost all of us had been through the 15-plus hours of online coursework and the in-person, hands-on

Alliance passing Castle Hill at the start of the 2024 Newport Bermuda Race. Thirty-six

the unexpected happened. (Alyce Croasdale photo)

“I felt it as much as I heard the screeching, metallic bang-bang! I tried to get the boat stabilized, but the wheel moved strangely in my hands, like there was not quite enough tension on it. Snapped rudder cable? Parted mainsheet track? Imminent dismasting?”

training. We had every reason to believe it would be a challenging but successful race, and for the first 36 hours, that’s exactly what we had.

Though we weren’t expected to enter the Gulf Stream until 10 p.m. on the second day, we started seeing signs of it that afternoon. The meandering midocean river of warm water has its own local climate, generating a cloud pattern similar to what you might see over land. First it was just a hint of fuzziness on the horizon, then the clouds started to take shape into massive heaps with clean, distinct edges. Within a few hours, we started to see sargasso weed that had drifted across the stream into the cold northern waters.

At the time of our crossing, the Gulf Stream had a large meander that we were aiming for to make a short, fast crossing, but it had also spit out eddies that made a minefield of swirling current surrounding the stream. Mary M. positioned us to slip into one of them at just the right angle to slingshot us onward.

I was on watch from 6 to 10 p.m. for our approach to the

Gulf Stream, and by the time I handed off the helm, we were in it for sure, the warm tropical air filling our sails and 4 knots of current churning below us. After my watch, I couldn’t help staying on deck to hang out for a bit, arrested by the view.

That far from land, the night was a deep black, and the sky was mottled with dramatic, heaping clouds backlit by the strawberry moon. Then the bright, clean light would break from the roiling cloudscape and, like a curtain whisked off a bird cage, we would have light. A moment later, blackness again.

When I returned at 2 a.m., it was to the same but more. The sea state had increased with the current, and though I know every sailor, like every fisherman, is liberal with estimating sizes, when standing at the helm on the high side, the waves often broke the horizon from my line of sight. At just a bit over 5 feet myself, I estimated the waves to be at minimum 7 to 8 feet.

In their handoff, the previous watch had mentioned the conditions made for tiring driving, so I suggested to Connor that we do short shifts. He agreed, and with Bill beside me

Alliance on its final night, about four hours before the collision.

trimming the main and Connor and Julija on the rail ahead of him, I took the helm.

Thirty minutes later, Connor asked if I needed a break, but I was enjoying the waves. We weren’t slamming, and the sea seemed to be steadily urging us onwards. The boat was well balanced, and I didn’t feel overpowered. This was precisely the kind of gorgeous night sailing you go offshore looking for.

“Give me 10 more minutes,” I said.

Ten minutes later, he asked again.

“Ten more,” I repeated.

And then — sometime in that fateful 10 more — the impact.

I felt it as much as I heard the screeching, metallic bangbang! I tried to get the boat stabilized, but the wheel moved strangely in my hands, like there was not quite enough tension on it. Snapped rudder cable? Parted mainsheet track? Imminent dismasting?

In a heartbeat, everyone was moving. Connor was shouting, “All hands! ALL HANDS!” and Bill was at my feet, pulling up the panel for the rudder compartment.

“We’ve lost steering! Get the jib down!”

Below, Eric was awake in an instant, crawling to the back of Sam’s berth to examine the damage where water was already surging into the boat. As a career naval officer in the submarine force including command of a submarine, he’s more than trained to assess and respond to water ingress emergencies. Mary M., a Massachusetts Maritime Academy alum with her own career as a naval contractor, called back to him from the nav desk.

“Am I calling for a pan-pan or a mayday?”

There was a beat of silence before Eric said, “This is a mayday.”

Up on deck, Bill had made the same assessment.

Having dealt with a more minor flooding issue the previous season, we knew the quirks of our pumping system well, and Sam was able to get 4,000 gallons per hour of pumping capacity up and running in just a few minutes, buying precious time for help to reach us as Mary M. communicated with the Coast Guard and nearby boats. The good thing about being in a race is there are always boats nearby.

The whole exercise was executed with a sober diligence that perhaps belied the severity of our situation. People often say to me, “You must have been so scared,” but the truth is, I wasn’t. I don’t think any of us were. We snapped straight into mitigation mode. We had been trained for this, we’d taken our courses, we’d done our homework. The only focus was on managing the situation so that a crisis didn’t devolve into a tragedy — there was no time for fear.

As we began rotating below to secure the essentials from our personal belongings, Eric asked me to get some photos of the rudder compartment topsides. Sam was already back there, and we crouched at the transom to peer in. Fiberglass shards were everywhere, and water was slopping around, but it was clear to see what was wrong. The upper rudder bearing was ripped from the boat, and the lower bearing housing was cracked open, leaving a jagged, submerged hole with the heavy rudder post

Mary Martin, center, and Sam Webster, right, in the life raft.

still oscillating back and forth through it. The J/122 doesn’t have a watertight bulkhead that could’ve stopped the water, and even if we could’ve packed the hole around the rudder post to slow down the water, there was no safe way to steer the boat without doing more damage. The collision mat we’d practiced setting up was useless. The pumps could not keep up. We were hundreds of miles from land.

From the sound and power of the impact, it was obvious we’d hit something massive and manmade. But how could we have only hit the rudder and not the front of the boat or the keel? In the sea state, we were sailing at an angle to the waves, surfing down them fast but not head-on. The object was waiting for us in the trough of the wave, submerged and invisible in the night. The keel had glanced off it before the rudder took the full brunt.

I didn’t have long to marvel at the mortal wound, and after I’d taken a quick video of the damage, it was my turn to go below.

For all of the hours and days that I had spent on Alliance, she looked alien to me that night, lit like an operating room with glaring white lights I’d never seen on before. What had always been a hushed red cocoon after dark was jarringly stark and bright.

I triaged my cameras, drone, and mics and Tetris-ed all the priorities into one backpack. My passport and phone were already with everyone else’s in the ditch bag, but I had to find my credit card and driver’s license.

I dug through my personal bag, past the carefully packed

clothes adorned with the logos of various teams and programs that I had accumulated over years. None of that was coming with me. In the moment, I didn’t think twice about it, just glad that precious life-raft space was being allocated for my cameras. In fact, the only sentimentality spared was for my backup spray pants. As I scanned the salon for anything I’d forgotten, I saw them clipped in their place on the clothesline, and I was struck with the almost surreal realization that they would still be there when the boat hit the seafloor. They would never be unclipped.

Back on deck, Eric called for Sam and Connor to deploy the life raft. The conventional wisdom is that you should never step down into a life raft, instead staying on your ship until it’s so low in the water you can step across or up. But we were using the life raft to transfer to another boat that Mary M. had been in contact with, and they were close enough that it was time to start offloading Alliance.

The 7-foot wave state that I’d been enjoying so much an hour earlier was a danger now. Alliance was buoyed up and then dumped off the crest of a wave while the life raft struggled to keep up, its built-in drogue fighting all the way. Trying to keep it under control, Sam and Connor played tug-of-war against the ocean itself.

But the boys held fast as Bill, Mary S., and Julija got in, and we handed gear down to them. Eric asked me to run through the boat and take a final round of videos of the damage for the insurance, and then it was my turn to disembark.

We’d practiced getting into a life raft before, but every

The Alliance crew takes a moment to debrief together on Ceilidh after the incident.

single one of us fell when we hit the bottom. It’s not a floor, just a tarp over water. We each pitched forward, carried by our momentum, often crushing the people already in the raft. Because the transfer had to be done in one quick step with little takeoff room and even less landing room, I couldn’t say what a better strategy would’ve been. But if you ever have to take that step yourself, remember that a little tumble may be part and parcel of the transfer, and the last thing you want to do in that moment is hurt yourself or someone else.

Once I was in the life raft, Eric heaved three bricks of emergency water to me. Over the VHF we’d heard that the boat headed for us was only provisioned for seven people, so bringing water for our crew of nine was critical. Eddie had also dumped out my personal bag, filled it with protein bars and almonds, and tossed it into the life raft too. (Later there would be time for much consternation over the fact that neither the gummy bears nor the rum made the cut.)

In 1,000 miles sailed with Sam, I had never heard panic in his voice, so when he sounded tight and pained as he said they couldn’t hold onto the life raft any longer, time was up.

I think Eric and Mary M. would have wanted to be the last people on Alliance in the final moment with her, but with Sam and Connor already positioned to hold the life raft and with the strength it was taking them to manage it, safety won out over pride of place, and they climbed past the boys into the raft. Then they made the precarious leap, and we were off.

The silence in the life raft was stony and tense. Something dug painfully into my legs. Everyone was soaked, half in the lap of their neighbor, half under a pile of gear. Later, we’d watch footage from another boat’s perspective and see ourselves spinning and hurtling over waves, so impossibly small in that black night. When we got to shore, it was the memory of that half hour in the life raft that stayed with me.

If you ever have to get into a life raft, hope that it’s with strangers, because there is nothing quite like seeing your friends there.

Andrew Haliburton sat at J/121 Ceilidh’s nav desk at 3 a.m., tracking the other boats in their fleet. Suddenly, an alarm flashed on his screen. It looked like a man overboard.

Having navigated for multiple winning Transpac campaigns, Andrew was no stranger to seeing an emergency alert pop up on his AIS. Typically it was followed by a quick call from the boat saying that everything was fine, and it was an accidental trigger. He waited for the call, but it never came. A few minutes later, a new icon popped up — an EPIRB. There was no accidental triggering of an EPIRB. This wasn’t one person; this was a whole crew in trouble.

He rushed to alert Austin Graef, the 29-year-old helmsman, and called for all hands. Jim Coggeshall, the boat’s owner, and the other four members of their crew rushed to help. The stricken vessel was just 2 miles directly upwind of them, and they changed sails in a hurry to adjust course.

It wasn’t long before they could identify running lights that had to be their target. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. From what they’d heard from Alliance over the VHF, it’d sounded like there was a possibility that the boat would be gone by the time they reached its last known location. But running lights would give Austin something to steer by and the crew of Alliance a hope of being rescued. In a sea state that was at least twice as high as a life raft was tall, it would have been nearly impossible to spot the raft on its own.

As they got closer, Ceilidh’s crew stripped the boat of any lines that could potentially drag overboard to foul the prop and fired up the engine. Austin’s brother, RJ, prepared a line to throw out to the life raft while their father, Rick, got out a spotlight to illuminate their target. Jeremy Marsette kept a lookout

Left: Austin Graef helms Celidh. (Andrew Haliburton photo)

Right: The two crews get to know each other over the course of the 52 hours. (Eddie Doherty photo)

Left: Sixteen people on a J/121 is a tight fit. (Eddie Doherty photo) Right: Bill Kneller tries to get some rest in the sail-bag heap.

“We were a huge inconvenience to Ceilidh. We had more than

doubled the number

of people on their already at-capacity boat. They were so gracious with us, sharing everything they could, from food and clothes to deodorant and sleeping space.”

while Ryan Mann pulled out his phone to record.

“We did that first pass where we could see into the life raft,” Austin recalls, “and just seeing the look of nine people huddled up inside, it’s giving me goosebumps. I will never forget that.”

In the dark and the sloppy waves, he could barely see what he was aiming for, just trying to get Ceilidh as close as possible without running over the raft. RJ’s first two tosses didn’t make it. The third did, landing squarely in the hands of a distant figure reaching precariously out over the water.

With the line secured on both ends, RJ and Rick tried to reel the life raft in but to no avail. Even with Andrew’s help, it was too much drag. They ended up wrapping the line around their primary winch and grinding it in, inch by inch. To Andrew, the raft looked impossibly small, and as Rick and RJ started pulling people out of it, it was almost cartoonish to see so many bodies lifted from such a tiny space.

RJ reached down into the life raft as person after person handed him their tether to hook onto the back of the boat. Then, he and his father would each grab a hand at exactly the right moment and haul them over the chasm of churning black water to safety.

In the cockpit, Ryan took down the names of everyone recovered from the life raft, nine souls in all.

The Archambault 40 Banter, whose crew was good friends with Alliance’s, had also diverted to assist, and they were circling Ceilidh, preparing to take on some of the refugees. But in all the

bashing against the transom, one of the life raft’s tubes had been punctured. There was a second of hesitant deliberation about what to do next before RJ cut in.

“We are not putting anyone back in that life raft; no one is going off this boat.”

The grim reality of the situation set in. We were in for a long ride to Bermuda.

* * *

The combined Ceilidh-Alliance crew convened on the rail just as dawn broke, saying tentative hellos and exchanging names as the sun rose over a very different scene than it had set on.

Somewhere behind us, Alliance pinged on the tracker one last time.

“Are you OK?” Sam asked me.

“Oh yeah, how are your ribs?” Bill said.

“What?” I asked dumbly.

“You could’ve broken a rib hitting the wheel that hard.”

I felt around for tenderness. “I’m OK. I don’t think I hit the wheel.”

Sam stared at me dubiously for a moment. “You put a dent in it.”

There is a unit in the Safety at Sea course titled Being a Good Victim, which outlines all the things you should do if you go overboard to improve your miniscule chances of being located and recovered. But they failed to mention what happens

in the days after you’re recovered. What happens when you put nine wet, exhausted, traumatized people onto a boat that is underway, hundreds of miles from shore and still trying to function as a racing team?

We were a huge inconvenience to Ceilidh. We had more than doubled the number of people on their already at-capacity boat. They were so gracious with us, sharing everything they could, from food and clothes to deodorant and sleeping space. We all tried to stay out of the way as much as possible, but there was just nowhere to be that wasn’t underfoot. The three berths

Above: On the final approach to Bermuda, the author takes a photo with the combined crew (note the handprint-shaped bruise from being hauled out of the life raft. Left: RJ Graef, left, and Rick Graef race a crowded boat towards Bermuda.

in the salon were in constant use, as was the aft cabin and a little crawl space behind the head that Austin and RJ had dubbed “the condo.” Still, there were usually three additional people lying in a heap of sails on the floor, sleeping if they were lucky.

I spent most of my rest time all the way forward, where my nausea was soothed by the cool trickle of water dripping down from the forward hatch onto my face. Small mercies, and all that.

We kept a rough watch schedule to free up space below, but other than sitting on the rail, there was nothing to do. No time to decompress or process everything that’d happened. Just long hours to sit and think.

The conditions remained relatively the same for the next few days, and Ceilidh continued taking a beating from the waves. At one point, a shout for RJ wrenched me from an uneasy doze. Through the forward hatch, I could see one of the stays bouncing listlessly against the jib. I watched as they scrambled to fix it, weirdly unable to muster any sense of urgency. Later, the rudder bearing started sheering off bolts, and again RJ was up in an instant, making repairs. Still, I existed in a numb daze.

Their crew worked tirelessly to keep the boat in good shape and get us all back to shore, with the Graefs sleeping no more than 45 minutes at a time as they traded off the helm for days, and the others supporting them and trying to keep up a sense of normalcy for the rest of us.

The last night was the worst. We were slamming, and I lay on the floor in the sail-bag heap next to Bill and Eddie.

“Are we worried about the water dripping around the mast?” I asked.

“Lydia, I’m worried about a lot of things,” Eddie said in a small voice.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking about how they have an ten-person life raft.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see me in the dark. It’d crossed my mind as well.

“If something happened to Ceilidh, I’d be in the water.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Yeah. Pretty much all of us.”

When I couldn’t take lying still anymore, I headed up on deck to wait out the night. It took about five minutes to be completely soaked through by the waves. Sam was huddled beside me, trying to avoid the worst of the water coursing down the side decks. Even though he was right next to me, I couldn’t seem to speak. I would’ve done anything for a hug in that moment, but instead I curled in on myself, numb with misery and the adrenaline crash.

Mary Martin (Bos) and Eric Irwin (Bos) were co-owners of Alliance. Mary learned to sail as a teen in New England where she attended the Massachusetts Maritime Academy. She has a career in the Navy as a civilian engineer/project manager. Mary has been a boat owner since 1986, and has extensive (25 years) one-design and near-shore racing along with two previous Bermuda races. Eric is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy (USNA) and learned to sail through the USNA offshore sail training program. Eric was a career submarine officer. He has extensive (20 years) one-design and near-shore racing and has participated in five Bermuda races and one transatlantic race.

The relief to be back at the dock was palpable after a long and difficult five days.

But as it always does, the eastern sky began to lighten, and what had been only darkness took shape with the dawn. A triumphant shout went out: “Land ho!!”

After days of open ocean in every direction, Bermuda was in sight.

An exhausted elation rang through the boat as we crossed the finish line and turned for the harbor. Austin passed out in the cockpit immediately while the crew around him shared a celebratory sunrise beer — it was, indeed, Heineken.

We strung up Ceilidh’s battle flag and a token Alliance flag below it and were met by friends with laurel wreaths at the dock. There were tears of relief and gratitude and sadness. It’s all a blur of hugs and photographs now.

In the hours and days after getting back to shore, I must have said a thousand times that though I hated to phrase it this way, it could not have happened to a better team. We were prepared, aware, and vigilant. We maintained our composure, and we all made it out alive.

And in Bermuda, at an evening party, the crew of Alliance danced. The band strummed up a song I knew, something exuberant and old school. Everyone was dealing with our ordeal differently, but for one golden moment, time slowed down, and I saw the laughing faces of my teammates and friends, safe and happy, and reveling in the tropical night air. Someone grabbed my hands and swung me around, laughing. There were people all around me, jumping and swaying.

It was suddenly too much, too loud. I needed air.

I broke from the crowd to walk down the dock, alone for the first time in days, the noise of the party dimming behind me. When I passed Ceilidh, I faltered, an unexpected sob ripping through me. And then I was on my hands and knees, vomiting into the dark water below, still carrying the weight of being one of nine souls, a weight I may carry onto every boat I sail for the rest of my life.

Lydia Mullan is the managing editor at SAIL Magazine, editor of Multihull Power and Sail, and the former media manager for Cole Brauer’s historic 2023/24 circumnavigation. In her seven years with SAIL, she has published over 300 articles, including the boating industry’s best adventure essay and the best article about a woman in boating as recognized by Boating Writers International in 2024. She is a 2024 graduate of the Magenta Project.

Lessons from Alliance

Sailors involved with a rescue during the Newport Bermuda Race discuss the takeaways, big and small.

By Lydia Mullan

Editor’s note: During the Newport Bermuda Race this year, the J/122 Alliance struck a submerged object in the Gulf Stream in the middle of the night, suffering damage that caused her to sink (see “A Eulogy for Alliance,” SAIL magazine, October 2024). Fellow racers aboard Ceilidh, a J/121, and Banter, an Archambault 40, responded to Alliance’s mayday, and while Ceilidh took on the entire nine-person crew from their life raft, Banter stayed close by until everyone was safely in Bermuda. In September, US Sailing awarded the responding crews its Arthur B. Hansen Rescue Medal. SAIL managing editor Lydia Mullan was a member of Alliance’s regular crew and spoke with others about key takeaways from the sinking.

From its onset, the J/122 Alliance program was designed for learning. It created opportunities for talented young sailors to participate in offshore races alongside veterans, held scores of training days to prepare and foster crew dynamics, and enriched the on-water experience with supplemental educational materials. We learned countless lessons on seamanship and the practical skills of running a boat. In the wake of Alliance’s sinking, boat owners Mary Martin and Eric Irwin, along with crew members from the boat that rescued and carried us to Bermuda, share the program’s final lessons.

1. Keep Learning

For Eric, the successful rescue of all nine crew members on Alliance can be traced to the founding ethos of the program. “When we bought the boat four years ago, we wanted to establish a solid foundation for everything: safety, navigation, crew development …. That solid foundation from the very beginning was key. Practice, repetition, muscle memory, all of that made a difference in an emergency situation,” he says.

“We recognized that we needed to learn. As new skippers of an offshore race boat, we had to,” says Mary. “We had offshore experience, but being the owners and in charge of the boat, we needed to ensure that we could safely race the boat offshore and be responsible for other people’s lives. We don’t take that lightly.”

Before the race, our team met monthly to discuss everything that goes into a race like this: navigation, weather, medical .... There was homework, and we were assigned pretty much every lecture, report, and presentation on the race that’s ever been posted online. We discussed in depth the lessons from the tragedy in the 2022 race, when 74-year-old Colin Golder went overboard and drowned. There were pop quizzes, and many of us were involved with preseason prep.

“We learned every year that we had the boat, and we carried those lessons forward. Last year we needed a bigger pump for another race, and we decided that the weight and space it took up was worth it to bring along on this race,” Mary says. In the end, having the extra pumping capacity bought extra time for our rescuers to get to us.

2. Crew Consistency

Some offshore crews are cobbled together with friends of friends, whoever can take vacation time, and maybe that one guy you don’t know too well but who checks the box for Safety at Sea or medical requirements. Alliance was not built that way. The majority of our Newport Bermuda crew had raced over 1,000 miles together, and

the rest had been building their experience through practice days. That intimate knowledge of the rest of the crew, their strengths and weaknesses, brought us closer, but it was also a huge asset when we were trying to secure the best outcome of our boat sinking in the middle of the night hundreds of miles from land.

“One of the first things that comes to mind is how important it is when talking about prep for a race — before you can even practice or think about emergency procedures — to talk about crew,” says Austin Graef, who drove the J/121 Ceilidh to Alliance’s rescue. “Picking your crew, knowing each other’s strengths, talking about roles and responsibilities based on each of our strengths — that matters. If I could go back, I’d have had more of those conversations beforehand.” As the responding vessel, he says, they had to quickly make a plan, and it was easiest for those who had regularly sailed together to fall into roles compatible with their skill sets.

3. It’s Not Just About Your Boat

“One of my biggest takeaways was just how unprepared I felt to rescue another boat,” remembers RJ Graef, Austin’s brother, who was also aboard Ceilidh. “You learn how to do the emergency stuff on your own boat, but you don’t practice being a first responder.”

“They teach so much in Safety at Sea, they teach you so much about responding to your own emergency situation, but they don’t teach you really anything about how to pick up people from a life raft,” agrees Austin. “Being in the recoverer role is a totally different situation.”

Aside from crew-overboard incidents, there isn’t much standard procedure for rescuing that you can practice ahead of time. Developing strong boat-handling skills, situational awareness, and level headedness will help.

4. Find What’s Familiar

The Safety at Sea course recommends not changing jobs in an emergency. If you’re used to being in one role, that’s where your muscle memory will kick in, and that’s where you’ll be best equipped to notice if the situation is deteriorating. Still, your job won’t necessarily be as simple as it usually is.

“One thing that stuck with me was pulling down sails in the middle of the Gulf Stream,” says RJ. “It’s not your standard takedown, the boom’s flying all over the place, and we had to tie it down, do an emergency flake just to get it out of the wind. Even the things you’re used to doing can be really different in an emergency situation.”

5. Mind the Lines (All of Them)

“One of the first things we decided we needed to do was de-rig Ceilidh,” Austin remembers of the moment they got into comms with Alliance. “The last thing we wanted to do was foul the prop in that circumstance. All of the lines, tweakers, everything got put away. We did keep our spin sheets neatly coiled in the cockpit to make sure we had a backup to the life-raft painter on hand just in case, but we were only thinking about all the lines our boat. We weren’t thinking about the life raft’s drogue.”

“The first pass, we stayed wide to assess the situation, and between the spotlight and the moonlight, we noticed it under the water. That was critical. It’s not long, but there was a chance it could’ve fouled the prop while we were circling the life raft to get to [Alliance’s crew]. Once we got eyes on it and knew which direction it was dragging, we could avoid it, but if we hadn’t spotted it, it could’ve taken out our engine in the middle of the recovery.”

6. Managing the Fallout

“You’re going through your own thing, but so is everyone else around you. Everyone’s coming to that situation from their own place, so it’s important to remember that,” says RJ. His brother agrees: “We all had a ton of adrenaline in our systems. We were all awake, calm, focused. And then as that adrenaline wore off, it impacted everyone differently. Some people needed extra rest; some people took longer for it to wear off. But you’re still in the heat of things. We’re still out on the ocean, it’s not over yet, and that’s where you need to adapt and be flexible.”

Small human comforts, though largely impossible when you have 16 people on a 40-foot boat for two days, mattered too. I was loaned a dry shirt to replace my wet one, and sunscreen and sunglasses were also generously shared. Though I was mostly too sick to eat, my crewmates, new and old alike, pressed snacks into my hands.

“Establishing relationships, adding that human element back in, helped us to not dwell on what had happened and bring back a positive attitude. I think that had a huge impact on both crews,” says Austin. “Understanding the human side of things is so important.”

7. Find Your Buddy

“The buddy-boat concept was critical for our situation,” says Eric. “The rescuing boat has all the stress and all the people onboard, and they may continue to need help as they’re getting safely back to shore.” The Archambault 40 Banter — owned and raced by the Gimple family, who are close friends of the Alliance crew — was close enough to respond to the sinking vessel and offer assistance. The plan was that they would take on half of the Alliance crew, but a popped tube in the life raft made that impossible. Still, their role wasn’t done. They stayed close by Celidh for the next 52 hours.

“We had Banter right by our side and had open comms with them throughout the race,” says Austin. “Had we broken something else, we knew that they were there, knew our situation, and could’ve gotten to us quickly if we needed help. It’s OK to ask for help.”

“Ceilidh knew to ask for a buddy boat, and also Banter with their Coast Guard background was not going to leave our side,” remembers Mary. “I don’t know if every other boat would’ve thought of that, but having support after our crew was recovered mattered.”

8. Final Takeaways

“Pack your toothbrush in the ditch bag,” says Mary. “Bring a change of dry clothes. If you’re wet and can’t dry out, you’re cold. And the importance of emergency water cannot be overstated. You can survive a few days without food, but you need water. We stored ours in bricks that weren’t too big to take with us, which was essential.”

“After the 2022 tragedy, the race committee really stepped up their expectations for boat communications, and that benefitted us,” Eric adds. “The response from the other competitors was excellent.”

“Don’t let things snowball out of control,” Austin says. “When Ceilidh was under stress from the conditions and the extra weight, things started to break. It’s so important not to skimp on parts and safety gear. If we hadn’t had a drill onboard, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“Preparedness isn’t being prepared for one thing, it’s being prepared for any situation,” adds RJ. Having strong foundational skills and a consistently high standard of seamanship is the only way to ensure that those basics will be rock solid when the unexpected happens.

Pulling Your Prop in Exotic Places

By William Strassberg, Boston/Gulf of Maine

Penguins came by to visit at least twice a day. We were anchored off Isla Isabela, Galapagos, and had been there long enough to become a small part of the local ecosystem. Penguins fed daily on the small fish around us, and blue-footed boobies dive-bombed en masse with a whooshing sound as they whistled by us at mealtime.

Our 62-foot Visions of Johanna was eight months into an 18-month journey from New England to New Zealand. Before the Galapagos, we had enjoyed time in Cartagena, Columbia, San Blas Islands, Panama, and mainland Ecuador. After six weeks in the Galapagos, we began readying ourselves for a 1,900-nautical-mile passage to Easter Island. We were three (plus one). I was sailing with my spouse, Johanna, and our adult son, Gram Schweikert. We also had a stowaway, our granddaughter’s doll named “Dolly,” who was accidentally left on board during a family visit in Ecuador.

Our pre-departure mode is both an active approach and a state of mind. We review the voyage plan and develop final to-do lists with a 10-day calendar of systems and vessel checks for seaworthiness. Navigation and weather options are discussed and finalized as we extract ourselves from sightseeing and excursions to focus on the upcoming passage. We were figuring out how best to provision and bunker fuel and began a proscribed program of interior cleansing and engine-room inspection early on, rig and deck checks and bottom cleaning towards the middle, and final preparations, such as lashing anchors, moving outboard to the forecastle, dousing our awning, and stowing the dinghy a day or two before departure.

Clockwise from top: Galapagos seascape; Dolly visiting Post Office Beach; the Galapagos penguin, one of the smallest penguins in the world, is endemic to the Galapagos Islands.

The Problem

Bottom cleaning is accomplished with both snorkel and dive gear and includes cleaning and checking speedo and thru hulls, propeller, and rudder. Our propeller is a self-pitching Autoprop propeller by Brunton, and we found an uncomfortable amount of play in one of the three blades during the check. We had been assiduous in Autoprop maintenance and greasing regimens. The propeller and blades were evaluated out of the water eight months earlier in Newport, Rhode Island, and in water recently at San Blas Islands, Panama. The new finding was of concern, and we immediately emailed questions to Brunton Propellers and their American distributor, uncertain about how worried we should be. Unfortunately, there were no replies, and three days later — two days before our planned departure — we contacted by satellite phone AB Marine in Rhode Island and Brunton Propellers in England. The news was not good: We were advised that the amount of play was worrisome; we should not set sail with the Autoprop as is. To make matters worse, they indicated the propeller could not be evaluated and checked in the water. It had to be pulled and examined after hauling at the

nearest boatyard. Not so easy.

Isabela is a nearly idyllic anchorage but not because of facilities and supplies. For instance, our fuel was purchased from tanks of an Ecuadorian fishing boat. In fact, there are no boatyard facilities anywhere in the Galapagos, and the nearest haul-out was on mainland Ecuador, over 600 nautical miles away. Mostly upwind.

Once the shock of the news passed, we began to devise a plan of attack. Distance voyaging, like ocean racing, brings out shortcomings in you, your boat, and your planning. Unfortunately, a propeller puller was not in our kit of onboard equipment. It is a simple piece of equipment, however, its concept is as follows: A plate with a threaded central hole lies aft of the prop over the central stub of the propeller shaft. A bolt is screwed through to contact the central stub to push the plate aft from the hub as the bolt is turned. Meanwhile, there is a second forward plate, bolted to the aft plate, with teeth that capture the propeller hub to pull it aft and off the shaft as the center screw is turned

Clockwise from top left: The American flamingo, well known for having vibrant pink feathers and a flexible neck.; marine iguana, the only marine lizard on Earth; Galapagos sea lion, the most abundant marine mammal in the Archipelago; Galapagos giant tortoise.

Clockwise from top: chart of our route; Jorge’s shop; prop disassembled; prop assembled.

Formulating a Plan

The island’s mechanic shop had only rudimentary equipment but a very talented welder, Pachi, and an inventive mechanic, Jorge. We planned to design and construct a simplified propeller puller for the Autoprop by using a Brunton conical zinc as a template for threaded fixation holes. We also discovered a surprisingly well-stocked ferreteria (hardware store) and scavenged an assortment of suitable bolts and nuts. These islanders jumped to help us, and amazingly, we had a working model by 2 p.m. on day one, the day we received the bad news from Brunton.

The propeller is keyed and force-fit onto a tapered shaft. Now came the difficult part — conceptualizing how to remove the propeller underwater. On the hard, it would be relatively easy: Remove the terminal shaft nut, mark the prop location on

the shaft for later replacement, and attach the puller to break the hub free from the tapered shaft. Underwater this involved a small team of people, scuba gear, a bit of ingenuity, abundant good luck, and a boatload of patience.

We started straight away and donned our dive gear (Visions of Johanna carried gear and dive compressor). The first order of business was to remove the conical zinc anode and shaft nut. The zinc came easy, but after loosening the shaft nut locking screw, a 1¾-inch socket and breaker bar would not budge the shaft nut free. A longer lever arm was called for, and we discovered a new use for our emergency tiller arm, slipping it over the breaker bar. Next, we pushed the emergency tiller while positioned upside down with fins braced against hull, which turned the shaft nut, but the entire shaft moved with it Our hydraulic transmission required a shaft brake; the brake did not prevent

Clockwise from top left: weighing propeller; H9 Autoprop Schematic; Jorge with propeller in vise; propeller removed with broken tools.

the entire shaft from rotating with the nut. A bit of spectra line in the engine room stabilized the propeller shaft, and finally, we broke the nut free. We swam the tiller round and round underwater, and the nut was off. This took about an hour.

With the shaft nut off, we were ready to remove the propeller. Version 1 of our prop puller fit well; the conical zinc did well as a pattern in ½-inch steel plate. Taps sized for the center-line hole were not available. It was necessary to weld an appropriately threaded nut over an oversized center hole in lieu of tapping. The steel plate and screws were fastened to the hub into holes that normally fastened the zinc. The center bolt was threaded through the nut for push-off but the propeller would not budge, even with our underwater acrobatics and emergency tiller lever arm. Tool shortages required the use of a drive reducer to fit the socket over the center bolt, and we eventually broke the reducer. After a quick lunch, we were over our disappointment and found a ½-inch breaker bar in town. We kept at it until we bent the steel center bolt and galled the threads to the welded nut. It was late, and we were spent after hours underwater. We called it a day.

Reformulating a Plan

The following morning, we brought the puller back to the shop, and a beefier center nut and bolt were welded into place. We refit v2.0 of the puller and had at it again. This time the new larger bolt sheared right at the nut. Sheesh! During fabrication, the bolt was used to align the new nut to the plate while welding, and the heat may have weakened the bolt. Fortunately, we had a backup bolt, and puller v2.1 was reinstalled after another round-trip dinghy and bicycle trip to the fabrication shop to remove the broken bolt from the nut.

Three’s a charm, and we had a fine sense of accomplishment as the hub finally popped free. Lines were tied to the prop, which was carefully backed off, minding the key. I filled my buoyancy control device for maximum buoyancy as the prop came free but still had a fast trip to the 20-foot sandy bottom before I and the prop were hauled up into the dinghy. We were feeling good, but also realized that this was the easy part. We still had to take apart and troubleshoot the Autoprop.

Autoprop blades fit onto threaded male studs on the propeller hub. After a tapered roller bearing and thrust race, the blade and bearing assembly are fit and tightened with an overlying locking nut and tab screw, all covered with a bearing cap and greased lip seal at the hub for water-tight security. We needed to undo all of this. After removing remaining growth and carefully to labeling each blade and bearing cap in the order of blade shimmy, we attempted removal of blade number one, with the most play. Removal of the bearing cap was difficult as we did not have the proper spanner tool. Self-pitching blades rotated and were difficult to hold steady without specialized (dis)assembly tools sold by Brunton; our juryrigged spanners would bend and twist out of the bearing-cap holes. Forced to be inventive, we needed to fabricate a custom spanner, but it was late, and we called it a day.

By 9 o’clock the next morning, we were back at Jorge’s shop with the blade carefully stabilized in a hydraulic press. A custom spanner was fabricated using a piece of flat-bar and an Allen key of the size to just slip into the bearing-cap holes. After careful measurement, Jorge carefully drilled holes in the flat bar and cut the Allen key in half, force-fitting them through the drilled holes. Voila, we had a custom pin-type spanner (Pachi later welded the pins in place and painted the part, but for now, it was serviceable). Using a 6-inch long pipe as a breaker bar, we managed to persuade the bearing cap off blade number one and finally had visibility inside the propeller assembly.

The next step was to remove the tab screw and locking nut, but something was wrong; the nut and locking screw were free to spin 180 degrees either way. The blade was clearly loose; now we had to figure out the problem. We studied illustrations in the user’s manual, carefully removed the bearings and blades, cleansed them of grease, and inspected the bearing surfaces for wear. All parts looked corrosion-free without signs of wear or water intrusion. We repeated the process for blades two and three. Blade two was fine, and blade three’s grease looked green and clean, with no signs of moisture at all. Overall, the initial inspection found nothing unusual, and we posited that we would be able to reassemble the propeller with existing parts and properly torque the nuts to remove any shimmy from the blades. At day’s end, we headed back to the boat to do a better job of cleaning, planning a final inspection in a more controlled environment than the outdoor machine shop.

Top: Stub of blade two with proper thread axis. Bottom: Stub of blade one with off-axis thread pattern.

Above: Positioning the propeller back onto the shaft.

Below: Turning the emergency tiller to tighten the shaft nut.

The Findings

The following morning, we cleansed and reinspected the nearly pristine parts, focusing attention on the threaded stub as Brunton suspected a bent or damaged stub due to blade contact. It was then I had a eureka moment: With grease banished, I noted the thread pattern on the stub of the problematic blade one was offaxis and different than the others, appearing as a manufacturing issue. At last, we had an explanation of what was wrong: Blade one stud threads were off-axis, the overlying locking nut was cross-threaded and improperly torqued, and the bearings were never properly seated. The propeller was rarely run hard enough to cause a problem during New England summers, but with increased miles and some hard running during our voyage, the tab screw and locking nut became loose.

We sent photos to Brunton confirming that our hub was unusable and a replacement was necessary. This might not be a significant problem, but shipping gear into South America, particularly Ecuador, is fraught with difficulty. Ecuadorian customs are renowned as a black hole, able to swallow whole boat parts for two to four weeks or more. In addition, a large duty (30 to 50 percent) is paid, and declaring “Yacht in Transit” adds further delay with the requirement of a bond of the maximum possible duty, which may or may not be refunded months later.

We looked at other options. Personal experience informed us that hand-carrying parts via air was a good option, and we considered delivering the hub and blades to and from England for repair and reassembly, returning to Ecuador three days later. It would have allowed us to be onsite when Brunton engineers reviewed the hub and reassembled our propeller, but our Ecuadorian visas had expired during this (interminable) delay. We were allowed to stay on Isabella due to the situational understanding and good graces of the port captain, but upon exiting Ecuador, reentry would not have been allowed for nine months. That didn’t work!

We next looked into shipping a new hub to someone in the U.S. for transport to us in the Galapagos. This was our best option, and after broadcasting an internet-wide invite, a great friend and sailor from Vermont was willing to visit and fly the new hub to us. Machining the new hub took seven days, plus three more to ship it to the U.S. The flight to the Galapagos took two days, and on the afternoon of February 16, a month after our scheduled departure, Malcom and our new hub arrived in Isabela.

The Repair

The next morning, we returned to Pachi and Jorge’s shop and started assembly. Brunton had included new bearings, seals, nuts, locking screws, grease, and assembly tools but not the requested assembly instructions. Making do with the manual’s exploded view schematic, we called England with two questions: what is the proper torque for the nuts, and what is the proper orientation, as orientation in the drawing didn’t work; it was impossible to thread with the locking nut on first. They told us to use 30 N-mt (about 18 ft-lbs) torque and that the locking nut goes on

top, as suspected. We had to estimate torque as the supplied tool for tightening the nut could not attach to a torque wrench, but assembly went smoothly, and we were finished by lunch.

That afternoon, with the help of our good friends Dave and Sherri McCampbell from S/V Soggy Paws, we prepared to place the propeller back onto the shaft. We started with our spinnaker pole fashioned as a cross-cockpit gantry, placed transversely to control the propeller drop to the shaft while keeping port and starboard control lines off the topsides.

The propellor was lowered from the portside dinghy into the water before the starboard control line was swum around and under the rudder and tensioned to help steer the prop to the shaft. It was a team effort: Two installation divers in the water, one snorkeler-photographer at the surface relaying hand signals from the divers, and port and starboard line operators in the cockpit controlling the drop of the propeller. We could move it left or right by pulling one line while easing the other and up or down by pulling or easing both together. It required 10 minutes to coax the propeller onto the shaft. Lines were eased, and the prop was steadied by one diver while the second retrieved the shaft nut and breaker bar. The propeller was initially fit and tightened on the shaft without the key, marking the hub to ensure that when reinstalled with the key, it was fully onto the taper, a tip we had learned from a salty boatyard mechanic in Maine in 2005.

The nut was backed off and our propeller puller was used to break the prop free of the shaft in order to replace the key. We pushed the propeller forward as far as possible, about ½-inch short of our final mark. The breaker bar, and subsequently the emergency tiller, were used to tighten the nut until the prop was fully up to our mark on the shaft. Estimating we could push at least 100 pounds underwater on a 4-foot-long lever arm, we were confident that the nut was torqued sufficiently. We tightened the locking screw, removed the lines from the prop, and reinstalled the donut zinc in front of the prop. We were grateful. Our team of line handlers, relay swimmer, and spinnaker-pole

Dolly at the helm of Visions of Johanna.

The Goldilocks Scenario

The next day our well-practiced reinstallation process went smoothly. Another sea trial worked the propeller hard and tested crash stops before a final inspection. This time, all was well. The blades were tight, but not too tight, still free to rotate. An in-water visual check in forward and reverse confirmed that all three propeller blades swung into position in concert and properly. The following day we did a final torquing of the propeller nut, attached the cone zinc on the back end, and were finally able to inform the port captain that we would be leaving in a few days.

gantry made this approximately two-hour process much easier than it might have been.

Sea Trial

The next morning, we proceeded with an engine trial to ensure the propeller and blades were secure and thrust-worthy before proceeding around the harbor for a sea trial. We ran the boat hard with lots of shifting and a few crash stops. All seemed very smooth, and the thrust was normal. We re-anchored, and I jumped in the water to inspect the blades. Unfortunately, all were quite loose! We re-rigged the spinnaker pole gantry, and with the help of the crew of Soggy Paws, once again removed the propeller. This time, with practice, we had the propeller off the shaft and in the dinghy in about 30 minutes. We called Jorge, who delayed his lunch break and stayed at his shop, where we disassembled the first blade. After cleansing, our mistake was readily apparent. The blade has two bearings — a thrust race and a tapered roller bearing — and we had installed the blades with the tapered bearing pointed in the wrong direction. The locking nut was holding the thrust race tight, but the roller bearing and therefore the blade were free to shift a bit. Fortunately, there was no damage; the three bearings were reversed, and the propeller was reassembled. This time, attempting to use Brunton’s gear, a socket was welded to attach the torque wrench, but the recommended 30 N-m torque overtightened the bearings, and the blades were difficult to rotate. It was after closing time in England, and we couldn’t call for technical help. We decided to use an alternative and more artful set of guidelines previously provided to us regarding blade tightness: Tighten so they just fall from their own weight. Simple! This ended up being only about 19 N-m, but happy with blade tightness, we sealed up the blades and were on our way back to the boat later that afternoon.

All told, the process took about three weeks and totaled over 120 hours of underwater time plus shop labor, but we were content with the process. With limited shoreside supplies and support, we designed and constructed a propeller puller, removed, repaired, and twice reinstalled a propeller underwater, and, most of all, avoided the 600-plus mile upwind sail back to the Ecuador mainland. We learned that scuba gear and basic diving skills were an integral part of cruising safety gear. In the beginning, this appeared to be a project with insurmountable obstacles, but we succeeded by attacking the problem bit by bit along with help from our cruising friends.

Epilogue: Brunton never accepted responsibility for the off-axis threads on the propeller stub. They acknowledged the threads of one of three stubs were off-axis in the extensive photo documentation sent to them, but stated: Yes, the threads are off-axis but this can’t be a manufacturing or machining error. It is impossible.

Go figure!

About the Author

William Strassberg is chair of the CCA Safety and Seamanship Committee and has sailed Visions of Johanna across the Pacific and across the Atlantic Ocean several times. He has sailed high-latitude waters, including circumnavigation of Cape Stewart and New Zealand, and has sailed Greenland and Iceland via the Viking route.He has authored articles on cruising, including “Skippers, Leadership, and Vessel Safety,” and is the editor of The CCA Essential Passage Guide to the Viking Route.

Dolly, tethered on watch, en route to Easter Island.

RACHAS in Estero Las Montanas

by R. J. Rubadeau, Boston, Gulf of Maine Post

My wife, Mary, and I were relaxing in the cockpit of HOMEFREE, enjoying the rarest glimpse of sunshine, calm seas, and a late breakfast. M. had joined me in Puerto Natales, Chile, to spend Christmas together in the Patagonian canals as the Morris 51 continued her journey south with the goal of Cape Horn in the new year. Never a shy partner during our five decades together, she launched the first gauntlet with a second cup of coffee.

“Your daily blog has the whole town addicted,” she shared, winking lest my ego ran amuck. I feigned a pleasant surprise. After all, that’s why I spend precious off-watch sleeping time writing the darn thing.

“The boys and girls come off the mountain after work, and the mayor reads it aloud every day at happy hour at the Telluride Hotel bar,” she continued. “Each post has a newly chronicled disaster with heroic survival antics and a novel cliffhanging escape from near death.”

I smiled. This sounded like high praise.

“The howling storms, the dead-end channels, the lack of any support except the two of you keeping the boat in one piece. You missed a download last Tuesday, and I had a dozen calls wondering if the inevitable had happened and when the eulogy was scheduled.”

I basked, pleased but confused in my friends’ morbid appreciation of my work. Any writer would feel the same.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“Where is what?” I pondered the question, watching a sun-warmed breeze rustle her hair as a chorus of elephant seals grunted while feeding on huge salmon along the outcrop of flat rocks that formed Caleta Darwin.

She waved the back of her hand at the snow-capped Andes Mountains that loomed like battle turrets defending the brightblue sky against all comers. “All the hair-raising wind and brutally snarky weather that would blow the mascara off a Texas ski bunny — where it all at, my bucko?”

The bulb finally went on in my noggin. “You think I made it all up?”

M. raised an eyebrow in my direction. My smile slowly got wider.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“We’ll revisit this very topic again sometime real soon, I’m thinking.” I perversely looked forward to it.

Bob Trenary arrived from our shared Colorado ski town as the new year opened. HOMEFREE’s two-man, and now one-woman, crew decided to celebrate M.’s visit with a side trip to a seldom-visited fjord that cuts a unique path eastward towards the Andes. Besides the normal weather challenges and risky anchorages, this plan offered glaciers galore and a thriving cormorant rookery that defies the tough odds here on the most remote edge of South America.

The Patagonian Canals are narrow channels with high mountains and troublesome winds.

The first hurdle in our journey was a logistical nautical nightmare first described by Captain Robert FitzRoy in 1831. Kirke Narrow, at the northeast end of Angosturo Kirke, funnels water south from the wide-open 30-square-mile bay on which the city of Puerto Natales sits to an easy thousand miles of saltwater canals and open-ocean routes to the Straits of Magellan. Turbulant tidal streams run in the double digits through this narrow, quarter-mile slot twice daily. Navigable slack water is a scant few minutes. The correct timing for transit is based on tidal calculations and some theoretical clock adjustments from a thousand miles away. This patchwork quilt of questionable info easily fertilizes a sailor’s panic and uncertainty.

“You know, if we guess wrong, we’re toast,” I said aloud to myself as we zipped into our heaviest foulies.

The simple facts of danger are solid, and even the best sailors have little steerage when the water you float on is moving way faster than you can power. When the distance between tall rock walls is also narrower than the length of your boat, you have every right to be properly concerned.

The hairpin canal looked even smaller as we edged closer to the entrance. A sky like thick, dirty-white cotton hovered at about masthead height. The channel looked like the entrance to a creepy dark tunnel or a giant bear’s den.

Mary shouldered a docking line and, with a waist-high boat fender in each hand, asked our captain, “Where do you want me?”

“How should I know? This is my first shipwreck,” Trenary said.

She sighed politely, hooked her harness onto the forward jackline, and pointed herself amidships, wrestling her luggage out of the cockpit against a building headwind.

“Forget finding anything like slack water,” I said. “It isn’t going to happen. We plan on going with the flood or against it?”

“Either way we will probably never make it,” Trenary answered.

“You’re such a pillar of positive thinking,” said M. in a Pollyannish voice as she pushed her cumbersome load onto the

deck and left the two of us to our usual verbal sparring.

“How about I go to the bow and yell some orders back at you?” I said.

“Better make them sound like suggestions,” Trenary said, giving me a hairy eyeball. We locked our gaze and, with sheepish smiles, silently acknowledged that things could get very real, very soon. Of course, we would handle whatever came at us, and all would be okay. Or not. We had been living this brand of high-risk rodeo events all too often during the last many weeks heading south from Valparaiso.

“We got this,” I said confidently to M. as I passed behind her with two more fenders.

“Don’t be stupid,” she quipped with a wink as she pulled up her hood against the wind. “We’re all deader than doornails. Been nice knowin’ ya!”

We each retired to our corners of the boat, grumbling out loud about the “what ifs” and “maybes” for our own amusement. We did, in fact and deed, make it through the conveyer belt cattle chute with only a little drama, highly accelerated heart rates, and some comic insults meant for the boogeyman hiding around the next bend. We reached safe water on the far side with full minutes to spare.

The north wind whipped a tattoo through the rigging all night. Gusts hit 50 around 0200. We all stood our cautionary three-hour watches at the nav station and thanked the Royal Cruising Club’s suggestions on available windbreaks. We’d gleaned our prior intel for this anchorage from our own CCA member, Skip Novak, who had noted the remnants of fish camps in 2001. Local knowledge is the gold standard endorsement for shelter. His suggestions pointed those facing a brutal north wind to Bahia Enez. It served as a barely workable last-resort anchorage in these trying conditions.

The next morning, with only a little break in the wind, our crew attempted to reef down and tack upwind across the estero in a steady 25 knots. Heavy clouds cascaded at warp speed overhead, and 4-foot seas were running strong against the tide. That poor decision didn’t last long. With bare poles and the engine at a generous rpm, we slogged up the fjord. The heavy wind eventually blew the clouds to the south, and we slowly approached our goal on the chart near nightfall.

Caleta Mist held our two anchors set in tandem throughout the night, and the next day we awoke to a strange, deafening quiet. The spooky silence had us covertly whispering our new day’s strategy over coffee.

“This dinghy ride is going to be just like a spacewalk,” I said to M., trying to make it sound like a life ring to hang on to.

“That sounds a tad woo-woo,” said Trenary, struggling into his PFD. “It is more like jumping into a vat of trouble and hoping none gets on you.”

“I don’t need any mansplaining from the two of you. I get it. Stuff can happen. We can’t afford stupid.” She got it.

“What if we come back and the boat is gone?” I whispered,

Opposite: HOMEFREE anchored at Puerto Natales.

Above: Caleta Mist’s huge glacier is a steep wall of ancient ice that towered over our heads.

Right: The author on the lookout for Rachas.

Below: M. relaxes in Kuven as the weather closes in along the foothills of the Andes.

putting the biggest worry of all into words.

M. gave that a thought. “I might pack a lunch,” said the pragmatic survivor who had traveled around the world with only a backpack.

“That’s the spirit,” I said.

The three of us silently pondered the real possibility of losing our everything hundreds of miles from nowhere. I thought it best to prepare my wife for that rush of bone-chilling anxiety she was bound to feel when the dinghy pulled away from HOMEFREE and our protective abode disappeared from sight around a bend in the caleta. She would wonder, as we all would, if it was the last glimpse of the only thing standing between our crew and a cold, lonely struggle to save ourselves with only a razor-thin chance of a good outcome.

Surviving any life-or-death catastrophe this far off the beaten path can teeter on a kneejerk, split-second forced decision that is often just a flip of the coin. While preparing for this voyage as the designated medical officer, I did a deep dive into the science of survival training and the proven and textbook techniques for staying alive. The science surprised me and forced me to realize I needed to work on my mental discipline under duress. I needed a set of guardrails to guide me through a real crisis. I found a logical stairway of critical steps necessary to help avoid the worst outcomes of any unplanned event. Advice for all fully trained survivors is to always state the obvious dangers loudly to

yourself and others, then quickly analyze the problem plus risk with a clear eye to what could possibly happen next, and finally, act decisively on the facts available to find safety and then assist others. Sound simple? Try it.

The cormorant rookery was a cacophony of squawks, screams, and shrieks as determined males tried to feed their partners incubating their eggs. Nests were built on black rock walls that soared 200 feet above our heads. Nearly a thousand huge birds were in constant flight, circling their mates’ inches-wide nests. Each coddled egg and mom was marked with a greasy custard of off-color runoff as her partner, unable to land, performed fly-by regurgitations of partially digested fish, often seeming to miss her mouth. The sound was at top rockfestival volume, and we had to yell to be heard. What a ghastly, marvelous scene of nature adapting and finding a way to thrive despite the odds.

The next bend along our glacial runoff path revealed a spectacular panorama that struck us speechless. The glacier filled the entire frame of the cordera ahead, which meandered like an old country road from base of the half-mile of open water and weaved between the walls of a deep valley toward a topknot of spiked white peaks 25 miles away.

Caution gave way to mind-bending discovery as, with wideopen eyes, we slowly approached the sheer wall of centuries-old,

Opposite: Sailing in the bergy bits of a glacier.

Above: “We awoke to a strange, deafening silence, knowing it couldn’t last.”

Below: M. and Bob Trenary explore the options for setting an anchor.

pleated, white ice. Stark fissure lines of dirty melt alternated with ancient milk-colored frozen pillars. When the awe factor waned, I stepped ashore on a rock outcropping so that I could shoot some video footage while the remaining crew continued to explore the wall of ice.

I admit to fleeting pangs of apprehension as I focused the lens and they passed below that lethal tonnage of towering melting ice. I dodged the worry by not waxing on the emotional soup of possible bad scenarios and instead shifting to the mantra for any survival problem: “Be here now.” I suggest giving the mantra a try the next time you find trouble and need to stay crystal-focused in the moment.

Wind built throughout the day. After returning to the boat, we added to the security of our two anchors by taking two lines ashore and tethering them around large rocks, which allowed us to doze soundly.

Estuario Kuven was 6 miles away across the fjord from our anchorage. We read the weather briefs and calculated our best chances of having a sail to the end of Las Montanas

on the morrow. In heavy winds, we crossed the fjord and slipped in through the narrow entrance, slithering around a couple of small islets to find an anchorage and setting two anchors under a steep mountain wall of scrub bushes.

We took the dinghy ashore and tentatively walked up the scree to the ridge while always keeping our boat in sight. The brisk wind kept the few clouds in the sky moving at warp speed, and we all stopped dead at the ridge, startled by a solid horizon of approaching pitch-black clouds. A monster front was coming our way at a different angle from the winds that were smacking our faces. We now had bigger trouble. The new wind direction would make our marginally protected anchorage a tightly closed trap, with a gale on the bow and, behind us, a dead end with low islets and rock ledges. Time to move, and fast.

In the 15 minutes it took to run down to the boat, the new weather front was already broiling over the ridge, and we scrambled to lift the anchors and get underway. The narrow route back to the fjord was directly into the unpredicted 35-knot gusts. Over those final hundred yards to relative safety, we inched forward at high rpms against the current threatening to hold us captive. How quickly our perspective of harbors, normal conditions, and manageable sea conditions can change. Caleta Mist again provided a modest but familiar windbreak, and we settled back into our old neighborhood with the two crossed stern lines secured to the same rocks.

“That was less than fun,” I said as we disrobed after a long day to nowhere.

“Most important life lessons tend to lean that way,” said

Above: A local Patagonian unwilling to share a mooring ball.

Above Right: Just another crowded anchorage in Las Montanas.

Right: A VERY low barometer, batten the hatches.

my wife, the consummate educator as she pulled a fleeced arm out from her heavy foulies.

“What did we learn?” I didn’t have the answer. It was a serious question that just slipped out. We three mulled that conundrum, looking for the wisdom gained.

Trenary finally piped up, “All I know for sure is, don’t count your eggs before your chickens get laid.”

“That certainly nailed it, Dr. Freud,” I said.

On that philosophical note, dinner was a jolly affair despite the howlings of the wind.

Rachas are difficult to describe to the uninitiated. The Portuguese word literally translates as “gusts.” The rachas we experienced in Chile’s Estero Las Montanas were unlike anything our crew had seen in our combined hundredplus years and hundreds-of-thousands of ocean miles. Let me set the stage before the big reveal.

The next morning, we left Caleta Mist in our wake once again. The wind stayed strong and steady but had diminished to 20 knots. For a couple of hours, we had a had a good sail and halved our distance to the end of the fjord. Then the wind suddenly shifted 40 degrees to the north and began to build.

The introduction to the Royal Cruising Club’s guide to Chile describes the challenging weather in the canals during the summer and warns of rachas:

Of great importance in S Chile are the violent squalls resulting from eddies set up in high level winds by the mountains. These squalls can come from any direction and are known to exceed onehundred-knots … Rachas can uproot poorly moored boats and not infrequently also uproot the trees to which the boats were moored.”

Say what?

We loped along on a dry wind, heavy against the reefed sails, and it was mountaintop cold. We gave each other insults and encouragements for managing brief stints at the wheel. The view of the walls of worn black rock and the pale arterial ice curtain that lined the end of the estero was a consequential multiple beyond awesome. The feeling was an electric prod of meeting a place so beyond being wild that any comparison from experience is silly. This was exactly why we had come.

Then I saw it. About a half-mile ahead over the bow, a football-field-size patch of water erupted in bubbling turbulence, as if a huge school of fish was being driven to the surface by big predators attacking from below. I eased the mainsheet to slow us as our knot log suddenly pegged into double digits.

“Could have a problem here,” I said.

Three sets of eyes were immediately focused on the scene developing quickly ahead over the hard dodger. Shafts of sunlight broke through gaps between the huge cumulus clouds flying overhead like freight trains, making everything flicker like an old movie reel. The wind roared even louder and then suddenly jumped an octave. About 250 yards ahead, the water sank into a compressed circular cauldron that was 200 yards in circumference and at least a half-dozen feet below the horizon.

The force of that katabatic wind missile hitting us from above would have been a drama that I’m sure glad we missed. Being knocked flat in a soup bowl would not have been a joyful experience. If we hadn’t all just seen it together, our heads would have executed a work-around to make sense of the truly unbelievable, and we likely would have invented a white lie to explain to ourselves what just happened.

I don’t remember any conversation. The helm was thrown over, and we came through the tack in extremely short order. Our heads continued to look astern as we called it a day and our new goal for the afternoon changed direction. The wind continued to build as we headed down the fjord towards Angostura Kirke and another ride on the flush cycle.

M. and I rode the highway bus together from Puerto Natales to the airport in Punta Arenas.

“I think we need a bigger superlative here,” M. said as we tried to put the finishing touches on the post of the daily blog for the readers back home.

“I just love it when you talk adjectives,” I said.

She threatened the eyebrow thing again. I read the highlighted sentence on the screen in her lap.

“How about cataclysmic?”

It got a laugh.

“Was the trip fun?” I was really asking, “Was it worth it?”

“Not exactly the vacation cruise I had expected.”

“Wish I could have provided a little better weather.”

“You’re forgiven. Now I know what folks mean when they say you can’t make this stuff up,” she said with a shy smile.

“That nailed it all perfectly,” I said.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. J. Rubadeau (BOS/GMP) is an award-winning author, columnist, journalist, and poet. His career and adventures as a professional blue-water sailor has been chronicled for over four decades in the world’s leading sailing periodicals. Bound For Roque Island: Sailing Maine and the World and Bound for Cape Horn: Skills for Expedition Cruising have both won numerous awards for nonfiction books and nautical memoir. The author has honed his writing skills in various shoreside occupations: university lecturer, grant writer, newspaper columnist, elected politician, and speech writer for an Alaskan governor (no, not that one!), plus 30 years as a professional political strategist and policy wonk. Rubadeau lives with his wife, Mary, and a posse of grandkids, dogs, and horses near Telluride, Colorado. Each summer, Dog Star, the family’s 90-year-old Phil Rhodes-designed ketch, plies the cold, clear waters of New England and beyond, crewed by cherished hardcore friends and four generations of this seafaring family.

South Georgia Albatross Survey

by Skip Novak, Great Lakes Station

Guardians of their solitude along the south coast.

The mood on the Pelagic Expeditions vessel Vinson of Antarctica is a wee bit on edge. Justino is staring into the radar in the pilot house, and Dion is all eyes on deck in a sharpish southwest wind as the flat light of a late evening slowly fades on the wild coast of South Georgia.

“She’s coming!” Justino shouts to us up on deck. He is in no doubt that we have to up-anchor and fast. Tor, our Rambo, already kitted up and on standby, runs forward for the windlass. I am closest to the wheel, and we start to motor ahead on our 80 meters of chain, closing the distance to the berg even faster. It’s an agonizing five minutes and a race against time as we snatch the anchor off the bottom at the same time we’re pulling hard to starboard to miss a broadside and then hard to port so the stern clears — just. The bergy bit slides to leeward, marching on unchallenged — a truly unstoppable force of nature grounding in 10 meters of water behind us.

We have taken knocks with ice many times over the decades. It is part of the game in the far south. What can’t happen, though, is an errant berg or bergy bit overrunning or grounding on your anchor and chain. That is a full-blown fiasco. At best, it’s “lose your anchor (and hopefully not all of your chain) time.” Have an angle grinder charged up to hand and be ready to slip the whole shooting match if need be. I have some experience and a

souvenir in my back garden in the Hamble — a CQR from the Pelagic pressed flat as pancake.

On the morning of January 22, 2024, the Vinson of Antarctica threaded through a wall of crystalline ice bergs hard by the “forbidden” south coast of South Georgia. Some years there is only the odd berg along the coast, but this was a bumper crop, having spawned from a major calving of shelf ice in the Weddell Sea. We had been chased into Wilson Harbour,

The south coast studded with bergs. (Kelvin Floyd photo)

seeking shelter from a Force 6 southwesterly on the rise. The entire island is now a Terrestrial Protected Area, and the island’s management plan doesn’t allow cruise ships or yachts to disembark passengers on the south coast. Only small expedition vessels like ours and survey ships with a Regulated Activity Permit can land. Our permit was for scientific research.

Although this “iceberg cemetery,” as we call these features, looked daunting, it actually provided a safe barrier to the heavy swell that would otherwise enter this open bay. The doubleedged sword was that we had to up-anchor twice when bergy bits, otherwise grounded, jumped off the bottom with a tide and, with plenty of sail area, moved quickly, threatening our anchor and chain. We draw only 2.2 meters on Vinson, which is an important advantage in this game of draughts between bergs and boats.

The Vinson was on a six-week science support cruise on behalf of the Government of South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands, funded in part by the Antarctic Research Trust, principally to census Diomedea exulans — the wandering albatross — across the whole of the island. Our secondary objectives were to carry out opportunistic environmental surveys of official visitor landing sites to further enhance the South Georgia Terrestrial Protected Areas management plan and to monitor mortality events from the avian flu that had spread over the island during the previous six months.

We were a small team of 10. Our sailing crew consisted of skipper Justino Borreguero; me as co-expedition leader; Dion Poncet, the local knowledge and landing expert; and crew Tor Bovim and Jennifer Coombs. The science team was co-led by Jennifer Black, the South Georgia government’s environment officer, and Sally Poncet, the island’s wandering albatross expert,

who has monitored this majestic seabird species for decades. Field ecologists Andy Black and Ken Passfield and invasive plant specialist and drone pilot Kelvin Floyd rounded out their team. Collectively, this team’s experience on the island was second to none.

The last time this census was carried out was in 2015 and, before that, 2004 — a once-in-every-ten-years event that not only informs the South Georgia government of the health of this endangered species but also fulfills a commitment to the Agreement on the Conservation of Albatrosses and Petrels (ACAP), a group of 13 Antarctic Treaty parties that monitor and suggest mitigation measures for what has been a steady decrease in population of albatross and petrel species in general due to the ravages of longline fishing in the Southern Ocean.

There are 34 known wandering breeding sites on the island, of which 24 had actively occupied nests at the 2015 census. The largest population is on Bird Island at the far northwest end of South Georgia. This island, which is closed to tourists, is occupied year-round by a science team from the British Antarctic Survey, which monitors the many albatrosses, petrels, penguins, and fur seals that breed there.

Having left Stanley in the Falklands on January 12, we made short work of the 800 miles to reach first shelter along the northeast coast, sailing wing and wing all the way in a fresh westerly — glorious Southern Ocean conditions, especially so when picking our way through the bergs from about 100 miles out. After 10 days into the project, we had ticked off four of the 33 sites we needed to visit. Most were along the south coast and a handful were in the Bay of Isles on the northeast coast. Whether we could make a landing was all about wind and swell. Some of the trickiest landings were on rocky headlands, where

Team Albatross.

a few birds were nesting above the tussac hidden from view, guardians of their solitude.

The unspoken highlight for everyone was our brief time on almost-mythical Annenkov Island, a significant outlier 20 miles off the south coast, which has 176 breeding pairs. We can say this exactly, as we’d just spent two spectacular days, some of it in mist and rain, hiking up and down the pristine terrain and counting these Southern Ocean denizens. Due to the untouched nature of Annenkov, we are led to believe we could be the last humans to set foot ashore for the near to midterm future. It will most likely be left to its fastness, possibly for another decade until the next census. Enhanced satellite imagery, although not advanced enough yet, can make human intervention a thing of the past. Progress, yes. Less impact on

another island, yes. But the researchers who have followed this story with boots on the ground for decades are not convinced. They still need to be physically present at any particular nesting site, witnessing what is going on between breeding pairs and non-breeders, between adults and fledglings, in order to make accurate assessments of the population’s health. A white dot on a satellite photo doesn’t cut it.

Dion Poncet is a key figure in this project’s success. His experience along the entire coast of South Georgia is profound, particularly on the restricted south coast, where, as a toddler in the ‘80s and ‘90s, he accompanied his father, Jerome, and mother, Sally, on the celebrated Damien II as they made some of the first wildlife surveys. He went on to skipper his own boats, the Golden Fleece and Hans Hansson, on many more scientific

Clockwise from top: Running wing and wing on the way to the island; a displaying wandering albatross on Annenkov Island; Ken logging a lone nest, south coast.

surveys over the years. Without his tracks on our display console in what are largely unsounded waters, we would not have been able to approach and land with any degree of efficiency, let alone peace of mind.

The landings to get teams ashore were rarely straightforward. Some were more “sporty” than others, not on beaches but more often on slippery rocks in heave and surge. The technique is to drive the Zodiac’s bow hard onto a wall or up a steep slope and keep it powered up in gear while the team piles out, taking note that if the bottom drops out and the bow gets stuck, the stern may dunk. It’s all about reading the water, having an eye over your shoulder, and knowing what is possible and what is not — one of Dion’s many talents par excellence. (Another is butchery: He was in charge of dispatching and cooking our four half-mutton

Clockwise from top: Timing is everything in the surge and heave; Dion spots something interesting; every landing was gymnastic on the south coast.

carcasses that hung off the gantry, properly sea-salted).

There were no days off. When the weather was good to reasonable, we worked flat out: up at 5:30 a.m., coffee on (no time for pancakes and bacon, sadly), morning briefing, up anchor by 6 and off to the next landing, making sail when possible for a more comfortable ride. In addition to surveying wandering

albatrosses at the breeding sites, the team assessed the avian flu situation at every overnight anchorage or short stop by inspecting and recording mortality events and taking swabs from dead birds and seals for later analysis in the UK. These observations by experts and test results help inform the government about which sites are to be opened or kept closed to visitors. In this season, precious few were opened.

Kelvin, our botanical expert, roamed above the beaches taking note of native and invasive plants. He, Jen Black, and others developed a three-tiered approach to managing alien plant species. Their booklet, Field Guide to the Introduced Flora of South Georgia, is given to all ships visiting South Georgia to educate visitors and enhance the island’s biosecurity.

It’s February 10. Pouring rain and katabatic ball-busting winds make this a good day to collate the information and sum up. We are at anchor in the kelpy bottom off the abandoned whaling station of Husvik in Stromness Bay. Just around the corner in April 1916, Frank Worsley and Tom Crean strolled up to the Stromness whaling station Shackleton after their epic trek across the spine of the island and knocked on the door of the manager’s “villa.”

Five laptops are opened and lit up on the salon table. Furrowed, no-nonsense brows focus on crib sheets. Our researchers are not to be interrupted with frivolities like what they would like for dinner. They have come to the end of our principal objective, the census of the 33 wandering albatross nesting sites that were logged in 2004 and 2015 surveys (excluding the largest repository on Bird Island, which is monitored by the British Antarctic Survey). They are checking and double-checking their data loggers, drone footage, phone trackers, and notebook scribbles, comparing the numbers and drawing some conclusions, along with accepting some assumptions. * * *

At the beginning of February, we had bottomed out at the south end of the island, having toured the Drygalski Fjord (on a rare fine day), landing on several headlands and islets. This was interesting terrain for the team to document the vegetation

Above: Entering the anchorage at Husvik whaling station in williway condition. Left: Sailing between the Shag Rocks, 100 miles west of the island.

MY PASSION FOR THE SOUTHERN OCEAN began in 1977 when I sailed to South Georgia on Damien II with my first husband, Jerome Poncet, en route to Marguerite Bay on the Antarctic Peninsula, where we overwintered at the 68th parallel south. During the following decade, we made the Falkland Islands our home base for a growing family while carrying out wildlife and habitat surveys that, for me, developed into a lifelong commitment to conservation in the region. For more than four decades now, I have been involved with habitat restoration, surveys, and pest control and eradications. Most of this work has been done from yachts. These days I work with my partner, Ken Passfield, on Porvenir II, and on occasion with my sons Dion and Leiv on Golden Fleece, Peregrine, and Hans Hansson. The January 2024 wandering albatross survey on Vinson of Antarctica was a very different way of operating, bringing in a new generation of technology in the form of mobile-phone apps, drones, online 24/7 comms, and navigational equipment we could only dream of 45 years ago. In contrast, South Georgia’s coastline remains as remote and challenging as ever; beach landings are still dependent on sea and wind conditions and the crew’s skill and experience. We found wanderers at the same nests as on our previous surveys of 2015 and 2004 and rejoiced to find numbers were finally on the increase at

some sites after decades of decline. Compared to the first 150 years of human occupation, when South Georgia’s whale and seal populations were decimated by hunting, the island today appears to be in full recovery despite alarmingly rapid glacial melting and a warming climate. Mice, rats, and reindeer have been eradicated. Tourism, climbing and heritage expeditions, and scientific research are the only onshore permitted activities, all strictly regulated — very different from those early years when we first explored the island. How fortunate we were!

—Sally Poncet, former Blue Water medalist

Sally conducts a team briefing for the morning landing; Dion and Sally above Wilson Harbour, south coast.

that was establishing on features that have been exposed by the relatively recent retreat of the Jenkins and Risting glaciers. We also surveyed the beaches and accessible slopes surrounding the Tolkienesque Larsen Harbour for baseline data of flora and fauna before spending a quiet night at anchor in this wellknown refuge, relatively secure in a pool surrounded by kelp.

We still had three sites to visit at the bottom of the south coast and another prime site in the north central section. This was done in short order during a period of calm, sheltered from the swell by an army of icebergs right along this stretch of shoreline. We always had a weather eye out to re-visit the jewel of Annenkov Island and land on the northwest section in clear conditions instead of the dense fog we experienced on the prior count some weeks ago. Possibly some albatross were missed! But with the weather systems fluid and short-lived, this was not to be. We could not rely on a clear spell with risk of wasting

precious time transiting there and back from the main coast.

In a whirlwind tour with the time available, we made visitor-site survey stops along the northeast coast in conjunction with more avian flu observations and sample collection. There was definitely avian flu all over the island. Some sites have fared better, some worse. Young elephant seals and male fur seals seem to have been the hardest hit, while penguins have been relatively unaffected, for now. The jury is out on how this pandemic will progress. It is unpredictable and will have to run its course.

Day before yesterday was our last day at Grytviken completing formalities with the government officers at King Edward Point. We loaded equipment and sustenance for one month for Ken, Sally, and Kelvin, who will be moving into the historic manager’s villa at Husvik in two days’ time. They will be engaged with the

Clockwise from top left: Landing on Will Point, Royal Bay on the north coast; king penguins on Will Point; giant petrel chick in down.

government’s annual alien vegetation control programme in the Stromness Bay area.

So how are the wandering albatross doing? Several months after our visit, I received a summary from Sally.

The results: the team counted 567 breeding pairs. After applying correction factors for nest failure and taking into account the Bird Island population, this means a decline of only 0.1 percent over the past 10 years, compared to 1.7 percent between 2004 and 2015. Some colonies have actually increased, perhaps a promising sign of a recovery in South Georgia’s wandering albatross population. Welcome news indeed!

In retrospect we on our “small boats” have proven our worth yet again in facilitating these science projects in the Southern Ocean. A survey ship would not have had the time to devote to

this project and would not have had the flexibility and capability to land teams as efficiently as we have done. Long may this situation last. In praise of small boats!

On February 14, we set sail for Stanley, the long way home, and as usual, it was against a howling westerly.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Skip Novak is one of the preeminent authorities on high-latitude sailing, having spent over three decades running expeditions to Antarctica, the Falklands and South Georgia.

He is a veteran of four Whitbread Round the World Races, and co-created the 77-foot exploration yacht Vinson of Antarctica.

Crossing Indian Ocean the

By Melissa Hill, Great Lakes Station

After almost a year spent in Southeast Asia, it was time to plan our Indian Ocean crossing. This voyage had been looming large in our minds. The best we’d ever heard about the crossing was that it was “uncomfortable.”

We had experienced somewhat uncomfortable passages before. On our first of three passages to and from New Zealand (this one to Fiji in June of 2022), we saw a few days of gusts in the high 30s and steady 3–4-meter seas, with the added pleasure of the wind ahead of the beam for the entire passage. We knew that we had grown a bit “weak” with all of the downwind sailing we had been doing since we left New Caledonia in 2023, sailing up and around Australia before having a delightful four months of being pushed through Indonesia. Our time in Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, and Sumatra was, sadly, filled with lots of motoring, so we expected the Indian Ocean crossing would be working some skills that had atrophied over the last year.

First, we had to choose our route. We had friends who’d left from Phuket, Thailand, in January to take the northern route to the Maldives, Seychelles, and Tanzania. While our original plan was to leave Malaysia around the same time to sail to the Maldives and north through the Red Sea to the Mediterranean, we altered course when conflict erupted in the region. After assessing our possible alternate routes and timing, we were more interested in sticking a little longer in Malaysia and Thailand with kid boats and exploring the islands of Rodrigues, Mauritius, and Reunion. The side benefit would be getting to visit Sumatra, Indonesia, an area we’d missed on our previous four months through the country.

Unfortunately, after delays leaving Malaysia, we had less time in Sumatra than we would have liked. We needed to work our way south along the Sumatra coast before the seasonal winds changed and started blowing north, which resulted in a

quick, abbreviated visit as we island-hopped south. There was not much sailing to be had in the light to nonexistent wind, so we motored most of our way from Sabang at the northern tip of Sumatra through the Mentawai Islands to Padang on the mainland of Sumatra. That was our last stop, where we provisioned, fueled up, and checked out of Indonesia.

We then sprinted as fast as possible to the southern island of Enganno. We bid a wistful final farewell to Southeast Asia and turned west, pointed towards the Cocos Keeling Islands. Finally we were sailing — and fast! It was our first taste of the Indian Ocean — windy, sporty, but quick. We anticipated a passage of time of three days. Instead, we averaged 8.5 knots over the 520 miles, and 50 hours later we arrived just after sunset into the refuge anchorage at Cocos Keeling. Even with a track in, we weren’t willing to venture any farther through the twists and turns of the reefs until daylight. It was a bumpy night, but we were relieved to have made it so quickly and safely.

Tropical Paradise in the Middle of Nowhere Cocos Keeling, an archipelago that appears in satellite images as a tiny speck in the Indian Ocean that you must zoom in to see, is an Australian territory with an interesting history. It was essentially ruled by the Clunies-Ross family, the first settlers, for 150 years. Much of the current population of 600 are Cocos Malay, descended from the Malay workers who were brought to the islands to work the family’s copra plantation. Only two of the archipelago’s 27 coral islands are inhabited — West Island and Home Island. There is only one anchorage for visiting boats, which is in front of Direction Island, a short dinghy ride from Home Island.

As morning dawned on our first day in Cocos Keeling, we were amazed by the clarity and color of the water. It rivaled or exceeded that of the Bahamas, which had blown us away. We moved through the easy-to-see bommies to the anchorage, and I watched our anchor set in 25 feet of turquoise water. Eight small blacktip reef sharks immediately greeted us like a pack of puppies checking out the visitors at the front door.

We ended up spending a little more than two idyllic weeks in Cocos Keeling. It is the quintessential tropical paradise, with white sand beaches, palm trees, gorgeous clean water, and cooling tradewinds that were a welcome break from the heat and humidity of Southeast Asia. We snorkeled the bustling reefs surrounding the anchorage and swam with a pack of dolphins. We visited Home Island multiple times, including the historic, beautiful Oceania House, which once housed the Clunies-Ross family and is now a guesthouse for visitors to the island.

Cocos Keeling Beach.

Sunset on passage on the Indian Ocean.

We took the ferry to West Island twice to watch the arrival of the thrice-weekly Virgin Atlantic flights from Western Australia. Oliver, our oldest son, is an aspiring pilot and was thrilled with how close we could get to the tiny airport and runway to watch the landing, one-hour turnaround, and take-off. When a flight was expected, the few stores and restaurants on West Island would open for a few hours and we could pickup our pre-ordered fresh, warm sourdough bread.

The Big Passage

Our time in Cocos Keeling was only limited by the upcoming 2,000-mile passage hanging over heads. We didn’t want to leave,

but we were also eager to tackle this passage and have it behind us. This would be our longest passage so far, as well as the longest passage we would be doing without crew — it would be just Brian and I, with occasional help from Oliver. Our worries were extensive, though we knew we had done everything we could to prepare ourselves and the boat, including lots of frozen prepared meals. I was concerned about seasickness, how we would handle the lack of sleep, and how Oliver and Elliott would handle mostly entertaining themselves for almost two weeks as Brian and I rotated through our watches and slept as much as possible.

Finally, we had a decent weather window to make the crossing to the island of Rodrigues. The catch was that we’d be leaving in less than awesome conditions — rain and 30-knot winds. But if we didn’t leave that day, the forecast of building winds and large waves would keep us there for at least another week, and as our weather router mentioned, the weather wouldn’t get better as Indian Ocean winter progressed.

It was a rough first 36 hours. I stood my watches, but got sick several times and spent all my off-watch time resting or sleeping. None of us ate much at all for the first couple days. One of the passage rules we established with the boys early on

during shorter (two to four days) passages was that you can eat whatever you feel like eating, whenever you want. To that end, I always put together a snack barrel of easy-to-grab, easy-on-thestomach snacks. We also tried to have light foods like cereal, toast, and bagels available. I knew the boys were feeling better when they rummaged around in the fridge for the bag of prebaked, cold chicken tenders and washed them down with a tube of Oreo cookies.

We’ve found that we usually have our sea legs and are feeling better by day three, and that was the case with this passage. It also helped that we got a break in the wind and waves during the middle of the passage. For about 48 hours, we had calmer seas, with more pleasant wind aft of the beam — just enough for lovely, flat sailing. The days ticked by, and overall we sailed faster than we had expected, averaging roughly 180-mile days with an often triple-reefed main and jib. Unfortunately, the passage ended much like it started — rough, but with even bigger waves and wind. We saw gusts into the high 30s and set a new boat-speed record of 17.6 knots surfing down a wave. That particular night saw the biggest waves, and being on

Indian Ocean passage.

Close-up of tortoises in Rodrigues.

Marking 20,000 nautical miles on passage.

watch felt a lot like being on a rollercoaster, flying along in the dark, surfing down waves I couldn’t see. I listened to 80s power ballads — oddly calming — and ultimately trusted this South African-built, bluewater sailboat to do what it is meant to do.

Almost exactly 11 days and 2,051 nautical miles later, we arrived in Rodrigues, checking in and getting back to the boat in time to enjoy a peaceful sunset in a calm, flat anchorage. We were happy, grateful, and relieved to have made it safely. Though we were thoroughly exhausted, we also had a new appreciation of our kids and their independence. They were creative with entertaining each other, and when they needed time with us, they would join us at the helm for a chat and snuggle. Oliver rose to the occasion, helping us out with twohour watches during the day when conditions permitted (one of us always resting nearby). Elliott kept our spirits high with his energy and indomitable cheerfulness. As thrilled as I was to get those 2,000 miles behind us, I was surprised that I didn’t feel quite the elation I was expecting. I think it was the awareness that while we had accomplished this passage, we still had several thousand miles ahead of us to get to Cape Town and fully leave the Indian Ocean behind — albeit in smaller chunks.

Reunion.

Waterfall in Mauritius.

The Islands: Rodrigues, Mauritius, and Reunion

Rodrigues is a fairly quiet island, and it was a good place to catch up on sleep, boatwork, and schooling. The highlight, though, was a visit to the Francois Leguat Tortoise Reserve. When the island was first discovered, it was filled with tortoises. Sadly, the population was chipped away by sailors using them as a food source, and they eventually went extinct. The reserve protects and raises tortoises from the Seychelles, the closest living relatives of the indigenous Rodrigues tortoises, as well as radiated tortoises from Madagascar. The radiated tortoises are threatened by people who kill them to collect their beautiful, unique shells. To protect the tortoises, conservators mark the shells to devalue them. At the reserve, you can walk amongst the tortoises as they freely roam the area. Our time there was delightful and a preview of the wildlife encounters we would have in Madagascar and South Africa.

We moved on quickly to the island of Mauritius, where we encountered the most cosmopolitan “big city” since visiting Penang, Malaysia. It was hard to get anywhere without renting a car, and we spent a lot of time driving around the island to explore. We based ourselves for the most part at Grand Bay, where we enjoyed the great hospitality at Grand Bay Yacht Club. This allowed us to walk around the area, partaking in the delicious street food, particularly the outstanding local roti, sold by stands along the beach and stocking up on traditional French baguettes at the bakery.

After a fast, particularly idyllic 24-hour sail —the kind of champagne sailing under a full moon that makes you think you could keep sailing around the world forever — we arrived at the French island of Reunion. We were welcomed by a show of breeching whales as we neared the harbor, solidifying this

Dhow in Madagascar.

as an excellent passage. The visit to the island was pricey but memorable. The dramatic views as we hiked and drove were some of the most stunning we’ve seen throughout our trip. We would start our day at sea level in sunny warmth, then over the course of an hour-long drive, climb 7,000 feet above sea level, ending up above the clouds and wearing hats and layers for a hike in cool, crisp temperatures. It was a spectacular week, but the passage to Madagascar and the rounding of Cap D’Ambre at the northern tip awaited, and a weather window had just opened up.

Magical Madagascar

We were never sure we’d make it to Madagascar. From Reunion, our options were to go around the northern tip of Madagascar and spend some time in the cruising grounds around Nosy Be or go around the southern tip and head straight for Richard’s Bay, South Africa. We figured that if we had the time, we would go north. While the bureaucracy of visiting the country was a bit of a deterrent, we ended up having the time and the desire to see another unique part of the Indian Ocean. Boy, are we lucky we did. Madagascar has vaulted to one of the top spots we have visited during our three-plus years of cruising.

From the morning we sailed into Nosy Be, passed by dhows sailing between the mainland and the island, we felt like we were a world away from anywhere we’d been before. The dhows far outnumbered any motorized boats we saw. They were master sailors, using the afternoons winds to sail east and the morning breeze to sail back west. For several days in the anchorage at Hell-ville, Nosy Be, we watched them sail back and forth using the prevailing winds. It was impressive how easily they commanded their boats, skirting through the anchored fleet, easing and trimming to end up where they needed to be on shore.

Hell-ville, despite it’s name, is a bustling and bright city, filled with yellow tuk-tuks — motorized rickshaws — that will cheaply transport you anywhere you’d like to go. From the port, you can walk to the vibrant fresh market, taking in all the shops, stalls, and people along the way. The streets are filled with a mix of cars and trucks, tuk-tuks, and carts drawn by zebus — animals that look like oxen with a camel-like humps. A trip to the grocery store by tuk-tuk is a whirlwind of sights, colors, and sounds.

The safe cruising grounds of Madagascar are relatively small, spanning a roughly 65-nautical-mile area from north to south of a collection of islands off the mainland. It was a welcome respite after crossing the Indian Ocean. We day-sailed from anchorage to anchorage, enjoying beautiful beaches, hikes across islands, the mysterious baobab tress, lots of wildlife — lemurs galore, snorkeling with sea turtles, chameleons, boas, and even those beautiful radiated tortoises — all in the company of other cruising families. The Malagasy people, as a whole, were gentle and kind. The poverty is striking, and most were interested in trading for t-shirts, fishing gear, snorkel gear, and other useful items that even if they had the money, they could not buy at the outer islands they call home. My one regret is giving away the bulk of our outgrown and unneeded clothing and shoes in Malaysia, not realizing how much more they would have been needed and appreciated in Madagascar. If anyone reading this is following in our wake, hold on to leftover line, old sails, clothing, shoes, hooks, fishing line, old masks and snorkels, etc. for the people of Madagascar. They would appreciate and use all of it and more.

Onto Africa

Our six weeks in Madagascar ended too soon, but we had to keep moving to keep with our planned arrival in Cape Town in November. The weather in the infamous Mozambique Channel had been unpredictable, and weather windows were few and far between. We checked out and sailed south along the coast, hoping that the persistent southerlies would take a break and allow us to sail south. We ended up in Moramba Bay, as far south as we could get, then waited for 10 days with bated breath

On the beach in Madagascar.

Market in Reunion.

for each new model run, hoping we’d get a chance to make a move. Finally the time came. It looked like we would be able to motor into light winds on the nose for about 24 hours, then use a combination of sailing and motorsailing for five days to get to an area of Mozambique where we could wait out a southerly blow.

The forecast was right on, and other than our worries about fuel management for our engine-heavy transit, it was a relatively drama-free passage. We made it into the anchorage at Linga Linga, Mozambique, about 18 hours before the blow began — just enough time to get to shore at the incredibly welcoming resort for cold beer and good pizza. Then we were boat-bound for 48 hours as rain poured and the southerly winds and dramatic tides turned the anchorage into an unpleasant but still relatively safe place to be. We were lucky that within just four days of our arrival, we got a weather window to continue on for 48 hours to Richard’s Bay. Several cruisers before us and several after us were stuck there much longer. Instead, we had a fast, uneventful run down then coast with a helping current that meant we arrived late at night on the second day and didn’t have to spend a third night at sea. It was a relief to arrive at the very cruiser-friendly Zululand Yacht Club. We spent almost two weeks there with groups of boat kids running happily together every day after school, while parents joined in at sunset most days for a cold drink and decompression. We even took off on a safari for several days and saw nearly all the animals we’d hoped to — elephants, giraffes, hippos, zebras, African buffalo, rhinos, African wild dogs, impala, warthogs, cheetahs, and more.

Arriving in South Africa felt like another milestone in our Indian Ocean crossing, but yet again, we didn’t quite feel done. When we left the yacht club, our aim was to make it quickly and safely to Cape Town, stopping when necessary. They don’t call the eastern coast of South Africa “the Wild Coast” for nothing. It is notoriously hard to traverse, with strong southerlies that blow up every few days, meeting the south-flowing Agulhas Current and creating dangerous conditions. From Durban to East London, there is literally nowhere to hide. If you don’t have a long enough weather window — and they are short along this coast — it’s better to stay put. We had a rare weather window open that would allow us to sail from Richard’s Bay to East London. The catch was that our first 12 hours would be spent motoring in sloppy conditions from a leftover southerly, and our last 12 hours would be spent flying downwind in what was predicted to be up to 40 knots. This was a good window. We needed to average at least 7.5 knots, and we managed 7 knots in our first 12 hours. But then we hit the current, the wind picked up, and we were flying. Averaging 9–10 knots speed over ground with only a headsail. As the wind increased, we reefed the headsail, but the gusts of wind and increasing waves meant we were regularly surfing at speeds of 14–16 SOG. That night we—unintentionally — set a new boat speed record of 18.6 knots and 21.3 SOG with only a scrap of headsail out. Happily, though, we arrived at East London with almost 24 hours to spare before the blow began, far exceeding the expected 8–10 hours. The bulk of the wild coast was behind us, and our position now meant more frequent windows to Cape Town. Sure enough, a short three days

Hiking In Madagascar.

Baobab in Madagascar.

in East London was all we needed before the weather allowed us to head west another 180 miles to St. Francis Bay (birthplace of our St. Francis 50). We spent two short days there touring the St. Francis factory and exploring the beautiful beaches, and then we were — finally — on our last push to Cape Town.

As the sun set on our second day, we rounded Cape Agulhas at 20° east longitude, the official dividing line between the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. As we sailed along in light breeze and rough seas, watching the numbers of our position countdown on the MFD, we said a final goodbye to the Indian Ocean, and I felt the elation I’d been waiting for since we’d landed in Rodrigues. All the worry, all the stories, and months of sailing had led to this — we were officially in the Atlantic and

we had crossed an ocean. The dramatic shoreline of the approach to Cape Town came into view at dawn, and by lunchtime we were snugly tied to our dock at the V&A Marina, basking in the sun and the view of Table Mountain, while soaking in the miles behind us and not yet worrying about the miles to come.✧

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

The Hills — Brian, Melissa, Oliver (11), and Elliot (8) — departed Toronto in July 2021. They have since sailed over 24,000 miles and explored more than 16 countries. 2025 will see them sail to Namibia, St Helena, Brazil and the Caribbean before ending their adventure, selling their beloved St. Francis 50 catamaran, and returning to land life on the west coast of Canada.

The Hills in Cape Town.

Atlas at Cocos Keeling.

Actually It’s Not Dark Over Here!

By Jill Hearne, Pacific Northwest Station

“G

oing to the Dark Side?”is the modal response when sharing with your mates that you are buying a powerboat. Usually accompanied by a sneer (real or perceived), it does give one concern for one’s future. Are you going to lose your status as a real mariner? Are you going to be left out of the dock walks and talks? Or are you going to get a whole new set of challenges, experiences, learnings, and companionships?

Recent advances in engineering have brought long-distance cruising within range for many who have spent their lives on the water racing and sailing oceans. It is now possible to cross oceans under power and circumnavigate the world. Boats under power can and have transited the Northwest Passage and rounded Cape Horn as well as cruised the fjords of Patagonia and the Cape of Good Hope. Any place where one may choose to cruise is now accessible with comforts and amenities unimagined by the crew of the Mayflower or late-19th-century pioneering solo sailor Joshua Slocum.

As Doug Adkins (PNW) noted in his article, “Lore from the

Lazarette … a Look Back” (cruisingclub.org, 2022), the 1925 CCA fleet registry listed 115 yachts, of which 26 were motor cruisers. He found no evidence that a background in sail was required in the early years of the club. Its listed purpose was to “encourage the development of suitable types of sail, motor, and auxiliary craft for cruising purposes.”

Many CCA members have come to membership through racing, particularly in the Newport Bermuda Race on the East Coast and the Vic-Maui Yacht Race on the West. This all-consuming passion leaves spouses on shore, and while one’s racing days may diminish, the lust for water may not. Many sailors

engage their families in cruising while their children are young, but empty nesters may find themselves short on crew. That is the time to analyze whether the “cruising” part of Cruising Club of America can be a couple’s joint focus. Most powerboats can be handled by two people, and if both are physically comfortable and intellectually engaged, they can cruise with purpose well into their 80s.

A key to success is engaging both partners in activities that are necessary for successful cruising. Couples who are turning from sail to power can share passage planning and weather analysis, for example, as both activities engage technical and analytical skills that can be transferred from previous careers.

The motivations for transitioning to cruising under power include safety, comfort, fellowship, and range. As people get older, they make choices in response to new physical challenges. Instead of scurrying up the mast themselves, they find someone to grind it up or they hire it out. If they have grandchildren, long trips and inaccessible locations are less attractive. Some choose gentler environments for their activities while other choose gentler activities — they may switch from skiing to beach walking or from tennis to pickleball. Time being immutable, one can predict facing physical restrictions that are more limiting than one’s mental ability and imagination. As prudent mariners, they must decide whether it’s time to return to the harbor or alter course. With the new advances in technology comes the capacity to actually alter course, providing longrange capability without having to trim sails and zigzag to a destination.

Indeed, it’s often forgotten that many members at the CCA’s first meeting in 1922 had powerboats — in fact, W.W. Nutting, the first elected commodore, was a journalist at Motor Boating Magazine. The original intent of the Cruising Club of America was to create an organization patterned on the Royal Cruising Club, which at that time sponsored no races and was strictly a cruising organization. A member of the RCC confided to me once at a rally in the Outer Hebrides that he believed the CCA had been “highjacked by the Bermuda Race Committee.”

Currently, several members are making the transition from sail to power. As of fall 2024, Karen and Steve James (FLA) were shopping for a powerboat after 45 years and 100,000 miles of sailing, including crossing oceans to cruise five continents and visit numerous islands. They have sold their offshore sailboat, Threshold, but want to continue cruising. Going to power seems like the logical choice. “At this point in our lives, long ocean passages seem less attractive,” they note. “We would, however, like to explore the amazing coastlines of North America or the inland waterways of Europe.”

Last summer the Jameses had the opportunity to cruise a bit of Alaska as guests on their friends’ Grand Banks 42 Classic. PNW member Dave Utley then loaned them his Grand Banks 42 Classic, Blue Moon, for a couple of weeks, and they cruised Puget Sound and the San Juan Islands with John and K

Karyn and Steve James try out a friend’s Grand Banks 42 in Tracy Arm, Alaska.

Robinson (PNW) and had a great time, visiting CCA members, such as former Commodore Tad and Joyce Lhaman, along the way. It was a wonderful opportunity that gave them confidence in handling a trawler and helped them realize what features they wanted in a boat.

After the self-sufficiency of ocean cruising, the Jameses say having a boat that can easily be managed alone is a priority — and is important in case of illness or injury. They want to be coastal cruising well into their 80s on a boat that allows them to live aboard for long periods of time, be self-sufficient, and accommodate guests. Also on their list are fuel efficiency, the comfort of two staterooms/heads, a flybridge, a covered deck, and robust anchoring and davit systems.

The Jameses want to stay involved with friends in the cruising community as long as possible and are really interested in spending more time in the Pacific Northwest. “Having a call sign and being known by your boat name is part of that,” Steve emphasized. “Down on the docks with my mates is where I want to be. The camaraderie of the boating community is a constant around the world, and remaining part of that is part of cruising.”

Milt Baker (FLA) grew up on the piers of Norfolk Yacht & Country Club and learned to sail as a teenager. He later went to sea as a career officer in the U.S. Navy. Milt and his wife,

Keewaydin in Cala Cabrera in Mallorca with watchtower.

Starr  at Miyajima, Japan.

Judy, bought a 32-foot Allied Seawind II ketch and sailed her from Florida to Maine and back and then to the Virgin Islands, living aboard and cruising the Eastern Caribbean and Bahamas for two years before founding Bluewater Books & Charts in Fort Lauderdale in 1986. He moved to power in 1990 and has owned six powerboats, including a Nordhavn 47, in which he and Judy crossed the Atlantic and cruised the Mediterranean for two years. In 2024, they swallowed the anchor. Milt shared that moving from sail to power is a significant transition for experienced sailors, but one that many find rewarding as they enter a new phase of their boating lives. He noted that for those with decades of sailing experience, the switch to power offers both familiar comforts and new challenges.

“In addition to increased living space and comfort, one has the ability to maintain a consistent cruising speed in most weather, and that can significantly reduce travel time and increase cruising range,” Milt emphasized. “It can also open up new destinations and allow more flexible itineraries. But the transition isn’t without its tradeoffs. Fuel consumption will be a new consideration, both in terms of cost and range planning. One of the biggest surprises for many former sailors is the change in the ‘journey experience.’ Powerboating tends to be more destination-focused, and you may find yourself missing the hands-on engagement of trimming sails and working with the wind. However, many powerboaters find new satisfaction in route planning, fuel management, and mastering the intricacies of their boats’ systems.”

While moving from sail to power offers new convenience and capabilities, it also requires a different mindset, which means adjusting to different costs, skills, and environmental considerations. A good advance understanding of these factors can help lifelong sailors make a smooth transition to enjoying the advantages of powerboating while preserving the essence of their love for the sea.

Another perspective on power comes from Atle Moe, whose sailing was first in small boats with the St. Petersburg Yacht Club. Atle and Kristina Thyrre began cruising on a 28-foot Cape Dory and then cruised extensively on their Nordhavn 57 for 10 years. Atle relates:

“Quite a few years back, while discussing various boat types over a drink at St. Petersburg Yacht Club in company of Charlie Morgan (an amazing man and someone who never stopped learning), he told us that he had recently designed some proposals for long-range powerboats. This was a new concept for us, and we left the yacht club that night with a whole new perspective of what kind of vessel was suitable for world cruising.

“We then started the research and read the bible, Voyaging Under Power by Robert Beebe (revised by PNW member Denis Umstot, 2013). We read everything we could find, looking at a future of acquiring a suitable powerboat for our dreams (yes, they were still only dreams). We wanted to live full time onboard a boat that was capable of crossing oceans.

“The final outcome was that we found a Nordhavn 57 that

Right: Milt Baker in engine room of Bluewater.

we bought in January 2012 and moved aboard right away. By the end of 2012, we had sold our company, house, and cars and cranked up the engine on our Nordhavn 57, leaving our home port for years to come. We cruised nearly 30,000 nautical miles on  Summer Star to my country of Norway and all over Northern Europe, including Iceland and Greenland on our route back to the United States. The current owners of Summer Star (now Festus) have crossed the Atlantic both ways in the few years that they have owned her.

“Kristina and I continue to cruise on our new Summer Star, an Outer Reef 65. We have seen long-distance powerboat cruisers undertaking some amazing trips and are happy to see that CCA is recognizing that sailboaters and powerboaters have the same love for ocean voyaging.”

After 25 years of active cruising under sail aboard Golden Eye in the U.S. and Europe, Ernie Godschalk was ready for a new cruising adventure. He admits he may have underestimated the “new adventure” aspect as the challenges have been more than anticipated. He wanted the capability to cruise from Nova Scotia to the Bahamas, so sea kindliness, fuel and water capacity, and live-aboard comfort was key. The new boat needed to be aesthetically attractive as well. Though he wasn’t actively looking, an advertisement caught his eye, and after viewing a Sabre 45 Salon Express, he decided to move ahead. In 2024, Ernie and Ann Noble-Kiley cruised 2,000 miles from Annapolis to St. Andrews, New Brunswick, and back on Aries

“My aspirations are to come up the learning curve in this

Above: Aries in Pulpit Harbor, Maine.

‘new adventure’ — a whole new learning experience!” Ernie shared. “I want to extend both my cruising years and my range, reach places that are impracticable in a sailboat, such as far up rivers in Maine, and take advantage of the ability to easily make 100 nautical miles in a few hours — ‘be there’ vs ‘get there.’”

After living aboard half time for 20 years and sailing north, to Central America, and to the Caribbean, Rodney and Jill Hearne (PNW) knew that cruising was integral to how they related to the world and each other. After surviving an aortic dissection and approaching 80, they knew they wanted to continue cruising and exploring the world by water. The Hearnes have always made cruising a family affair, and after conferring with sons Roddy (PNW) and Harker, they decided to move to power. It so happened that Harker had been following the Nordhavn 57 since it was designed in the late 90s, and he located one in Southhampton England, stranded by its Norwegian owner during COVID (see Jill Hearne’s artice, “Making Dreams Come True,” in the 2023 edition of Voyages)

Since going to power in 2021, the Hearnes have logged 9,000 miles cruising the Mediterranean and, most recently, British Columbia. In one’s 80s, engine room access alone is a plus — it’s possible to do inspections and repairs without having to do boat yoga — and maintaining the capacity for long-distance cruising and having the space to share adventures with children

and grandchildren means more time for more adventures. The Hearnes’ sailboat had modest refrigeration and solar and wind power, but now, thanks to their powerboat’s generators, they can actually have heat in the Pacific Northwest. Future plans include Haida Gwai and Prince William Sound. They believe that the joy of being on the water and exploring new horizons and sunsets, regardless of vessel, can’t be replicated on land.

Of course, no discussion of cruising under power can be complete without Don and Sharry Stabbert (PNW), who received the Far Horizons Award in 2021 for their 20 years of cruising on Starr throughout the Pacific, North Atlantic, and Mediterranean. They began their sailing as one-design racers on Thistles, and after 10 years, moved up to a Cal 330 and then a Cal 40, winning multiple major PNW awards for their racing skills. Don and Sharry made their transition to motor cruising when they purchased Starr, a Northern Marine 77 in 2000. Their first voyage started with a Pacific crossing to the Marquesas via Mexico, then on to New Zealand and Polynesia. After crossing the Atlantic, they spent two years enjoying France, particularly La Rochelle. They used a new set of navigational skills as they explored the canals of France, going up the rivers of the wine regions. In Spain, they port-hopped and spent time ashore before going through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean. Don and Sharry were especially fond

Above: The Jameses getting advice from circumnavigators.

Right: Crew of Keewaydin at sing-along in Alcudiamar on Centennial Cruise.

Summer Star in Norway.

of the Adriatic. As they cruised from country to country, they made friends, finding relationships ashore and among cruisers to be the greatest reward.

They continued back across the Atlantic, returned through the canal, and did another circuit of the Pacific, spending a full year in Japan. Cruising boats such as Starr are an oddity in Japan, and they found the hospitality and the friendships made to be lasting gifts. Their longest passage then was a 4,000-mile nonstop passage from Japan to Hawaii.

Don and Sharry’s most recent major voyage, spent revisiting favorite spots, was a round trip from Hawaii to Seattle via Guam, Japan, and the Aleutians. After returning to Oahu from this 15,000-mile voyage, Don shared his expertise by starting adult sailing classes at Hawaii Yacht Club and supplying the club with six RS Zests. He now teaches there as a Level One instructor.

Many CCA members who have turned to power continue to be “making adventurous use of the sea.” The 2022 Centennial Yearbook showed 135 powerboats, or about 16.5 percent of the fleet. In 1925, powerboats composed 22.6 percent of the fleet. As healthcare and technology improve, one can anticipate more members choosing to stay on the water in their later decades. And just to drive home a point, there is plenty of light over here! As Ernie Godshalk remarked, “Old sailors never die, they just go to power … EVENTUALLY.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For the last 25 years, Jill and her husband, Rodney, have spent half of each year cruising offshore, first on Lookfar, their Formosa 46, and then on their Nordhavn 57. She won her first nautical award in 1970 for predicted log racing. Since then, she and Rodney have navigated North, Central, and parts of South America, and their nautical adventures have ranged from Glacier Bay, Alaska, to the Panama Canal and the Caribbean to Southampton, England, Europe, and around the Mediterranean. Jill holds a 100-ton USCG license and a PhD from the University of Washington. She has published extensively in juried journals as well as nautical magazines. This is Jill’s fourth article for Voyages. As a family, Rod and Jill raised their two sons vacationing on their boat in British Columbia and chartering in the Med. Their son Rod continues the family passion for sailing as a racer, a second-generation CCA member, and with his brother Harker completed several passages in Europe. Jill and Rod have enjoyed CCA cruises in the Hebrides, Greece, and the Balearics.

Bluewater in Kotor.

By Robert Hanelt, San Francisco Station

Skylark, our 1937-built, 53-foot Sparkman & Stephens yawl, dropped anchor in Taioha’e Bay, Nuku Hiva, Marquesas, French Polynesia on May 16, 1972, after sailing 2,984 nautical miles in 22 days and 21 hours from Acapulco, Mexico. The morning was breaking, and we could see six yachts in the anchorage.

Skylark’s crew — Robby Fouts, Merv Nichols, my wife, Kristi, and me — was happy to have a calm anchorage after a boisterous week in the southeast tradewinds. We’d heard that the French bread baked at Taioha’e Bay was excellent, and even though Kristi’s fresh-baked “passage” bread was delicious, she was eager to try some that she did not have to bake, so we launched Skylark’s dinghy and went ashore.

We landed on the beach in front of a building we later found out was the local jail. A unique jail it was because the prisoners were allowed to leave during the daytime, and if they did not

return by nightfall, they were locked out! After befriending the Polynesian prisoners, we’d learn that they were from other islands and had been convicted for relatively minor offenses. The real punishment was being taken to Nuku Hiva and, thus, separated from their families. We’d use the jail’s outdoor shower, and when we returned to our dinghy, we’d often find a stalk of bananas or several pamplemousses, the delicious South Seas grapefruit, gifted to us by the prisoners.

But this morning, we had no idea about the jail or the prisoners who would become our buddies. With our passports in our back pockets, we walked down a palm-lined road to the Gendarmerie Nacionale to officially enter the Marquesas and French Polynesia, but it was closed for lunch, so we continued down the road, passing the school and several small stores until we came to a small concrete building with a sign reading, “Bar Magasin Chez Maurice.” Below it, another smaller sign announced, “The first sign in the Marquesas.” We stuck our

June 1972: Skylark anchored in Hakatea Cove, Taioa Bay, also known as Daniel’s Bay. (Kristi Hanelt photo)

Chinese bread French Polynesia in Chinese fair and a

heads in the door and found proprietor Maurice McKitterick fast asleep on his counter. We quietly backed out, sat down and admired the view of Taioha’e Bay, and returned an hour later when Maurice was awake.

We introduced ourselves and, over cold Hinano beers, began a great relationship. In the small-world department, we learned that Maurice and I, some 15 years apart in age, had worked for the same steamship company headquartered in San Francisco and had even sailed with the same captain. Who would have thought that two people with these shared experiences would meet on a small island in the South Pacific?

“We understand that excellent French bread is baked in Taioha’e Bay,” Kristi said to Maurice.

“Well, here we call it ‘Chinese bread,’” Maurice replied. We wanted to buy some before returning to the gendarmerie and Skylark, so Maurice led the way up the dirt road, past chickens and ducks, round a building, past some penned piglets, and into the bakery. There he introduced us to Ropa, the Chinese

May 1972: Kristi baking bread during a blue-water passage. (Bob Hanelt photo)

boulanger extraordinaire. We bought three loaves of “Chinese” bread, enough to last us two days — or so we thought. We then visited the gendarmes, who cleared us into French Polynesia, and we returned to Skylark.

We decided to try Ropa’s bread before supper. The first loaf was very good, so we had another. Soon, all three loaves were gone and we were fast asleep without ever having had supper (after talking to other arrivals, we learned this was a common occurrence.) During our 12-day stay in Taioha’e Bay, Kristi and Ropa became friends. Kristi would buy fresh bread every day, and Ropa would present her with a cake, some pineapple tarts, or something equally delicious to bring back to Skylark’s crew.

We were invited to participate in the decoration of the Chez Maurice barroom. Maurice desired to decorate it in a yacht-club motif so that he could hang the many burgees presented to him by visiting “yachties.” Thus the “Taioha’e Bay Yacht Club” was established. My job was to add the name to a map that another yachtie had painted on the wall. Well, it took me three days to paint the four words. Of course, this was the South Pacific, where life slows down.

At that time, Taioa Bay (also known as Daniel’s Bay and Hakatea Bay) was inhabited by only seven people, two of whom became close friends, Daniel and Antoinette Teikitohe (200-plus years ago, before the islands were “discovered” by Europeans, over 2,000 people lived in Taioa Bay and its deep valley).

”

One day, the ketch Bebinka, captained and crewed by Scott and Kitty Kuhner, sailed into Taioha’e Bay. Once they had settled into the anchorage, Kristi and I rowed over to say hello and thus began a lifelong friendship. Scott and Kitty were on the first of the two circumnavigations that would win them CCA Circumnavigation Awards. Over the next two years, we’d sail many miles (more or less together), beginning with our departure from Taioha’e Bay on May 29, 1972, when we

May 1972: Maurice McKitterick (Scott Kuhner photo)

May 1972: Bob painting the Taiohae Bay YC mural at Chez Maurice. (Kristi Hanelt photo)

motored five miles down the coast and anchored at the base of 2,000-foot cliffs in small and beautiful Taioa Bay. From French Polynesia, we’d go on to the Grenadines in the Caribbean, where we finally split up, Scott and Kitty bound for New York and we for the Panama Canal and home to San Francisco.

Before we left Taioha’e Bay, I was approached by Maurice, who asked, “Would you mind carrying my receipts to my banker in Papeete?” I thought about that: Maurice was showing a lot of trust in asking us to carry his money to Tahiti, but I also knew that transportation between Nuku Hiva and Papeete was limited. Of course I said yes. He handed me a large canvas bag. I never opened it, but it jingled.

At that time, Taioa Bay (also known as Daniel’s Bay and Hakatea Bay) was inhabited by only seven people, two of whom became close friends, Daniel and Antoinette Teikitohe (200-plus years ago, before the islands were “discovered” by Europeans, over 2,000 people lived in Taioa Bay and its deep valley). A woodworker who created Marquesan artwork in the ancient style, Daniel showed us a beautiful table with complex carving that he’d created. We would have liked to buy it, but we had to save what little money we had. (Later, in Papeete, I’d recommend Taioa Bay as an anchorage to Babe Lamerdin, captain of CCA member Bill Stewart’s Siete,

and encourage him to persuade Bill to buy Daniel’s table, which Bill did.)

In Taioa Bay, South Africans Roger and Sheila Clancy’s Kuan Yin joined our little fleet, and after an enjoyable week with Daniel and Antoinette, our three yachts set sail for the island of Takaroa in the Tuamotu Archipelago. The Tuamotu islands are mostly low atolls with one or two passes that empty

May 1972: Bob shooting sun for a morning sunline. (Kristi Hanelt photo)

May 1972: Kristi in Skylark’s galley. (Bob Hanelt photo)

When I went up to the cockpit to relieve Robby of his watch at 0400, it was just light enough to make out clouds on the horizon. As I stared ahead, I realized the ‘clouds’ were actually coconut palm trees! “ ”

and fill lagoons with the change of tides. Currents are tricky, and one must be careful navigating through the islands — even more so in 1972 without the benefit of GPS. At sunset the night before we were to arrive at Takaroa, I shot evening stars with my sextant to get a good fix on our location and set course through the low islands. I was a little trepidatious knowing that dangerous currents could negatively affect our course. When I went up to the cockpit to relieve Robby of his watch at 0400, it was just light enough to make out clouds on the horizon. As I stared ahead, I realized the “clouds” were actually coconut palm trees! We made a dramatic change of course, and dawn found us sailing down the west coast of the Takaroa atoll, past the rusted hulk of County of Roxburgh, an old iron sailing ship that had wrecked on a reef, perhaps because her crew had also mistaken palm trees for clouds.

On June 10, 1972, we entered the pass at Takaroa, and moored to the quay at the village of Teavaroa, where we spent four days. We arrived in Papeete on June 17 and, after Mediterraneanmooring to the quay and cleaning up, we set out to find Maurice’s Chinese banker and deliver the canvas bag that jingled.

French Polynesia’s capital was still an unspoiled paradise then. No building was allowed to be taller than a coconut palm, and there was no marina, nor even many yachts. We moored right downtown. Kristi and I carried the canvas bag, apparently full of money, right down the main street, Boulevard de la Reine Pomare IV, to the Chinese store owned by Maurice’s banker (it was right next to the notorious Quinn’s Bar, a longtime South Pacific institution that many sailors will remember.) We went into the store and introduced ourselves to the proprietor, who not only was happy to see his money, but also happy to meet us. That night, he took us to an outdoor Chinese fair by ocean, where there were bright lights, music, food, and entertainment for children. And for the adults? Gambling. Our friend even gave us some money to gamble.

Looking back, who would have thought that our search for “Chinese bread” in the Marquesas would lead us to a Chinese fair in Tahiti? And this was just the beginning of our two-year, five-month circumnavigation. There were more adventures, but we’ll save telling them for another time.✧

February 1972. Skylark departing San Francisco Bay. (Photo credit: unattributed.)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

1972: Admiring

June 1973: Scott and Kitty Kuhner in the rain at Papua New Guinea. (Bob

Bob, a past rear commodore of the San Francisco Station and its current historian, is a 48-year member of the CCA. Bob and Kristi, who have been married for 57 years, live in the San Francisco Bay Area, where they are longtime members of St. Francis Yacht Club and where they are currently “between yachts.”

Bob and Kristi, with Kristi’s brother Robby Fouts as full-time crewmember, completed a two-year fivemonth 31,106-nautical-mile circumnavigation on July 20, 1974. Their former yacht, Skylark, is currently under European ownership and her homeport is Monaco.

Hanelt photo)

June

a carved wooden table created by Daniel, second from right, wearing hat. (Kristi Hanelt photo)

Tazzarin: North to Nunatsiavut A Voyage to Newfoundland, Labrador, and the Inuit Lands

By Bill Barton, Boston Station

In the summer of 1977, the 144-foot barkentine Regina Maris glided amongst massive icebergs on the Labrador coast. The ship, built in 1908, was tracking migrations of humpback whales and doing population estimates. I had boarded months earlier on the whales’ Caribbean breeding grounds. Under command of past CCA member George Nichols (BOS), Regina Maris had sailed up the Atlantic with the whales, and we were now on their rich feeding grounds.

Just two days earlier at the Inuit settlement of Hopedale, two men had come out to the ship and welcomed us. As they departed, one of them cautioned, “You will see dogs on chains ashore. Do not approach them; they’re working dogs, not pets.” He then added, “Oh, and do not go ashore on the small island off the harbor entrance. Some of us leave our dogs there in the spring and return to get them in the fall.”

A young and naïve 18-year-old, I replied, “That seems a little harsh for the dogs to be left alone for months. What do they eat?”

He responded, “They eat whatever they can — a bird, a seal if lucky. Sometimes they will kill another dog and eat it.”

Again, I foolishly responded that it seemed cruel. His short, calm reply spun my mind around to the Inuit point of view: “Maybe you think so, but when I am 20 miles from home in a blizzard in February, I want the dog that will get me home.”

Instantly I realized the dogs meant something very different in Inuit life. Without the strongest, most survival-driven dogs, the man would risk dying miles from home in the depths of winter. His family would have no food to live. They loved their dogs, but life itself was threatened if his dogs could not bring him home. So it had been for millennia for peoples of the north.

The incident remained etched in the fabric of my mind for years to come. It was an awakening — I was realizing how important it is to see the world through the eyes of others. It leads to understanding between cultures. Through the ensuing years, I realized sailing provided a unique opportunity to visit distant peoples and lands, broadening my “far horizons” and helping me grow as a person.

It would be 45 years before I would once again sail those waters. Could sailing north teach me more lessons about the world we live in?

This

Opposite page: The 144-foot barkentine Regina Maris, built in 1908, glides among icebergs in Labrador in 1977.

page, clockwise from top: Tazzarin is dwarfed as she cautiously passes brash ice around a recently collapsed iceberg; map of route; a sled dog in Hopedale, Nunatsiavut.

In June of 2022, I set sail from Manchester, Massachusetts, aboard my 1995 Sabre 362 sloop, Tazzarin, bound for Newfoundland and Labrador. Aboard with me were Carl Doane and Greg Bover, able shipmates standing solo watches as we headed offshore. My desire was to again reach Hopedale, one of five Inuit communities in Labrador. In 2005, the government of Canada turned management of northern Labrador back to the Inuit. The lands are now known as Nunatsiavut, meaning “our beautiful land.”

We made Halifax in 2½ days, stopping to clear into the country and make autopilot repairs. On our way again, we sailed through fog banks across the Cabot Strait and rounded

Cape Race. In thick fog, we passed the entrance to St. John’s and turned into Conception Bay.

Our destination was Long Pond, home of the Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club. However, six miles out, the fresh breezes that had sped us westward died away and Conception Bay took on a glassy sheen. With no wind in the forecast, I reached for the key to start the diesel. The engine would not start. Reluctantly, I contacted the RNYC and arranged a tow for the last six miles of the 930-nautical-mile run from Manchester.

While awaiting a skilled mechanic, Carl, Greg, and I made a trip to Signal Hill atop cliffs at the entrance to St. John’s Harbour, which is one of the world’s great natural harbors, with

Left: Seabird colony at Cape St. Mary’s; every white speck is another bird.

Top: Gulls adorn an iceberg on Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula.

Above: A northern gannet spreads its wings at Cape St. Mary’s.

a narrow, defensible entrance and protected deep-water basin. I always marvel at the vessels in this busy harbor, especially the platform-supply vessels — massive, powerful workboats designed to handle the worst of North Atlantic weather as they service drill rigs off Newfoundland. When I visited in 1977, cod was still king here; today it is oil and gas.

Tazzarin’s engine had suffered a catastrophic failure and would require a complete rebuild. COVID supply-chain issues and slow passage of parts through customs meant the engine would be out of the boat for six weeks! I filled my days doing boat maintenance and visiting nearby fishing outports and stunning landscapes.

My favorite spot during these weeks was Cape St. Mary’s at the southwest tip of the Avalon Peninsula. Here I could hike out through the green, red, and brown hues of windswept, subarctic tundra to sheer 350-foot cliffs rising from the Atlantic. Along the cliff face and atop a towering sea stack of rock are countless seabirds. Some 30,000 majestic northern gannets, pure white with black wingtips and golden heads, are the most prominent. Farther down, the cliffs are rife with common murres, black-legged kittiwakes, and razorbills. There is a continuous cacophony of 100,000 bird voices. Looking seaward, the sky swirls with a spindrift of adult birds coming and going as they plunge into the sea seeking capelin to feed their young. Below,

humpback whales surface and dive for food. I sensed the richness of these northern seas that provide nourishment at every level of the food chain.

By late August, the engine was repaired, but my hopes of reaching Nunatsiavut that summer were gone. I squeezed in 12 days of cruising before hauling the boat in Newfoundland for the winter. My wife, Annie, and David Martz (BOS) each joined me for a week.

In those waning days of summer, I returned to a place I had visited years before — Traytown Harbour on the island of Ireland’s Eye. A winding, narrow channel curls into the island’s interior. Until 1965, this island had a bustling community taking part in the cod fishery. The shores were lined with cottages, fishing stages, and flakes for drying salted cod in the sun. Outports like Ireland’s Eye were the heart and soul of Newfoundland and Labrador. However, after Newfoundland and Labrador became a Canadian province in 1949, a program of “resettlement” was initiated to shutter small outports and move people to larger population centers. The thought was that it was too expensive for the government to provide services to hundreds of small outports. The controversial program continues to this day and, combined with the collapse of the cod fishery, has largely ended a centuries-old way of life. In 1965, Ireland’s Eye voted to “resettle.” Households received small government payouts, packed up, and in some cases literally towed their houses behind their trap skiffs as they left. Today, few vestiges of the outport remain; the Anglican Church I visited in 1977 is now a scattered heap of wood decomposing in the summer sun.

In mid-September, my brother, Bob, helped me decommission Tazzarin. We returned to Long Pond in June of 2023, and in five days touched up the bottom paint, launched, stepped the rig, and got the boat fully ready. Bob, my savior for both the decommissioning and commissioning, then departed.

Mory Creighton (BOS) flew in and joined me aboard Tazzarin. My cruising goal was not to rush, but rather, to take time to explore more than 45 ports and anchorages.

Our first day’s run took us out Conception Bay to Bay de Verde. A fair breeze and sightings of over 70 humpback whales made the sail memorable.

A surviving outport, Bay de Verde sits out at the tip of the peninsula on the northern side of Conception Bay, close to the fishing grounds. Salted cod used to dry on flakes here until rampant overfishing by ever-larger Canadian and foreign vessels with sophisticated technology gleaned ever-larger catches in the 1970s and 1980s. The cod fishery collapsed in 1992. A cod-fishing moratorium was enacted to let the fishery recover, but sadly, after three decades, the cod have not recovered, and the moratorium continues. In the late 1960s, 800,000 tons of cod were caught each year; today’s commercial quota is a scant 12,000 tons!

Today, the big catch is snow crab. Bay de Verde processes 35 million pounds of crab annually. Gone are the trap skiffs with make-and-break engines hauling cod traps; in their stead, a fleet comprises larger commercial vessels setting crab pots.

The following morning, we headed across Trinity Bay on a grey sea dappled with sunlight and encountered our first ice, a few small growlers. Rounding Cape Bonavista, the hulk of a medium-size iceberg greeted us. From this point onward, ice was a constant companion. The daily Iceberg Analysis from the North American Ice Service showed this was proving to be a heavier than usual year for bergs, and, the pack ice had still not retreated from Nunatsiavut. Going forward, we put in each night, in part to explore and in part to avoid ice at night.

As we approached a monumental, towering iceberg, there came a rumble like distant thunder. The berg was collapsing, with avalanches everywhere and waves radiating outward in all directions. Cold emanating from the berg created a layer of mist

Tazzarin passes a 450-foot tabular berg off of Conche, Newfoundland. Opposite: Tazzarin at anchor in Traytown Harbour on Ireland’s Eye; entrance is in upper right.

above the sea. Three massive bergs remained, along with hundreds of growlers and dense brash ice. Moving slowly amongst the brash was like sailing through seltzer, the water hissing and popping as melting ice chunks released air that had been trapped and compressed for 5,000 years in layers of glacial snowfall. Mory enjoyed collecting brash ice for a glass of evening rum.

Over the coming week, we moved up Newfoundland’s east coast. Another day found us dodging icebergs in fog at the entrance to Fourché Harbour on Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula. The fog lifted as we slipped between the peaks at the entrance of this majestic fjord, where water cascaded down cliffs on both sides. Two-thirds of the way into the fjord is a cove on the right, where we dropped anchor in sight of the weatherbeaten, tumbledown cottages and overgrown graveyard that are the remnants of the community of Williamsport.

On the opposite shore are the eerie, rusting remains of the Williamsport whaling station. Whale-catcher boats used to bring fin, sperm, humpback, and minke whales here to be flensed and processed. About two dozen whaling stations dotted the remote coves of Newfoundland and Labrador into the mid20th century. Williamsport, one of the last active stations, shut

down in 1972, and its closure led to the resettlement of the people of Williamsport. Today, all that remains are the storage tanks and a tangled array of iron apparatus rusting blood-red as a reminder of the slaughter.

St. Anthony at the northern tip of Newfoundland brought a crew change. My boyhood friend Charlie Newhall joined me, and before Mory departed, the three of us visited nearby L’Anse aux Meadows. Out on the windswept grasslands adjacent to town are the mounded vestiges of a Viking encampment founded 1,000 years ago by Leif Erikson, son of Erik the Red. For 20 years, Vikings used this camp. A meticulous Parks Canada recreation of a Viking sod house takes one back in time. The remarkable thing about UNESCO World Cultural Heritage Site no. 1 is not that Vikings came here 500 years before Columbus, but that Erikson met up with the precursors of the Inuit. The Thule people were the tail end of the eastward migration of humankind that began 150,000 years ago in Africa. When Vikings, traveling west from Scandinavia, met the indigenous people at L’Anse aux Meadows, our species had finally encircled our planet and met up with itself again. In my mind, this moment, more than any other, defines us as one

Clockwise from top: Tazzarin leaving the dramatic Harbour Fourché Fjord in Newfoundland; entryway to a reconstruction of a Viking Sod House at L’Anse aux Meadows; Mory Creighton (BOS) happily collects brash ice for his evening rum drink.

people inhabiting one planet — one people sharing a singular blue marble and connected by the oceans we sail.

Mory departed, and Charlie and I set off in thick fog and light winds across the Strait of Belle Isle to Labrador. By the end of the 25-mile crossing, the wind had built to 30 knots as we sighted the dramatic butte-like, basalt Devil’s Dining Table at Henley Harbour. A day later, we arrived in historic Battle Harbour, a once-thriving outport for the cod fishery. Through a remarkable effort, many of the working-waterfront buildings have been maintained or restored. The site is staffed by locals who grew up here and worked in the fishery. It is a step back in time and offers the clearest picture of what the region’s coddriven economy once was.

North of Battle Harbour, the population really thins out. Pressing on, we came upon vast stretches of mammoth icebergs with remnant pack ice, causing us to divert course and seek open water. Later we dropped anchor in Hawke Harbour. Sharing our cove was the rusting hulk of the whale catcher boat Sluga. In the far corner of the harbor were the ghostly remains of the Hawke Harbour whaling station. These scenes were poignant

Top: The Battle Harbour fishing premises with Tazzarin at the wharf in lower right.

Above: Remains of the Hawke Harbour Whaling Station, burned in 1959.

reminders of the people who came from far away to to harvest off these shores.

Three days later, we crossed Groswater Bay, wending our way through an armada of icebergs in shades ranging from stark white to deep blue. I paused to count how many bergs were in sight, peaking at about 65. The weather deteriorated rapidly at the northern side of the bay, gusting 35 knots with thick fog as we nestled into Emily Harbour on Brig Island. We had now entered the Inuit lands of Nunatsiavut.

A few days farther north, we spent a night in tiny Rogers Harbour on Kikkertavak Island. Charts provide no soundings for the harbor, a common scenario as one goes northward.

Two days later, the town of Makkovik loomed into view below misty mountains with spotty snow clinging from the previous winter. At the fish plant pier, crew from an offloading fishing boat caught our lines.

Clockwise from top: The Moravian Mission and church in Hopedale were established in 1782; Makkovik fish plant workers on break; Ruth and Greg Flowers still have a sled dog team in Hopedale; Larry, his wife and granddaugther presented us with fresh cod and arctic char in Makkovik.

Tazzarin at anchor in Grady Tickle, Labrador, once a busy fishing outport.

No roads reach this far north in eastern North America; to visit Nunatsiavut, you must arrive by boat or plane. Makkovik has a population of 360 who are mostly Inuit. We mingled with fish-plant workers gathered for a break at picnic tables. The plant was on the verge of shutting down due to lack of workers. It would close within the month.

Walking the community’s dirt roads, we passed small homes where orange-pink fillets of arctic char were hanging from racks to cure in the cool air. Along shore were small boats interspersed with sledges that are used in winter to travel over sea ice and across snow-covered land. Everybody heats with wood. With few trees along the coast, the firewood is harvested many miles inland and transported on sledges pulled by snowmobiles. In recent years, warmer temperatures have decreased the thickness of the ice and made winter travel and fishing more dangerous. Charlie and I returned to Tazzarin for dinner. While tidying up, a call came from the pier above. On deck, we were greeted by Larry and his wife and granddaughter. They brought a gift of fresh salmon and arctic char, simply wanting to share their bounty and chat. I gave Larry a Tazzarin watch cap in thanks.

After two days in Makkovik, we departed northward. With the forecast suggesting strong southeasterlies that day and equally blustery northwesterly headwinds the next, we opted for one long run to Hopedale. We sailed through an archipelago with myriad gray and black rocky islands decorated in lush green mosses and lichens.

In late afternoon, with the sun still high in the sky at these northern latitudes, we rounded Annowaktook Island and sighted picturesque Hopedale. It is the prettiest of the Inuit villages of Nunatsiavut, with the centuries-old buildings of the Moravian Mission and Church dominating the shoreline.

When the Moravians sent missionaries in 1782, the migratory Inuit began to settle around the Hopedale Mission. The handsome church and mission are the oldest wooden structures east of Quebec.

Hopedale is the centermost community of Nunatsiavut and serves as the legislative capital. On the waterfront stands the Nunatsiavut Assembly Building, designed to resemble an ice house or igloo, the traditional home of the Inuit. Seats in the main chamber are upholstered in seal fur and surround a table shaped in an oval ring to resemble a traditional ulu knife. On the floor in the center of the table is a mammoth polar bear rug. All these items are deeply rooted in Inuit culture.

We secured the boat to the tired public wharf, ambled ashore, and were welcomed by Greg and Ruth Flowers. Ours was only the second boat to visit this year. As we talked about life in this community of 600 people, I noticed a woman tending dogs. Greg told us only six dog teams remain in Hopedale. I told Greg and Ruth about my 1977 visit and how I had been warned to stay off the small island where dogs were kept in summer. As we turned to walk into the town, Greg called after me, “By the way, my dogs are out on that island now.”

Greg’s remark would remind me of the Inuit man who told me years before, “I want the dog that will get me home.” Having

Fogo Harbour with Brimstone Head in the background. Moose and calf wander in stormy weather at Maiden Arm on Newfoundland’s northern peninsula.

reached my planned farthest-north of the voyage, I wanted the boat that would get me home. I had every faith in Tazzarin

The next day, a small Twin Otter aircraft descended through the cloud cover and touched down on the rough gravel airstrip. My new crew member, JJ Jaques, stepped off the plane, having spent three days traveling from Boston. Charlie climbed aboard for his trip home.

The next morning, JJ and I began the long journey home. We left Nunatsiavut, crossed the Strait of Belle Isle to Newfoundland, and spent two days holed up for a storm in Maiden’s Arm, watching moose and woodland caribou. In Lewisporte, JJ departed, and Annie joined me for the next leg.

One highlight with Annie was Fogo Harbour on Fogo Island, a charming, busy fishing town with beautiful hikes and bushels of wild blueberries ripening in the late summer sun. We also spent two nights in Bonavista, allowing time to visit the puffin colony in adjacent Ellison. We lingered, watching the colorful birds come and go, bringing mouthfuls of capelin to chicks in their burrows.

Back in St. John’s, Annie flew out, and my pal David Martz (BOS) flew in. David and I visited the gannet colony at Cape St. Mary’s. Sadly, field biologists estimated there were 40 percent fewer birds than the previous year due to avian flu. One theory is that warmer-than-normal air and sea temperatures are allowing the virus to live longer outside the bird, leading to more infections.

David and I set sail, bound for Halifax and sailing around the clock. However, late-season weather had surprises in store. Remnants of Hurricane Franklin moved northward to meet two low-pressure systems north of the Cabot Strait. The wind kept rising on the second day out as we sighted a pod of killer whales amid building seas. By evening, the gale was developing as we altered course in 35 knots of wind and driving sheets of heavy rain. We put in at St. Lawrence on the south coast of Newfoundland to wait out the storm.

Underway again in a fair breeze, we set out across the Cabot Strait. Soon, winds came on the nose, and progress slowed. David’s work schedule was calling, so we put in at Canso and at 0400 the next morning, David got a ride to Halifax, and I set out solo. Again, hurricane season had other plans. Hurricane Idalia had come north and was moving in on the Nova Scotian coast. I headed up the Liscombe River to settle in for two nights while the storm turned the coast into a wave-tossed cauldron.

Thankfully, my brother flew into Halifax and got a ride to Liscombe. Together, Bob and I made the run down the coast and across the Gulf of Maine. On September 12, we tied up at the Manchester Yacht Club, where the adventure had begun. With 4,000 miles on the log, Tazzarin had quenched my soul’s desire to return to Nunatsiavut and again experience the landscapes, peoples, and wildlife of eastern Canada. I learned new lessons in understanding the threats of overfishing, climate change, and the interconnectedness of peoples. Sailing to Nunatsiavut sharpened my sense of the remarkable multifaceted world we sail.

About the Author

Bill grew up sailing with his parents, Ranny (BOS) and Maudy Barton and siblings. Most of the cruising was in New England and the Canadian Maritimes. He sailed his first Newport Bermuda Race in 1978 as navigator in the last celestial-only division of the event. In 1984 he sailed transatlantic as navigator. In 2006 Bill served as chairman of the Centennial Newport Bermuda Race, drawing a record 264 entrants. He is drawn to remote places, including cruising in the Gardens of the Queen off Cuba’s south coast in 2017. He has twice sailed his Sabre 362, Tazzarin, to Sable Island to conduct archaeology. Bill is also a National Fellow of the Explorer’s Club.

During his voyage to Nunatsiavut, Bill was sending daily emails and photos to 500 followers. Those emails can be read online at tazzarin.com/2023-nl-and-nunatsiavut-reports/

Boat Information

Boat Name: Tazzarin

Home Port: Manchester, Massachusetts

Builder: Sabre Yachts

Model: Sabre 362

Designer: Jim Taylor

Year Launched: 1995

Owned since her launch, new in 1995

Voyage Information

Total miles sailed: 4,000+ on the log

June 18, 2022: Depart Manchester, Massachusetts

September 14, 2022: Haul in Long Pond, Newfoundland at RNYC

June 20, 2023: Launch Tazzarin at Long Pond, Newfoundland at RNYC

September 12, 2023: Arrive back home at Manchester Yacht Club, Manchester, Massachusetts

Tuamotu 2024

By Simon Currin, Boston Station

Theshrill squawk of our VHF’s Mayday Relay alarm disturbed the predawn peace and shook me out of a deep sleep. We had been sailing reefed down overnight to be certain of making our landfall in daylight. Our watch change was about to take place when the VHF blurted out the spine-chilling news that a yacht was aground on the outside of Raroia’s fringing reef. We were the nearest boat able to respond!

For those that don’t know it, Raroia is a tiny atoll in an archipelago of 77 similar atolls spread over 1,100 miles of the South Pacific. They are called the Tuamotu Archipelago but have been known for centuries as the Dangerous Islands because their navigation can be perilous. Each atoll rises only a few meters from the sea, and traditional charts were notoriously inaccurate. The difficulties are further compounded by swift and unpredictable currents within the passes that lead to their bommie-strewn lagoon centers.

Raroia was to be our first motu, and we had planned a cautious approach after a 450-mile passage from the Marquesas. All hands were to be on deck for our landfall. We would then eyeball the pass at the time the Tuamotu Tidal Guestimator predicted slack water. If the white water in the pass looked manageable, we would then creep through the pass and use four pairs of eyes to avoid the numerous uncharted bommies between pass and anchorage. The Guestimator is an ingenious spreadsheet (written by the crew of the Ocean Cruising Club’s S/V Visions of Johanna) that juggles known tidal data, latitude, and wind (strength, direction, and duration) to “guess” when to enter Tuamotu passes at slack water. Persistant strong winds driving ocean swells force more water into the lagoons and thus can abolish the flood tide completely. The Guestimator attempts to take all these variables into account — clever stuff!

All our careful preparation was at once undermined when we responded to the Mayday Relay. Despite our proximity, we

could not raise the stricken boat, S/V Resolution, on their VHF and instead received messages via VHF and NoForeignLand from vessels safely anchored inside the lagoon. Our sails came down, and we altered course to motor to windward, wondering as we went how we would be able to assist a yacht high and dry on a coral reef being pounded by waves. There were no powerful commercial vessels for hundreds of miles, and we hadn’t the horsepower to pull a boat off a reef even if we could safely pass them a line. Coral atolls are collapsed volcanic seamounts rising steeply from ocean depths, so there would be no possibility of laying anchors and winching off a boat. Lots of thoughts but no solutions flashed through our minds as we raced towards the casualty.

As we closed their coordinates, Resolution’s VHF crackled to life and announced that they had somehow managed to get off the reef and were able to rendezvous with us despite a badly damaged rudder. They requested that we escort them through the pass to a safe anchorage and stand by should their ability to steer usurp them. Dutifully we agreed but did feel like it was a case of the blind leading the blind (and partially disabled) as this was our first landfall in the Dangerous Islands and our first lagoon pass.

Luckily, Resolution also had a Hydrovane whose rudder was relatively unscathed by the impact, and this was able to complement what remained of her main rudder. We both gingerly approaching the pass when a catamaran, safely

anchored inside the lagoon, urged us to come straight in as the current was slack. We wondered about their advice, as it was a spring tide and the wind had been blowing at 20 knots or more for 10 days. The Guestimator suggested a midmorning slack water, but we chose to listen to the boat beckoning us in.

Resolution and Shimshal nosed through the first of the tidal white water, and gradually the current increased. Surf was breaking either side of us, and the swirling water was starting to look more like an angry Gulf of Corryvrekan in our Scottish home waters rather than the meek entrance into the tropical paradise we had hoped for. As the current strengthened, we piled on more and more revs until Shimshal was blasting along

A Tuamotu anchorage.

White tern.

Shimshal’s route through the Tuamotu.

against both tide and a 20-knot headwind. Our speed over the ground soon crumbled, and then Resolution spun into an eddy and went shooting back out into the ocean at breakneck speed, luckily avoiding the worst of the standing waves as she went. Shimshal soldiered on for a few minutes, but when the engine-overheating alarm came on, we put the helm over and followed Resolution back to the ocean with a speed over the ground of 14 knots.

For the next couple of hours, we drifted around waiting for the midmorning slack that our Guestimator had predicted and wishing that we hadn’t listened to those tucked comfortably up at anchor within the lagoon.

What a difference a couple of hours makes! Our next attempt on the pass found the weak currents we had hoped for, and we shot through with barely a ripple disturbing the surface. By now the sun was up, and so with all eyeballs on deck, we were easily able to spot the bommies and weave our way to a safe anchorage. Our confidence was bolstered by streaming satellite Aquamap images to “spot” the bommies before they could be eyeballed. We switched on our chart plotter’s track function to lay a superaccurate GPS “crumb trail,” enabling us to trace our route back to the ocean should conditions for our exit be less than ideal.

We had chosen to anchor on the eastern side of the atoll, where the reef and palm-clad mini-motus would give perfect shelter from the prevailing trade winds. It was also the place, marked by a memorial plaque, where Thor Hyadall’s Kon-Tiki raft was wrecked in 1947.

Though the seabed was mostly sand, a few bommies littered the anchorage. We used three buoys to “float” our chain so that only a few links of chain lay on the seabed, allowing us to swing without either destroying picture-perfect coral or wrapping our chain around overhanging spikes and crevices. We had procured three abandoned rigid-plastic pearl-farm floats for this purpose, and they were ideal as they don’t shrink and become less buoyant when submerged in the way that a fender does. Each was secured to the chain with some thin cord and a carabiner every 10 meters or so.

Once safely anchored and our “floating” chain suitably admired, we dinghied over to Resolution to meet the crew and

inspect their damage. Olaf, the skipper, described the sickening crash that shook the boat when he was thrown out of his bunk as his three-year-old pride and joy fetched up on the coral reef. In a shaky voice, he explained how he thought his time was

up. We dropped over the side with a snorkel, mask, and camera to capture the images that he needed to send to his insurer. Half of the rudder was missing, with the stock protruding but unbent. There were deep gouges to both hull and keel, but the hull was watertight and the rudder useable in favorable conditions — not great to suffer so much damage 550 miles from the nearest haul-out facility, but at least the boat could be sailed.

Kon-Tiki memorial.

Sally and Simon, Fakarava North Pass.

Olaf then came over to Shimshal to use our Starlink connection to send all images and documents to his insurers, who swiftly advised him to sail the boat to Tahiti rather than take it out into the ocean and scuttle it, which could so easily have been an option. Resolution’s builder, Hanse Yachts, emailed drawings of the rudder via our Starlink, and they were then forwarded to the Tahiti shipyard that agreed to build and fit a new rudder. Resolving this tricky situation was made so much easier by access to reliable broadband in this remote region of the South Pacific.

I am pleased to report that Resolution made her way without assistance to Tahiti, where we saw her some months later, ashore and awaiting her new rudder.

The 10 days we spent snorkelling on Raroia were the perfect introduction to the Tuamotu. The warm water was gin-clear, the coral perfectly adorned with an abundance of flora and fauna. We contacted a speedboat owner in the tiny town on the other side of the atoll to collect a group of cruisers and take us to his home for a feast with music and dancing performed by his mates. Many days in paradise to cherish and remember.

Our next motu was the administration center for 10 of its smaller neighbors. Children and the sick travel to Makemo

for schooling and healthcare. It boasts a population of 815, a fine cathedral, a few shops, a couple of restaurants, and a very warm welcome to visitors. The whole community put on a church fundraising event on Friday night, which a few cruisers attended. A fine feast followed a church service and droves of kids performing music and dancing late into the tropical night.

An OCC friend encountered one of the other dangers that lurk in the Tuamotu. Having feasted for days on reef fish, she succumbed to severe ciguatera poisoning that rendered her severely unwell for a few days and left her suffering with long-term neuropathic pain, fatigue, and other neurological symptoms. A month later, Niki recorded her firsthand account in an OCC webinar (oceancruisingclub.org/ webinars?ID=2738).

Tahanea, some 80 miles farther west, was an uneventful overnight sail with an easy pass to negotiate. We slid through the rushing waters at first light and dropped the anchor in the clear waters of an uninhabited paradise. Once again, we floated our chain and dropped overboard to admire the many bommies from below the water. A short dinghy ride took us back into the pass, where we drifted effortlessly with the current, watching the technicolor corals and marine critters shoot past.

We liked Tahanea’s isolation so much we stayed for a week. A few other cruisers were anchored nearby, which proved lucky as we discovered when our nearest neighbor, S/V Matilda (OCC), retrieved our dinghy at 6 a.m. after it had mysteriously untied itself. It’s always embarrassing to lose a dinghy, but we were relieved to hear how commonly this happens when friends shared their confessions.

We thought we had the perfect window to move farther west. The plan was a slow, overnight 50-mile sail to Fakarava’s South Pass, allowing us to transit at slack water in good daylight. All forecasts agreed that we would arrive at the entrance with wind speeds of less than 10 knots and with flat seas, and we set out with confidence.

Just 15 miles from our destination, things started to go wrong. The wind came out of nowhere, and we thought the squall would soon pass, but it did not. As the wind built, the seas turned white and confused, and our destination looked increasingly dangerous. Fakarava’s South Pass was now an exposed lea-shore, and the prospect of negotiating a narrow tidal pass with 40 knots of wind did not appeal.

We altered course to sail 35 miles farther to the North Pass, but the tidal planning didn’t work. To enter at slack water and in daylight, we had to sit out the storm at sea. Accordingly, we hove to and retreated below to let Shimshal cope with the wind and the angry ocean whilst news pinged in via WhatsApp of the challenging time friends were having in their anchorages in nearby atolls. A hardy couple with

Makemo’s cathedral. Reef scene.

circumnavigations and a Northwest Passage transit to their credit came close to losing their boat when their Tahanea anchorage turned into a dangerous lea-shore lashed by 50-knot winds. Many dragged and a few went aground losing yet more rudders to South Pacific coral.

Shimshal rode the waves without drama, and her crew survived without sea sickness. By dawn the next day, the winds started to abate, and we closed the North Pass in tranquil conditions. Our OCC friends on S/V Yaghan had been monitoring our progress overnight by AIS and told us of a plumb anchoring spot next to them, which we hurried to and dropped our anchor in 8 meters just off the harbor at Rotoava.

Everyone in the anchorage had been chastened by the stormforce conditions that had caught us all out. Normally the active weather cells in the Tuamotu are on a small scale, but the one that had just passed had been several hundred kilometers in diameter and had developed within a few hours. Its power had been drawn from the sea temperature differential between the deep ocean and shallow water of the atoll lagoons. Nobody had seen it coming, and many had weathered it on unsuitable and unsafe anchorages. Though we didn’t feel it at the time, we were lucky to have been at sea and not in the dangerous anchorage on Tahanea.

Fakarava is one of the most developed atolls in the archipelago, and we were soon ashore enjoying fine food at a harborside restaurant with Anders and Nilla of Yaghan, with whom we have had many encounters during our Pacific passage. The supply ships had visited recently, and unlike many of the other islands, fresh baguettes and croissants were abundant. Even eggs were available if we joined the queue at exactly 7 a.m. on Wednesdays!

Undoubtedly the highlight of our stay on Fakarava was the incomparable diving. We dived and snorkelled both passes and delighted in the appropriately named Wall of Sharks. A magical sub-aqua world.

After a fortnight on Fakarava, we resumed our westward journey, intending to visit Toau, Rangiroa, and Tikehau, but Squash zone. S/V Resolution reefed down with half a rudder.

the weather had no regard for our plans. Soon after we had hooked up to a mooring in Toau’s False Pass, we received news of another South Pacific weather phenomenon starting to develop. A squash zone forms when an intensifying region of high pressure snuggles up alongside a low-pressure system compressing the isobars between them. To our south, a vicious winter low was spinning off New Zealand and, farther east, a high-pressure system was forecast to intensify to 1045 hPa. The combined systems were forecast to drive enhanced trade winds with wind speeds of at least 30 knots. With a haul-out deadline looming, we took the advice of John Martin, OCC member and weather forecaster based in New Zealand, and selected a slot to sail to Huahine in the Society Islands before the squash zone had properly formed.

Soon all the WhatsApp chatter was of where to sit out the forecast 10-day blow. Our OCC friends S/V Pacific Wind and Matilda, moored next to us, decided to head for Aputaki and a known safe haven. On the evening before our departure for Huahine, Valentine, and Gaston, the sole occupants of Toau, barbecued a gourmet supper from freshly caught lobster for four boats.

At first light the next day, Sally and I slipped our last Tuamotu mooring and began a 300-mile boisterous passage to the Society Islands. The squash zone materialized as forecast, and we sat it out in the comfort of a Huahine mooring whilst the winds blew for 10 days with gusts to 40 knots.

Our time in the Tuamotu had been truncated by the weather, but our experiences above and below the water of the Dangerous Archipelago had exceeded our expectations. Our enjoyment of these tiny coral specs in the vastness of the South Pacific was enhanced by sharing so many anchorages with a small fleet of fellow OCC boats we had come to know since entering the Pacific. Many of that fleet will be spending the cyclone season in French Polynesia and will resume their onward journey to Australia and New Zealand in 2025. Shimshal is now laid up ashore in the Society Islands, and we will rejoin that New Zealand-bound fleet in 2025.

Cruising Notes

The year 2024 was very busy in French Polynesia, with unprecedented numbers of boats converging there from North, Central, and South America. There is talk of imposing anchoring bans and mandating the use of moorings to preserve coral and prevent overcrowding. However, there appears to be no prospect of increasing the number of moorings, and so there is uncertainty about how cruisers will fare in Polynesia in the years to come. These issues are more acute in the Society Islands, but there are already unenforced restrictions and charges in Fakarava’s Rotoava anchorage and other popular atolls in the Tuamotu.

An expanding cruising population strains the supply of groceries in remote islands where supply ships are sparse, and their schedules sometimes disrupted. Sadly, we did come across some boats without holding tanks who thought it acceptable to discharge their sewerage directly into an idyllic lagoon. Occasionally cruisers would comment on the need to be quick to seize the newly arrived fresh produce, without giving a thought to the needs of the local people — not a great way to endear cruisers to either locals or the authorities.

Electronic charts in the Tuamotu are now super-accurate, and the ability to overlay satellite images via Starlink or building KAP files dramatically improves the safety of navigation within the lagoons. Many blogs (such as S/VSoggyPaws.com) offer downloads of tracks, compendiums of information and KAP files, but don’t forget the OCC has its own database of cruising information shared with the Royal Cruising Club and the Royal Cruising Club Pilotage Foundation.✧

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Simon has been cruising with his wife, Sally, since the mid 1990s and launched their customized CR480DS cutter, Shimshal II, in Sweden in 2006. After several seasons exploring Scandinavia, they returned to the Scottish Hebrides for five years before departing their home waters in 2015. Their three summers in Greenland were written up in an earlier edition of Voyages as were their exploits in the Canadian Maritimes and New England.

Since Simon retired as a physician in 2021, they cruised the Caribbean, and in November 2023 they transited the Panama Canal. Shimshal is currently hauled out in French Polynesia and the planned destination for 2025 is New Zealand.

Simon joined the Cruising Club of America in 2020 and was the commodore of the Ocean Cruising Club between 2019 and 2024.

OCC 70th anniversary in Tahiti.

Totem safely underway from Johnston Atoll, on the lightwind leg that took us the rest of the way to Majuro, Republic of the Marshall Islands.

Opposite: Jamie Gifford muscles Totem’s rudder underwater in Johnston Atoll, troubleshooting the source of the unfamiliar clunk.

RUDDER WOES ON A MICRONESIAN DETOUR

By Behan Gifford, Pacific Northwest

sixteen years ago, our family departed the home waters of Puget Sound aboard Totem, our 1982 Stevens 47. For the first decade and a half, the route Jamie and I chose was heavily influenced by being a family of five. Although we diverted at times from the typical westabout trade-wind route during our circumnavigation, those diversions were infrequent. Instead, we prioritized being in proximity to other “kid boats” to foster friendships and companions for our children.

EMPTY-NEST CRUISING

With all three kids now college students or graduates in their 20s and living ashore, our filters for big-picture routing are much simpler. As we looked to set out to the west again from North America, Jamie and I considered practicalities for weather and visas but were unfettered compared to prior years.

At first, we were tempted to return to the South Pacific, since our first pass left us with a taste for how much more there was to explore. Voyagers know you can retrace a route while finding different anchorages and myriad new experiences. But the ability to be even more relatively remote (we miss you, kids, but it is liberating!) drew us to consider a northern hemisphere crossing of the Pacific Ocean instead. Micronesian countries are among the least visited in the world, even by cruisers, increasing their appeal to our wanderlust; the western North Pacific gets very little cruising flow in general. Our interest confirmed, we set off from Mexico in May 2024 with the goal of cruising the wild west of the Pacific Ocean for a time.

Our first stop was Hawai’i, where we lingered for several months on the Big Island. This wasn’t about cruising as much as reconnecting with my Hawai’ian family. In early September, we headed out to sea again on what we expected would be an approximately 2,200-nautical-mile passage to the Marshall Islands — a vast stretch of ocean, with no opportunities to stop along the way.

WARNING SOUNDS

We were three days out from Kona, Hawai’i, sailing downwind, wing on wing in trade-wind conditions, when we were visited by a mystery clunk from the rudder. Years of learning Totem’s creaks and groans were put into practice this week. In the past, there has been a similar, lighter clunk made by the upper bearing at deck level. This was a different sound. “Different” on a converging path with unsettling weather forecast is not good. Rudder failure has the potential to be sudden and catastrophic. We imagined possibilities, thinking about sound bluewater boats with capable crews who have had rapid, disastrous outcomes from rudder failure. Feeding our concern: Some years ago, a sister ship to Totem had a serious potential rudder problem. Heavy bronze bolts securing the bronze skeg to fiberglass began backing out. They were able to resolve it, but we were gliding 16,000 feet over the ocean floor and couldn’t assess our clunk underway.

ANATOMY OF TOTEM ’S RUDDER

Totem ’s rudder has three bearings. The highest is at deck level. A second bearing lies where the rudder post passes through the hull at the bottom of the boat. These first two can be inspected to varying degrees from the lazarette while at sea. The third bearing is a gudgeon-and-pintle mechanism midway up the rudder, securing it to the top of the bronze

Opposite: Jamie takes a break from bottom cleaning in Majuro to dip down and examine the airplane just feet below Totem’s rudder. Above: Jamie and I pondered weather options to safely continue on while enjoying glorious sunsets across the western reach of Johnston Atoll.

Right: Totem’s ship’s cat, Panchita, taking in the sunset from flat waters in Majuro. Below: Totem moored off an islet in the Majuro atoll; the plane wreck shown opposite is one of the shadows just above the catamaran in this image.

Behan cranks Jamie up the rig. Totem had completed an extensive refit less than a year before departing Hawai’i for the Marshall Islands.

Opposite: During a prior refit in Thailand, Totem’s rudder was dropped for an investigative inspection and rebuild.

skeg. This bearing can be seen with a swim.

The deck-level inspection we were able to do did not give any cause for concern: The origin of the sound must have been something we could not inspect without getting in the water. A swim was not possible with 1.5-meter wind waves, plus a 2- to 3-meter and occasional 4-meter swell from the north.

AN UNEXPECTED PIT STOP

As we turned over our options, an awkward course of action emerged: a small, remote atoll that lay 300 nautical miles west. Thanks to onboard broadband from Starlink, researching this option, Johnston Atoll, was easy — and discouraging: This unincorporated U.S. territory does not welcome visitors. It’s under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Air Force with a legacy of military use; for the last couple of decades, the atoll has been a wildlife refuge managed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

I sent an email to the atoll management’s contacts at Fish and Wildlife Service in Honolulu with fingers crossed and a queasy stomach. The result was astonishing and gratifying: Despite it being well outside a business day, within a matter of hours we had traded several emails with both the F&WS management with the U.S. Coast Guard’s JRCC in Honolulu (looped in) to establish the situation. Were we prepared to declare an emergency? Navigating our needs while being clear we did not wish any resources expended on our behalf, we received permission. The terms of our stay were very clear: Our anchorage location

was designated. We were prohibited from going ashore. We could not swim other than what was required adjacent to Totem for the rudder. We were to leave as soon as possible. With that permission gratefully received, we waited for the relative safety of dawn to alter course with a gybe towards the atoll.

ENTERING THE ATOLL

It’s common sense to enter atoll passes only with good overhead light to see into the water and avoid coral heads. With an estimated arrival in the hour before sunset, we weren’t going to have the luxury of that light. Fortunately, the south side of the atoll is largely open, and a large channel was created for access by the military. It felt wrong entering in low light, but as we slowly progressed down a clearly manmade arrow-straight channel approximately 500 feet wide, our nerves were appeased. We anchored in the location designated to us by authorities and waited for morning to inspect. The orange-streaked sky faded to purple, and clouds of birds — boobies, frigates, shearwaters — swirled as they returned from a day of foraging at sea to roost on the islands. In our years of visiting rookeries, we have never experienced the sheer volume of seabirds that exists here.

INSPECTING THE RUDDER

From the water the next day, Jamie was able reproduce the clunk in the rudder. His assessment: The lower bearing had play enough that with slight rudder flex, the pintle banged against

Jamie passes one of several coastal defense gun battlements fringing Maloelap atoll, Marshall Islands. Below, one of the 127mm dualpurpose guns nearby; what appeared to be unexploded ordinance was readily spotted in battlements and on the beach. Totem bobs on a mooring above a DC3 aircraft in Majuro anchorage; two Huey helicopters and a ferry are adjacent.

the gudgeon/bearing. Closer inspection revealed this wasn’t imminent failure. The skeg was as stout as when new 42 years ago. Although the play, roughly 3/16 inch, was new, the hardware looked perfect (one of our now unfounded concerns was whether bolts attaching the skeg were backing out, as they had in a sister ship). We found no compromised rudder integrity, but counted on a second inspection to be sure.

THE SOURCE OF THE CLUNK

Nearly 5,000 nautical miles had passed under Totem’s keel since splashing nine months previously. This sound did not occur during that time — why now, what changed? Chief among Jamie’s concerns, despite the good initial inspection, was the construction of the rudder post. If the rudder post was one long rode section linking in the skeg at the bottom, then we had a problem. The excess play wouldn’t have been possible unless internal metal structure was coming apart. We spent hours poring over photos of the rudder and skeg, mainly from when they were removed in Thailand for inspection (that was a project!).

Photos showed what memory had forgotten: The rudder post didn’t exit through the lower bearing. Instead, a short stainless post, a pintle, meant the play was okay and not a sign of internal problems. We suspected that Totem’s very dead-downwind point of sail, which put multiple directional forces on the rudder, pushed and shoved the rudder around, making the clunk. We communicated findings back to the F&WS team and to the JRCC Honolulu, who at this time were looping in folks from the U.S. Air Force and putting on the pressure to have us move along as soon as possible.

WILD AND MYSTERIOUS JOHNSTON ATOLL

If we had to assign a single word to Johnston Atoll, it would be “creepy” — not usually how one thinks of a remote tropical island! The atoll’s history is sobering. The uninhabited scraps of land behind a reef were first visited (accidentally, through grounding) by an American brigantine in 1796 but not claimed until more than 50 years later, when two men took possession under the U.S. Guano Islands Act. Phosphate mining wasn’t successful, but after surveys made in the 1920s, President Coolidge established the atoll as a wildlife refuge. World War II shifted control to the Navy, then the Air Force, as a strategic base for submarines and from the 1950s forward as the atoll that was the site for successive nuclear tests. It also has been used as a site for testing and storing biological weapons, as a missile base, and as a disposal site for chemical weapons, including Agent Orange.

Totem’s track makes it clear when we gybed to aim directly to Johnston Atoll.

According to the U.S. Air Force, all environmental remediation for the contamination by nuclear and biological weapons has been completed. But if this was an unspoken reason for remaining confined to Totem, we needed no convincing!

The legacy is sobering and highly visible: bunkers scattered around islets, concrete bulkheads around all the land we could see, a concrete block of a building we assume is where chemical weapons were incinerated, and not a sign of living human presence.

The cacophony of seabirds served to remind us that life finds a way. They seemed to occupy every scrap of land, counterbalancing the darkly morbid shadows cast by the military legacy. A range of species of boobies especially provided some entertainment, as they perched fearlessly near us around Totem

Meanwhile, we did not go to the wildlife, but the wildlife (or the birds, at least — marine life was minimal) came to us. At any moment, as many as a dozen boobies sat happily pooping away on our solar panels. They gathered on our bow pulpit in groups of five and even hung off the snubber line, watching our every move.

Marine life paled in comparison to the birds. We’d have expected to see some dolphins or curious fish at some point during our days there but were disappointed. While unable to visit the reefs nearby, I did swim directly under Totem while on shark watch during Jamie’s inspection and was greeted only by scattered bits of dead coral.

The sheer density of birds offered a reminder for just how important it was to avoid inadvertently contributing anything foreign to their delicate environment. The red-tailed tropicbird population was devastated here after ants — ANTS! — infested their nesting grounds. How easy is it for ships to introduce a pest, hidden in a vegetable that is blithely tossed overboard? We played it safe, remained happily aboard our floating island, Totem, simply grateful to be here and find resolution.

DEPARTING JOHNSTON ATOLL

Getting away was the next trick. Ideally, we’d have departed immediately! I was keen to reach Majuro for a multi-day cultural festival; unfortunately, our Johnston stop combined with

unsettled weather prevented us from arriving in time. After watching mostly benign conditions in this part of the Pacific for the month prior to leaving Hawai’i, volatility from the ITCZ moved tropical waves toward our location and threatened to spin up into more severe weather. We wanted to get away, but we didn’t want to be in a system turning cyclonic with 45-knot winds and probable stronger microbursts! A close look at a combination of wind, rain, and satellite imagery informed the decision as to when it was safe to carry on.

SAFE ARRIVAL IN MICRONESIA

As soon as winds from a nearby system showed signs of abating, we raised the anchor and carried on to the Republic of the Marshall Islands (RMI). The passage was characterized initially by wind from the tail of the low formed above us. It disintegrated into lighter, flukey winds and progressively increasing squalls as we neared the ITCZ on the last stretch into Majuro atoll, the RMI’s capital.

A pod of dolphins escorted us through the pass as we entered Majuro, a happy welcome for two tired mariners. We had expected a good passage of maybe 14 days from Hawai’i; here we were, 21 days later after lighter winds and the unplanned pause. The last days were challenging, between the squalls, rolling seas, and a tuna fleet with haphazard use of AIS. At least we had a bright moon to light the way at night!

The anchor went down in 80 feet off the town, in torrential rain. Passage discomforts were quickly forgotten with salt washed off, a good meal, and the prospect of a new place to explore. Our early weeks were a taste of the promise for the less-traveled islands ahead. The wild west of the Pacific is full of characters, whether local teachers, sunburned expatriates, or salty sailors. We’re surrounded every day by chances to try, learn, and experience — exactly what keeps us hooked on a life of voyaging.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Behan Gifford sailed south from Puget Sound with her husband, Jamie, and three children. That was in 2008, for a two- to five-year sabbatical cruise that is now in its 17th year! She completed a decade-long circumnavigation aboard their Stevens 47, Totem. Their westabout route included 48 countries/territories, from Papua New Guinea to Panama; experiences were shared through their blog, Cruising World, and SAIL magazine. She and Jamie offer coach/mentor services to help people realize their cruising dreams while continuing their adventures afloat. Kids fledged to college and beyond, Behan is sailing in the western North Pacific in 2025.

by Nico Walsh, Boston/Gulf of Maine

Channeling ERIC HISCOCK I

n 1978, as a young college student in London, I found myself emerging from a Dockyards bookstore owning a copy of Eric Hiscock’s Wandering Under Sail (1939). Hiscock and his wife Susan became famous for their extensive voyages and their cruising accounts and manuals, including Voyaging Under Sail, Sou’West in Wanderer IV, and many others. I have since read most of those books, and it is fair to say that my 1978 bookstore encounter with Hiscock played a vital role in the development of my cruising aesthetic — an aesthetic that seeks cruises well-ordered yet adventurous and a life aboard both simple and gracious.

In June of 2023, my cousin Marta Downing and I sailed Far and Away, my Cabo Rico 34, from Martha’s Vineyard to Cork, a swift, drama-free passage of 22 days, average noon run 139 miles. My wife, Ellen, joined, and after a cruise of Ireland, we hauled at the Clyde Marina in the Firth of Clyde, an excellent and reliable yard, though exposed to gales on the hard standing.

In May, we returned, ready to cruise Scotland’s west and north. In planning our summer, I thought back to Hiscock and in particular to his long essay, “Alone to the Isle of Skye,” found in Wandering Under Sail. Suppose we visited many of the same places where the young Hiscock sailed in 1938, to see what had changed and what had not and to view those places through the lens of his experience?

Our first navigational challenge was the Mull of Kintyre. Scotland’s west coast is marked by forbidding headlands with well-deserved reputations for swift currents and rough water, and to go north we had to round the Mull. Many folks stage at Campbeltown — one experienced Scot told us he anchors there and, no matter the hour, if the wind drops and the tide will be fair, he guns it around. We instead called at Sanda, just three miles west of the Mull. We anchored in strict accordance with the instructions in the Clyde Cruising Club’s excellent

Far and Away in Loch Scavaig.

guide, and though swift currents swirled a few hundred feet away and the winds gusted, our spot was quiet, safe, and with sand bottom, though on a lee shore. The island is private, and while recent scuttlebutt suggests boarders will be repelled, on our walk ashore we encountered no resistance. We even gathered some periwinkles.

Our strategy for rounding the Mull was successful, an early departure to arrive at the critical area just as the fair tide would begin, and the winds would be reasonable. It was no more than choppy, just the way we like it.

These headlands all feature an area of rough water off the point, and one strategy is to go far enough offshore to avoid the rip. Another — widely endorsed if one can believe it — is to make the transit 10 meters from the rocks in what is said to be smooth water. We heard of this strategy again and again. Not for me, thanks.

Our next destination was the island of Gigha (“Geeh”). We had a fair tide the whole way and anchored off the village in shelly clay. We hiked ashore, saw some sarsen stones, did a shop, and drank a pint in the pub — perfect.

We hadn’t yet crossed paths with Wanderer, but caught up with her in Tayvallich, at the north end of Loch Sween, off the Sound of Jura on the west coast of the Kintyre Peninsula. Here’s Hiscock in 1938: “I then sailed up the Sound of Jura … and in the evening ghosted up that glorious waterway, and at dusk slipped into the little lagoon of Tayvallich, which is the most perfect harbor I know of.” He got that about right. Tayvallich is eight miles up the narrow loch, there is little tide and no current within, and guarding the narrow harbor entrance are two islets, nearly overlapping.

We stayed two nights, one anchored outside and one on a mooring inside, so we could hike with a settled mind. It would

be possible to anchor inside, but only just, for there are a good many moorings, a change from Hiscock’s day. But Hiscock found an attractive and convenient little village, and so did we. We also found cold weather and sharp squalls with ice pellets.

Our next destination was Craighouse, on Jura, which we reached after a stiff close fetch. We took a mooring here, the bottom being kelpy. We had a very fine hike up Glas Bheinen, route-finding across the boggy barren uplands and by black tarns, with an excellent breezy summit and a long view to the Isle of Mull and beyond. We were watched all the while by a herd of roe deer and, I have little doubt, by the little men who, as the poet William Allingham knew, abide in these places (see his “The Fairies”). Scotland was getting into our blood.

George Orwell spent most of the last years of his abbreviated life on Jura, living in a very remote farmhouse reached by a rough road and then a hike, and this is where he wrote 1984 Jura loves Orwell, and a local, Les Wilson, has just written Orwell’s Island, an account of the man and his relationship with Jura (I read it; an excellent book). We attended a party celebrating the launch of a gin, held in the community center, with good food, good music, and good drink and attended by islanders ranging from bearded academics to farmers. Les Wilson and his book were also there, as well as an artistic installation comprised of 1,984 unique volumes of 1984

The next day, it was a charming close reach up the Sound of Jura and past the feared Gulf of Corryvrecken (Coirebhreacain), described by the Admiralty’s West Coast of Scotland Pilot as “very violent and dangerous,” currents reaching 9 knots, whose overfalls

1984 installation in Gigha.

The Loch Scavaig anchorage. Far and Away is the near yacht.

Far and Away in Bull

Hole, with the north end of Iona in the middle distance.

top 10 meters, and whose roar at full spate is reliably said to be audible 10 miles off. In 1938, the engineless Wanderer went by the Gulf stern first in a calm; our man “had to use the sweep vigorously to avoid being carried into that part of the flood stream which sets directly toward and through the Gulf.” We anchored in Kilchoan Bay in the Sound’s north end, off a great house.

The next day, exiting the Sound of Jura, we had thought we might anchor in the slate port of Easdale, but the place looked grim and was said to have very poor holding, the bottom being, I suppose, little more than a slate floor. Instead it was the Puilladobhrain, “the otter’s pool,” famous even in Hiscock’s day, where in 1938 he “brought up in the wild little pool which had not a ripple on it and not a sign of human habitation anywhere around.” Alas, where Eric Hiscock had the perfect tranquility of the pool to himself, we found six other yachts there, and Far and Away made the seventh. A pretty spot to be sure, but very near the yachting center of Oban.

Our path and Hiscock’s diverged for a time, he heading toward Mull and we headed east, down long Loch Linnhe and toward Fort Williams, the western terminus of the trans-Scotland Caledonian Canal. Our goal, a rare spell of settled weather being forecast, was an ascent of Ben Nevis.

Ben Nevis, although the highest mountain in the British Isles, is only 4,411 feet. But long, nearly vertical routes furrow the famous north face, and climbing the Ben in winter, and perhaps in the sought-after heavily rimed “Scottish conditions,” requires skilled mountaineering usually associated with higher terrain. In the 1920s and 30s, young British climbers such as George Mallory and Sandy Irvine learned their craft there, before heading off to the Himalayas. The tradition of the Ben as an incubator of British alpinism continues to this day, and I wanted to see the north face.

Our path took us directly there, and we rested at the climber’s hut, studying the famous Zero Gully, Orion Face, Tower Ridge, and others. After visiting the snowy summit (via the hiker’s path, assuredly), we hiked back to the boat, which waited for us at a downtown pontoon.

Our cruise then took us north up the Sound of Mull, rejoining Hiscock’s route. Like Hiscock, we anchored in Loch Aline, very well protected but with soft bottom (we used the Fortress when the Vulcan wouldn’t do) and, we thought, lacking any real charm.

Tobermory, at the north end of the Sound, is a pretty town with all the conveniences. We picked up a mooring and shopped at a store selling whiskey, books, and fishing tackle.

The following day was bright and calm, and we motored to Arinagour on the island of Coll, long, low, and barren, with a population of 190. On borrowed bikes, we crossed the island to the sandy, windswept north shore, and on a beautiful small bay saw lapwings, a new bird for us.

Our goal was now the fabled Iona, the route to which took us past Staffa and its Fingal’s Cave, the acoustics of which inspired Mendelssohn to write the “Hebridean Overture.” But

Staffa is no place to leave an unattended yacht, so we sailed by.

That night we found ourselves in South Harbor, between Gometra and Ulva on Mull’s west coast. This anchorage is wild and well protected, except perhaps in a heavy southerly swell, and we had it to ourselves — Scottish cruising at its best.

Iona, just off the Ross of Mull on Mull’s west coast, is where St. Columba landed in the 500s and brought Christianity to Scotland. For many centuries, it was a center of learning, with a famous library and scriptorium: the Book of Kells may have been created or perhaps begun there. The island early developed a reputation as a place near to Heaven, and burial on Iona, many a king and chieftain believed, was a sure path to the good place. Iona’s monastic buildings are partially restored, there is an excellent museum, and the island remains a place of worship. It is worth a journey.

The anchorage off Iona is not particularly good (kelp and

Scavaig, as shown in the admiralty chart and in Antares version. The portion shown in the Antares version is approximately the area surrounded by the black box partially enclosing the anchor symbol on the admiralty chart.

current), and we didn’t overnight there. Instead, we anchored across the Sound of Iona, in Bull Hole near Fionnphort, a crack between granite buttresses. Our use of Antares charts was key here, as it so often was in Scottish waters.

Antares (antarescharts.co.uk), which I understand is one man’s project, takes Admiralty charts of anchorages and passes and, using side-scan sonar, produces very large scale charts with far more detail than the Admiralty charts, and with pilotage notes. We found them extremely helpful. The entire set is available, online only, for a single modest payment.

Our Garmin chartplotter was our main source of charting, backed up by an iPad with Imray charts. For planning, we had two small-scale Admiralty paper charts, one for western Scotland and the other for Cape Wrath to Orkney and Shetland.

As it happened, our daughter, her fiancé, and his family would be in Oban in a few days, and we had arranged a

It does get cold and damp, and heat is a near-must.

We found ten inches of snow on the summit.

Loch

rendezvous. The sail down Mull’s south coast toward Oban was among the best I can remember, strong fair winds hurrying us along a coast with thousand-foot cliffs and waterfalls. We sailed just a mile or so off, for fun. We spent the night in Loch Spelve — good mud and good protection.

At this point Ellen was feeling poorly, possibly with Lyme disease, and we made tracks for Oban, where she got good care at the local clinic.

While waiting for family to arrive, we visited Loch a Choire, off Loch Linnhe’s north shore. There is a great house there, Kingairloch, which takes paying guests. After trying and failing to find an anchorage (too deep, too steep), we picked up one of their moorings, free but please make a Royal Lifeboat contribution. Kingairloch House made us very welcome, and we toured what is surely among the finest kitchen gardens to be found — big, beautifully arranged, productive, and surrounded by a towering wall. The North Atlantic Drift moderates Scottish weather, and Kingairloch grows artichokes.

The rendezvous was a great success. We stayed at the convenient Oban Transit Marina downtown and fueled at Oban Marina, on Kerrara across from Oban. Yachts using Oban Marina must be aware of a nasty wreck, badly marked, almost invisible at high water, and just 280 feet southwest of the fuel dock. It’s charted, but maneuvering yachts hit it with alarming frequency, and little wonder.

Now it was time rejoin Hiscock, and we headed back up the Sound of Mull and past Ardnamurchan, the most westerly promontory on Scotland’s west coast, fully exposed to the Atlantic. Hiscock wrote that this headland “is so respected by Scottish cruising men that when a yacht has rounded it. she wears on her bowsprit or stemhead a bunch of heather.” We didn’t decorate Far and Away, but we saw yachts that were.

A gale was forecast, so upon rounding Ardnamurchan, we sailed deep into Loch Moidart to wait out the blow. Another yacht joined us in our already-cozy pool, and I made my concerns known, but he stayed the night.

It bears noting that almost everywhere we went on our cruise, including the Outer Hebrides, Shetland, and even Fair Isle, and often when deep in a loch, we had excellent cell reception. Hence we could receive online weather forecasts as an alternative to scheduled VHF. We typically used the BBC Shipping Forecast and Windy, and a morning tradition was the homey and useful weather briefing video BBC Scotland Weather (@BBCScotWeather on X). You may even hear it in Gaelic.

It was a three-day blow, and we enjoyed it. There was the customary small castle on the headland that formed our little bay, we had walks inland, and at low tide a flat sandy beach revealed cockles and mussels for the galley.

It was bright but still gusty when we left, and we had a lively beam reach to Loch Scavaig, on Skye’s south coast. Loch Scavaig is a special place, and Eric Hiscock’s two nights there are the dramatic climax of his cruise. The anchorage is small

but ample for two or three yachts, and it is protected to the south by ledges. So while protection is in a sense good, towering right over the loch are the treeless and forbidding Cuillin Hills, several over 3,000 feet, and in a westerly storm squalls blast down from the peaks and savage the anchorage. This was certainly Eric Hiscock’s experience, when suddenly rising winds made it impossible for the engineless Wanderer to chance weighing anchor and tacking out of the loch:

“As the day progressed the squalls became more frequent and furious, and fell upon us from all points of the compass, as often as not blowing vertically off the mountains, pinning the little vessel down with her rail awash, although by then I had stripped her of most of her running rigging. I had lowered the 56-pound weight down the chain, and it did something toward easing the snubbing, but again and again I felt sure the chains must part or the anchors come home, while the squalls tore round and round in that devil’s cauldron, whipping the spray from the sea and whirling it away to be lost in the low mist which made a roof in the dark pit in which we lay.”

With such a warm endorsement, how could we pass up a night in Loch Scavaig?

We went ashore, visited the climber’s bothy with its memorial plaques and displays of ancient gear, and hiked up the mountain to a grassy ledge overlooking Far and Away, perhaps the very ledge where Hiscock writes of smoking a pipe and contemplating his little yacht in the quiet hours before Hell descended. Our night was tranquil, with just a few unsettled gusts to evoke what Hiscock endured. I got up again and again to gaze around me, the mountains so close, and replete with waterfalls.

After Loch Scavaig, Hiscock’s and our paths diverged, he starting on his long voyage back to Southhampton and we sailing on. Our cruise would take us east about Skye, to the Outer Hebrides and even to their west coast, to Stornoway where Cook and Franklin watered, to the Shiants with their clouds of puffins and where creation seems new, around Cape Wrath to Orkney, to Stromness and Scapa Flow where the German fleet was scuttled and where U-47 torpedoed the Royal Oak, to the Fair Isle and to Shetland. We had many an adventure, none bad and most very good, and Far and Away is now hauled in Scotland, awaiting next May and another voyage.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nico Walsh is an admiralty attorney living in Freeport, Maine, and a former Coast Guard officer, merchant mariner and commercial fisherman. He and his wife, Ellen, cruise extensively on Far and Away, their Cabo Rico 34.

Weather for Cruisers

heading to and in the

Mediterranean

By Jil Westcott and John Bell, Boston/Naragansett Bay

Postcards

from the Mediterranean are right, sometimes.

Temperatures vary, winds can be stormy, calms occur, and just like at home, the forecast is periodically right. Andraix is beautiful in October with warm days and peaceful nights, whereas a spring thunderstorm in Torredembarra left hail on our decks overnight, and with temperatures in the mid-50s, it was gone by noon.

Climate Data

World climate data are readily available online at Climates to Travel (climatestotravel.com). Monthly average high and low temperatures, average rainfall, and the number of sunny days are good data and available by city as well as by country. Additional key factors to include are seawater temperature, humidity, and

whether you will be in a microclimate with a breeze or not (especially in hotter locations).

For offshore sailing, Cornell’s Ocean Atlas, now in its third edition, is an excellent reference for departure planning guidance. Landfall Navigation’s review says, “Much of the information contained in the pilot charts that are in use today is still based on observations from the 19th century, and although they have been updated at regular intervals, the scarcity of reliable sources, inaccuracy of the observations, or the climate changes that have occurred over the years, have rendered some of the information shown on those charts inaccurate. To present a more accurate picture of the prevailing conditions today, the pilot charts in Cornell’s Ocean Atlas are now based on the most

Andraix, Mallorca, Spain.

January passages from the Canaries to the Eastern Caribbean will benefit from good sailing conditions with consistent trade winds once the latitude of the Cape Verde Islands has been reached.

recent 20 years of weather data gathered by a network of meteorological satellites.” We keep one copy on the boat, and another at home in Rhode Island.

Online Weather Sources

For an overview of current conditions and the next 10–14 day forecast, the web and mobile app Windy (windy.com) is one excellent source. It provides worldwide weather information (wind, temp, waves, rain, etc.) from several respected weather models, including ECMWF, GFS, HRRR, NAM, and ICON. The ability to choose which model and which weather element you want to see is terrific. The compare function offers a table showing multiple weather model forecast results for the same time/

Westbound passages from the Eastern Caribbean will also benefit from favorable winds whether bound for Panama or destinations in the Western Caribbean will also benefit from favorable winds whether bound for Panama or destinations in the Western Caribbean. At the height of the winter season, when the trade winds blow at their strongest, passage across the Caribbean Sea can be rough. Westbound passages bound for the Bahamas or Florida have a choice of a direct route north of the Greater Antilles or a southern route across the Caribbean Sea to the Windward Passage. The latter may be a better choice for those bound for Southern Florida.

Southbound passages from Florida and the Bahamas to Panama will benefit from favorable winds, whereas those in the opposite direction will have to contend with consistently strong NE winds.

Passages from Miami and Bahamas to the Eastern Caribbean will encounter mostly contrary winds and current.

Hail, Torredembarra Spain.

location. This facilitates the determination of a “degree of confidence” in the forecast. Ergo, if the models result in highly similar forecasts, we have a high degree of confidence.

In the Mediterranean, we primarily rely upon the wind gusts forecast of the ECMWF, the European model, to predict the average wind strength; actual gusts are significantly higher. Fellow cruisers take the same approach and advise newbies to do the same.

PredictWind (predictwind.com) also offers integrated weather forecast/routing software as both a web and mobile app. The routing function is a powerful resource for determining the optimum race or comfortable cruising path to a destination. Course-routing software is a subject suitable for its own article, but represents the melding of boat-performance data (polars), weather-forecast data, and the avoidance of specified weather conditions in “comfort mode.” Routing is computed in the cloud and requires an active internet connection as well as a subscription.

Many U.S. weather information sources, like AccuWeather and The Weather Channel, cover Europe, enabling a familiar view of local, typically onshore, forecast conditions. In addition, many of the nations you plan to visit have their own forecasts, often in English. These are especially recommended for marine forecasts as local meteorologists focus more on local effects. The Hellenic National Meteorlogical Service (emy.gr/emy/en/), for example, provides marine forecasts for each region of Greece in three-hour intervals over 2½ days. These sites require some acclimatization. Often the units are metric, either m/sec (meters per second) or km/h (kilometers/hour), or the Beaufort Scale, covering both wind speed and sea state. Handy conversions are 10 m/sec is 19.44 knots (i.e. multiply by 2), and 3-meter seas are 9 feet 10.1 inches (multiply by 3.3).

High Wind Events

High wind events are hard to predict accurately. Duration, timing, wind angle, and wind velocity are all suspect even a short time in the future. As you can see from the image below,

there are many wind sources, each with its own individual name and capable of blowing uninterrupted for days a time. We have delayed passages due to France’s Mistral, the Strait of Gibraltar’s Levanter, and Greece’s Meltemi, and the Mbatis.

Winds of the Mediterranean

We use Windy as our primary weather source aboard Moon Shadow. Windy also provides current observations from select boats and shore locations that are quite helpful in validating the weather in real time. For example, the 25-knot arrow shown near the upper center of the image below is from a boat, and the arrows with wind ovals are onshore measurements.

French/Spanish Mistral:

Mistral winds funnel southeast from the Atlantic’s Bay of Biscay and proceed along both sides of the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean. The portion of wind flowing on each side of the Pyrenees has a dramatic impact on the actual weather along the northern coast of Mallorca (island south of Barcelona); slight model differences result in very different weather. Looking at the image above, you can see a blue wind line representing light air stretching south from Barcelona to Mallorca. The line’s location is determined by the wind split. The table represents the anticipated wind and waves for the white dot’s location. The arrow with the blue icon reading 49 knots in the upper part of the image is a local weather station reporting actual wind speed on Tuesday at 8:02 a.m. — corresponding to the predicted 48-knot gusts for the nearby white dot.

Unfortunately, we occasionally find 20-plus-knots variance in wind gusts and experience significantly different wind angles. One night, the predicted wind split from the Pyrenees shifted at least 40 nautical miles westward. Thus, the short-term wind forecast along the north coast of Mallorca switched to the northwest in the 40s instead of the prior forecast of northeast 15-20 knots. This would change our “safe” harbor of Soller on the northwest coast into an untenable caldron by dawn, so we made a hasty dusk departure. The evening wind grew far faster

Winds of the Mediterranean.

Image from Windy, July 13, 2021.

Image from Windy on May 4, 2023: orange line represents our route from Kithnos to Delos.

than predicted reaching the low 40s before we found shelter around the southeastern coast of Mallorca at 2 a.m.

Greek Meltemi:

Winds from the north funnel through the islands and down the Aegean Sea. They are especially strong on the western side. Once again, forecasts change rapidly, creating difficult sailing conditions and, in many cases, unsafe harbors and marinas.

With guests aboard, we spent a full hour on Navily seeking a harbor that was safe from evening strong southerly winds that would become strong northerly winds during the night. Sailing north from Kithnos, we chose a tiny three-boat harbor on Kea. Friday, while the Meltemi roared, we enjoyed a rollicking broad reach down 6-foot waves to Finikas, Syros. Saturday’s weather was more of the same, but with wind funneling past Pyrgos and the waves on the beam, we stayed put, waiting another day to sail to the magical archeological site at Delos. Being flexible about destinations and timing aid greatly in achieving a comfortable cruise.

The Greek Mbatis southerly winds can be strong as well. On one failed attempt to visit Santorini, the entire marina we intended to stay at was evacuated to neighboring islands as the southern wind was predicted to drive waves over the marina’s seawalls creating very unsafe conditions.

Strait of Gibraltar’s Levante:

The Levante can blow strongly into or out of the Mediterranean for six or seven consecutive days. Thus, it is helpful to leave room in the schedule to await good weather. Due to evaporation, there is a continuous current into the Med. When an easterly wind, channeled by tall mountains on both sides, blows against the eastward flowing current, the spot retains all the small-boat dangers documented more than 2,000 years ago in Greek mythology.

A high-wind event at Gibraltar: 52-knot gusts with accompanying 17-foot waves.

2.1 knots into the Med. Current. Wind. Waves.

Dust

The Mediterranean is periodically beset by southerly winds blowing off the Sahara. These winds can carry a tremendous amount of very fine dust hundreds of miles. We have experienced this effect in Portugal, Italy, and Spain. The dust-filled atmosphere reduces visibility and leaves deposits of dust/sand that is not easily washed off.

Sea Temperature

Sea-surface temperature has a large impact on comfort aboard. Seawater temps for various locations throughout the world can be found online at World Sea Temperatures (seatemperatures.org). Sea-surface temperature essentially sets a floor on nighttime air temperatures and also sets the “indoor” living temperature on many less-insulated hulls. It is a significant factor in human comfort. While air conditioning is most welcome in midsummer, you will appreciate an internal heat source during the spring and later fall in the northern Mediterranean. Because the water remains warm as the fall begins, September and early October remain pleasant for swimming in the Med.

Long Days

The long hours of daylight during the European summer are very beneficial. For reference, Paris is north of Saint John’s Newfoundland. It has 12 hours or more of sunlight between the spring equinox (around March 21) and the autumn equinox (around September 21), with a peak of 15½ hours around June 21. Clearly the days are even longer in Norway or Scotland, but not much shorter in Barcelona or Croatia. When you add in 60 minutes twilight both at dawn and dusk, the distances that can be covered in a day sail greatly expand (15+1+1 hours at 6 knots = 102 miles). Thus, when it’s time to move, you’ll still arrive in time to be served a late European dinner. We enjoyed a 102-nautical-mile day sail from the

northern point of Corsica to Villafranche — thanks to a rising wind, we arrived by 8 p.m.

Swells

These longer period waves, not generated by the local wind, frequently get anchored boats rolling uncomfortably, sometimes violently. Navily’s information on anchorages and marinas includes data on forecast wind and swell protection for three days (navily.com). Swells reflect off bold shores and sometimes inside manmade harbors, creating hazardous conditions. Nearby underwater canyons and sea mounts can also create turbulence as they channel or focus swells. For a dramatic example, read the article “Nazaré’s 80-foot Waves Intimidate Even Pro Big-Wave Surfers” at howstuffworks.com. An underwater canyon creates some of the world’s largest waves (100 feet) at Nazare, Portugal. In calms, when the boat may lie at any angle, a 1-foot swell on the beam at the right frequency can get a boat rolling almost violently, certainly enough to ruin a night’s sleep.

Currents and Underwater Features

Motoring eastbound from Sardina on a very light-air day, we encountered 2- to 3-foot steep waves very close together, resulting in a horrific motion onboard. We tightly held handholds and wedged ourselves in cockpit corners. After three hours, we finally departed this area where the ocean bottom rises steeply from 5,000-plus to 500 feet and then back down to 6,000 feet. An otherwise unnoticeable current made for a large area of disturbance.

This experience was repeated elsewhere, including on the crossing from Turkey to Crete. Undersea volcanic mountains contributed to current and seas, which made close-hauled progress impossible despite ample winds of 20-plus knots. Bearing off to a close reach gave us a better angle on the waves and enough power to sail through them.

10 p.m., June 21, 2023: Rade de Villefranche sur Mer, the French Rivera.

Keep an eye on the underwater topography. You may not choose to avoid it, but at least you’ll know when it’s past and can expect relief.

Cruising the Mediterranean has many weather challenges, not the least of which are extensive calms. These are conducive to the idyllic postcard moments we often see. Maintaining awareness of forecast weather is important for planning where to be, or which way not to be going, when rougher conditions arrive.

After four-plus seasons cruising the Mediterranean from Gibraltar to Venice to Turkey and back, we highly recommend this cruising area for beauty, history, cuisine, and culture. The weather is delightful, most of the time. Enjoy!

Appendix: Weather Routing Offshore

Weather routers (people who specialize in passage planning and forecasting) and Weather Routing software work to the same objective but with different information and communication requirements. Weather routers, whether hired by you or by a group you’re part of, have limited information on your boat but superior meteorological expertise in interpreting the weather model information for your location and route. Periodic communication with the weather router on shore is necessary. This can be by Satphone, SSB, Starlink, or a texting capability such as Garmin.

Routing software typically utilizes your boat’s polars, yielding much more information about your boat’s performance in different conditions. It uses this information, and a multi-day forecast from a weather model (i.e. ECMWF or GFS) and current model (RTOFS or Mercator), to calculate possible routes, the wind/boat performance along each path, and the time it will take you to reach your destination. Software can be configured to eliminate routes where the wind or wave

Delos, Greece.

height exceed limits you set. The output is both graphical and tabular, showing wind speed, boat speed, course, and position at each interval, typically three hours, along the path. Departure planning can be explored to see the routing results based upon different departure times and the consequently different conditions.

Routing software can either run in the “cloud” and require a lot of satellite bandwidth to see results, or it can be run on an onboard computer, requiring only the relatively small input of digital forecast data (one to three minutes of connect time). For a short two- to three-day passage, relying upon routing software output computed prior to departure may be sufficient.

While many people are very satisfied and receive excellent advice from their shore-based weather routers, our limited experience has been dubious. In two cases where we were in a fleet utilizing a weather router’s forecasts, the results were terrible.

2002 NARC Rally

In the 2002 NARC rally to the Caribbean from Newport, the expert sent the fleet out on a route along Long Island to get “behind” a gale forecast to come off Cape Hatteras in two days. “Herb,” the volunteer SSB weather advisor we consulted as soon as we were at sea, told us to “go back to Newport,” but we chose to sail along Long Island with the fleet.

The storm didn’t stay on the weather router’s schedule. All of the boats in the fleet with onboard SSB Weatherfax saw the changes, with 50-knot winds predicted for the Gulf Stream crossing, and chose to sail 125 miles ENE to shelter in Cape May on the New Jersey shore — 25 nautical miles closer to Bermuda than Newport.

Despite clear SSB communication among the fleet, the boats who didn’t have Weatherfax onboard chose to rely on the weather router’s advice and sailed into the storm. Crews suffered broken bones, and boats suffered serious damage, including broken booms, bent wheels, and shifting engines. One boat fell off a 20- to 30-foot wave, significantly flexing the hull and breaking open all the caulk and gaskets onboard, thereby drenching down below with each passing wave. Those who went to Cape May had a 24-hour hiatus, including a social dinner together, and left on the strong northwest following wind behind the storm.

2012 Salty Dawg Rally

In the 2012 Salty Dawg Rally from the Chesapeake to the Virgin Islands, the weather router postponed the start three days due to bad conditions off Hatteras. The forecast changed a day later, making the strongly preferred departure time a two-day postponement. Thirty percent of the fleet left after two days and had fair winds. However, 60 percent of the fleet left

as scheduled and did not complete their Gulf Stream crossing before the cold front reached them with strong northwest winds opposing the current. To quote Blue Water Sailing, “Over that night and the next day, four boats had rudder problems, two boats were dismasted, and in the end, two boats (one with a lost rudder) had their crew air-evacuated by the Coast Guard. The dismasted boats and one of the boats with steering issues made it back to the U.S. under their own power, and the Coast Guard towed in two of the boats with rudder problems.” One smaller boat with two little children aboard hove to in 20-foot seas in the Gulf Stream for two days. Other boats, including a friend’s 54-foot Swan, couldn’t escape the Gulf Stream and wound up close to Bermuda.

We have also experienced weather routers who are too conservative in “sending” the fleet out. They are accustomed to routing either smaller boats or weaker crews and want to delay endlessly until “good” (ideal) conditions are forecast.

The key is to know your boat’s performance and your crew’s comfort level with active conditions and, if you are relying upon a weather router, to double check the plan.

Crossing Atlantic, 2019: Boat’s path from Azores in green; NOAA forecast overlaid on GRIB file.

Moon Shadow’s approach

For offshore sailing, in particular crossing the north Atlantic in 2019, we rely upon NOAA OPC Synoptic Charts, Bermuda Weather Service meteorological forecasts, U.S. GFS, and European ECMWF GRIB data, NOAA RTOFS current predictions, our Inmarsat Fleet One satellite system, and Expedition weather and routing software.

Offshore, the Expedition software downloads data in 20 to 30-second bursts per file and displays it on a chart. Expedition takes as input our current speed and position, the GRIB data, our boat’s polars (downplayed 20 percent for offshore sailing), our “comfort” restrictions (e.g., no sailing upwind in greater than 30 knots, no waves over 12 feet, and

no sailing downwind in greater than 35 knots), and plots our ideal course for both the GFS and ECMWF models. If we set a minimum boat speed, it will tell us when and for how many hours we will motor and the estimated fuel consumption, enabling effective management of the fuel supply.

At sea in unsettled weather, we load new weather data twice a day, otherwise once. For the most part, we follow Expedition’s advice. We look for concurrence among the GFS and ECMWF weather models, check them against the meterological forecasts, and generally find agreement for two to three days. After that, weather prediction deteriorates.

Where Expedition has fallen down is light air. If Expedition sends us hundreds of miles off the rhumb line to seek increasing wind four or five days out, we take its advice with several grains of salt. Sailing the St. Augustine to Bermuda 6½-day passage, we traveled an extra 100 nautical miles north in the Gulf Stream and then turned east looking for wind, despite Expedition’s recommendation to go 200 nautical miles farther north to Cape Hatteras. On the Bermuda-to-Azores leg, we did follow its advice to sail 200 nautical miles north to reach the Gulf Stream currents and accompanying wind, thereby avoiding a long, slow motor across the Bermuda High. ✧

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Jil Westcott is a retired computer scientist who began sailing as a child at a Cape Cod summer camp, enjoyed daylong summer sails aboard her Sunfish in high school, and continued aboard MIT Tech dinghies in college. Jil and her husband, John Bell, have covered many miles together over 40 years on a series of vessels, from racing Solings in Boston Harbor to their current Aerodyne 47, Moon Shadow. In prior years, Jil enjoyed skippering “ladies cruises” with other women and children on board from Rhode Island to Maine. John began offshore sailing as crew on a passage to Tahiti in 1974, and raced to and returned from Bermuda many times before they met. In 2017, Jil and John acquired Moon Shadow, and cruised her between Cuba and Newfoundland that year. They then spent the next winter completely refitting her for the 2018 Newport Bermuda Race, a “shake-down” for further voyages. They did much of the work themselves to “better know the boat.” Jil was skipper for that race. In 2019 they sailed Moon Shadow transatlantic, and have been seasonally cruising the Med since. Both are skilled celestial navigators, certified American Sailing Association instructors, and have 50-ton merchant mariner licenses. Moon Shadow is pictured here with her co-skippers, having made landfall in Grande Sanguinaire Island, Corsica, in 2022.

Pay It The Block Island Forward

2024 Race

I will take the support I have received and pay it forward whenever I can.

“I’m always amazed how lucky I’ve been and the opportunities I’ve been given in all my years of sailing,” CCA member Kristen “Krissi” Donelan (NYS) told a table full of experienced and seasoned (aka mature) sailors during a Dutch lunch one afternoon in 2023 “Given that Father Time is coaxing me to retire from the ocean-racing aspect of the sport, I thought maybe I could give something back as was offered to me over the years.”

Many nodded in agreement as they cautiously sipped their favorite post-noon beverage. You see, Krissi has numerous

By Gary P. Forster, New York Station

Newport Bermuda Races, Transatlantic Races, Marblehead to Halifax Races, Races Around Ireland, and Rolex Fastnet Races under her belt, and she felt it was time to share her experience with the next generation of sailors. Those at lunch likewise had sailed countless offshore races and deliveries and were now reminded of opportunities that had been afforded to them.

“What if we were to extend an invitation to a few younger sailors — sailors who have knowledge of sailing, maybe day racers or one-design sailors who have not yet been asked to crew in more extended overnight and offshore races?” she continued.

Again many nodded in agreement, though they knew that organizing an amateur offshore crew was a time-consuming and sometimes nerve-racking endeavor.

I later told Krissi that if she would take on the role of crew chief, I would sign on to any position she needed. Krissi and her husband, Will (NYS), approached Mark Elman (NYS), whose magnificent Morris 45, Next Boat, could be the perfect platform for such an endeavor. Will and Mark had logged thousands of miles of experience over the decades, sailing double-handed in a dozen or more Newport Bermuda Races and

Marblehead to Halifax Races, along the Nova Scotia coast, and on multiple return deliveries. After some discussions about logistics, Mark agreed to the challenge. As a veteran of numerous offshore venues and a former NYYC seamanship chairman, I signed on as navigator and part-time cook. The core crew now comprised four CCA members. We agreed that the 2024 Block Island Race, with its balance of overnight and offshore sailing, would encourage, rather than deter, potential future offshore sailors.

Starting and finishing in Stamford, Connecticut, the 185mile race around Rhode Island’s Block Island and through

Left to right: Krissi Donelan (NY), Campbell Tyler, Captain Mark Ellman (NY), and Jens Daum.

heavy, current-laden natural sluiceways like The Race and Plum Gut often challenges navigators. Krissi assigned the four CCA members to the “afterguard” crew, who would teach and assist. The “foredeck” crew would be comprised of younger sailors who had minimal or no offshore experience. They would be the muscle handling sails and learning the ways of watch systems and ocean sailing. The focus would be sailing skills, seamanship, navigation, and watch acclimation. The basic framework was now set.

Krissi reviewed crew recommendations. New jobs, appointments in the U.S. Navy, family commitments, and geographical distance whittled her list. Ultimately, four were chosen: Chandler Habig, Liam Harkins, and Campbell Tyler, all from Burlington, Vermont (coincidently Krissi’s hometown), and Jens Daum, originally from southern Germany. All had day-sailing experience and some overnight exposure, and all were interested in taking their skills to the next level. Krissi briefed them on expectations and advised that they would be required to attend the online Storm Trysail Club’s Safety-at-Sea seminar to qualify for the race. The guiding rule was to have fun and learn.

All had day-sailing experience and some overnight exposure, and all were interested in taking their skills to the next level.

Krissi made further preparations, peppering the crew with memos covering ship systems, crew data, offshore rules, food requirements, and navigation briefs (who knew being crew chief was so involved?). Three weeks before the race started, final details were pinned down: Was there a big enough pot aboard to heat up a stew for eight? And, wait, can everyone eat chili dogs for lunch? (This race would establish a new on-board tradition in remembrance of a beloved crewman, Billy the Plumber, who had gone off to Fiddler’s Green. Billy had taught offshore skills to junior crew members during numerous Bermuda Races and deliveries — and he’d always served chili dogs for lunch.)

Given the distances the crew had to travel, a practice day to allow the foredeck crew to learn the ropes was set for Thursday, May 23, the day before the race start. Next Boat, which had always served just two crewmen, was now being asked to accommodate eight. Things got tight quickly. Corners were stuffed with gear and cabinets with food. Mark, who had just Will as his double-handed crewmate for decades, must have wondered about his sanity, but he handled it graciously, and he treated the crew to dinner ashore after the pleasant day sail. Some stayed aboard and others went home, all ready for race day.

Race Day

Gary had researched the forecast and published weather briefs every morning for a week prior to the race. His predictions were conservative and indicated a very light air race. No extreme weather was anticipated, although a frontal passage was expected. Mark and Will adjusted the sail plan to accommodate this weather pattern.

Next Boat is designed to be a superior double-handed offshore sailboat. Somewhat surprisingly, she is a remarkable light-air performer, often clocking 5 knots of speed in 7 to 8

Next Boat owned by Mark Ellman (NY).

An expected mild

cold

front arrived as the boat approached Horton

Point off Long Island’s north shore around midnight. The steady 4-6-knot southwest winds shifted abruptly to the northwest and increased to 15–20 knots in just 15 seconds. A mild dose of anxiety blanketed the crew as the A2 switched sides and wrapped. It was now an unplanned jib.

knots of true wind. Besides being luxurious below, she is an ocean thoroughbred.

Winds for the 1400-hour start time were light but sufficient for most boats to hoist one form of downwind sail or another. Next Boat hoisted the A2 sail and easily came up to 6 knots of speed. Watches would begin at 2000 hours as everyone was too excited to stand down. The evening turned into a steady level of concentration and helm consistency. The wind played out mostly as expected, with an equally lethargic barometer. Boats could be seen all around, and as is often the case, miniature sailboat races ensued. Next Boat began showing her pedigree, slipping away from some of those around her and keeping others at bay. It was going to be a long race.

Day turned into night with a steady light southwest wind. A full main and the A2 set to port had Next Boat

sailing her lines. The crew settled into a routine and was now focused on navigation plotting and steering disciplines.

An expected mild cold front arrived as the boat approached Horton Point off Long Island’s north shore around midnight. The steady 4-6-knot southwest winds shifted abruptly to the northwest and increased to 15–20 knots in just 15 seconds. A mild dose of anxiety blanketed the crew as the A2 switched sides and wrapped. It was now an unplanned jib. Will went forward with the foredeck crew and secured the situation while Gary tacked the boat to allow the chute to run free again. Mark and Krissi came up on deck to assist if needed and observe the learning curve. The foredeck crew would learn that the unexpected often occurs at night, and preparation is an important tool. The incident was handled calmly and quickly.

In time, the chute was socked and lowered, allowing a new

Jens Daum relaxing off watch.

jib to be hoisted and set. Next Boat came back up to 8 knots, and all was normal in the world. Then the wind died again.

As Next Boat approached The Race, very light winds slowed our progress. We knew that a foul current would be against the yacht as we transited, and we made a slow but steady advance. Some crew felt the boat was standing still as the meter showed a half-knot speed, but over our shoulders,Little Gull Island Light was slipping very slowly into the distance, confirming forward movement. Once free of the narrow grips of The Race, the current began to subside and boat speed came up to a blistering 3 knots with the new light northwest wind. The crew was experiencing the required level of concentration and thus the satisfaction of keeping the boat moving in very light wind.

Sailing slowly around Block Island Saturday morning is too painful to share and best left to memory, but once back in the thermal contours of Gardiners Bay, Next Boat caught a bit of luck as she sailed on a port tack through Plum Gut with a favorable tide and enough wind to make hull speed and then some. As the day progressed, light-air sailing again became the norm. A continuing favorable tack brought Next Boat within 10 miles of the finish, but sadly the wind promptly died.

After a few hours of drifting with no wind or progress, Mark came on deck and put retiring from the race to a vote. “ ”

After a few hours of drifting with no wind or progress, Mark came on deck and put retiring from the race to a vote. It was noted (with the help of AIS plotting) that boats ahead of us showed a half- to 1-knot boat speed, and no real wind was expected until the land began to cool off later in the day. All agreed reluctantly to retire from the race. It is a difficult choice to withdraw from a race after extended efforts have been employed to compete, but it was a necessary lesson for the foredeck crew.

Post Race

As is often the case, a postmortem of the race was held enroute back to the dock. Both afterguard and foredeck crew agreed that, given the weather and wind conditions, Next Boat had performed admirably, and they rightly patted themselves on the back. No one regretted retiring from the race as winds would prove nonexistent for the rest of the day. The foredeck crew were asked whether the race had lived up to their expectations and whether the exercise had been worthwhile. All agreed the race had whetted their appetite for more opportunities to expand their knowledge, and all looked forward to future offshore races and deliveries. None voiced disappointment in the light-wind conditions but rather found them a challenge to overcome. An excerpt from one member’s thank-you note capsulizes the foredeck crew’s sentiment:

Racing at midnight with Will Donelan (NY) at the wheel.

“Now that I have had a few days off of the boat, I have had a chance to tell others of our adventure, and it has made me further realize how fortunate I am to have had such an opportunity. It was so cool to be part of a team in a sport that has felt very individual to me in the past. This experience reignited a similar fire that I had the first few times I went sailing. I am excited to seek out other opportunities in both the pond and lake or, if lucky enough, the ocean. Lastly, I am not sure when I will be eating that well again; the food was fantastic!”

The afterguard had their own post-race discussion and noted they were impressed with the level of concentration and teamwork demonstrated by the foredeck crew. As many experienced sailors may know, anyone can sail when there’s wind. All on the afterguard agreed that seeking out less-experienced crew and “paying it forward” was a worthwhile quest that other CCA members should consider during race season and beyond. ✧

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gary Forster (NY) took up sailing in his late 20s and has sailed in over a dozen Newport Bermuda and Marblehead-to-Halifax races and returns. He and his wife, Lily, have cruised Scotland and Norway aboard Pirate with fellow CCA member Juan Corradi (NY) and his wife, Christina, and have sailed Aloki, a Nonsuch 30 catboat, along the New England coast for the last 25 years. Aside from being a CCA member, Gary is a former chairman of the NYYC Seamanship Committee and has served as a lecturer for Storm Trysail Safety at Sea events.

Next Boat’s crew, from left to right: Liam, Jens, Gary, Krissi, Chandler, Will, Campbell, and Mark (skipper).

A profile of our 2024 Blue Water medalist, solo high-latitude sailor and Southern Ocean circumnavigator Leiv Poncet

By Ellen C. Massey, Boston Station

Looking back on it, my first meeting with Leiv Poncet epitomized the spirit of the Blue Water Medal. In June 2016, while I was in Dutch Harbor, Alaska, getting my sloop Celeste ready to sail back to Puget Sound after a season in the Arctic, a rugged steel cutter pulled into the dock. I judged her to be about 38 feet, and she looked hardy and capable, with her hard-chined hull, chimney, and pilothouse. She appeared to be the sort of yacht that could weather many a long Southern Ocean crossing. She was flying an ensign I didn’t recognize, and so I struck up a conversation with her solo sailor. I learned that he was from the Falkland Islands. I knew about the Falklands, the windswept English archipelago a few hundred miles off the southern tip of South America, because I’ve always been fascinated by the polar regions. The remote, harsh Falkland Islands have been a place I’ve always wanted to

visit, alongside South Georgia, Tierra del Fuego, and Antarctica.

One is always interested in the voyages of fellow sailors, of course, and Leiv’s journey from the Falklands to the Aleutians seemed to me to be particularly remarkable. He gave me a brief sketch of his route as we stood there on the dock in the biting cold of a Bering Sea wind. He’d sailed from the Falklands to Chile, north through the Chilean channels, and then across the Pacific to the Gambier and Marquesas archipelagos of French Polynesia. He’d just arrived in the Aleutian Islands from the Marquesas. It’s 4,000 nautical miles from the Marquesas to Dutch Harbor. “You didn’t stop in Hawaii?” I asked, knowing it was pretty much exactly halfway.

“No,” Leiv replied. “I had a good wind.”

That casual understatement — dismissing the idea of breaking up a long and arduous passage that included the ITCZ,

strong contrary trade winds, variables, and then the strong westerlies of the Aleutians, into more manageable chunks — and that genuine desire to be at sea with a good wind: well, if that isn’t an example of the sort of “adventure upon the sea that might otherwise go unrecognized” that the Blue Water Medal was founded to reward, I’m not sure what is.

Over drinks aboard Celeste that evening, I learned a little more about Leiv, and all of it strengthened my conviction that here was a sailor of a sort not often encountered these days. Leiv has a true love for the sea and for the earth’s most remote and least-visited places. He sails across oceans, around the great capes, and to the world’s most wild wildernesses solely for his own joy. He does it for himself, without fanfare. In a world jammed with over-sharing and self-promotion, with monetizing and advertising, Leiv simply sails. He has no blog or social media and certainly no YouTube channel. He takes superb photos, but just for his own enjoyment and to show his friends and family

where he’s been and what he’s seen. Even in person, he can be hard to draw out; he asks questions instead and deflects attention from himself.

For example, I remember how I learned about Leiv’s kayaking voyages, which he made prior to his sailing ones. Seth Leonard (NYS) and I had recently read a magazine article about a woman who was attempting to circumnavigate South Georgia, the subantarctic island famed for Sir Ernest Shackleton’s small-boat voyage and epic mountain trek, by kayak. Being cruising sailors, the two of us had found this adventure admirable but a bit mad: sailing around South Georgia would be a challenge enough on its own, and much more to our taste, both for the sailing and for the dry berths and hot meals. When Leiv said something about South Georgia, Seth mentioned this woman’s kayak voyage and said something to the effect of “not for me.” Leiv, with a wry smile, said, “I don’t know anyone who would want to do a thing like that.” It wasn’t until a couple of days later that we learned that he

Opposite: Beauchene Island, Falkland Islands.

2022, South Georgia Inset: Leiv Poncet in Haida Gwaii.

had in fact done exactly that, becoming one of the first people to kayak around South Georgia, though not the very first.

While Leiv did eventually tell me quite a lot about his adventuresome life, it wasn’t until the Awards Committee had informed him that he was to receive this year’s Blue Water Medal that I heard his full seafaring history. Leiv doesn’t dwell on the past. He keeps on voyaging, continuing to sail and explore. And so it seems that, to him, his past accomplishments are simply there, something he’s proud to have done, giving him wonderful memories, but not something to rest on and definitely not to brag about. Leiv is understated, quiet, capable, and unfazed by challenges many of us would think of as the culmination of our sailing lives.

Leiv grew up voyaging in the Southern Ocean and on a remote island in the western Falklands. He is the second son of high-latitude sailors Jerome and Sally Poncet (pronounced Ponsay), who were awarded the Blue Water Medal in 1992 for their pioneering sailing and over-wintering in Antarctica, coupled with their valuable contribution of a handbook to Antarctic voyaging. And so Leiv, eschewing credit for his own voyaging, remarked that his first Cape Horn rounding was made when he was only 18 months old: “My sailing trips began many years ago, growing up on a boat with my parents and brothers.” Quick to point out the accomplishments of those who inspired and guided him, Leiv also says that “living on a remote island within a remote group of islands meant that most of the sailors who visited were very accomplished, and that influenced me further. Most of them made journeys no less impressive than

any of mine and did so before GPS, reliable communications, and weather forecasts.”

But as much as he would argue to the contrary, Leiv has, without intending to, joined the ranks of these sailors. He began his solo seafaring in kayaks, and in 2001 became the first person to circumnavigate the Falklands Islands by kayak. He enjoyed that voyage so much that he continued his sea kayaking whilst attending university in Hobart, Australia. He made paddling trips in the Bass Strait with friends, and then circumnavigated Tasmania solo, taking 45 days. When he later returned to Tasmania with his sloop Peregrine, he retraced some of his kayaking voyages and was genuinely, and characteristically, disappointed: “Most of the islands we camped at in the Bass Strait are much better visited by kayak,” he said. “With my boat, it was just harder to get in close in the places where the anchorages weren’t so good.” I understood what he meant, and yet it was another look into how he thinks about his voyaging, that he preferred the wet cold and intense physical exertion of kayaking the Bass Strait to sailing it because of the opportunity kayaking afforded him to visit places few people ever do.

After graduating from university with a degree in geology, he made a paddling voyage the length of New Zealand’s Fiordland and then in Canada’s Haida Gwaii archipelago. Leiv has a good friend in Haida Gwaii, and visiting him was part of the impetus for that kayak trip. They are still close friends, which is why Leiv later chose Haida Gwaii as the place to overwinter his yacht Peregrine during two different northern voyages. That choice again epitomizes Leiv’s manner of living and voyaging,

Left: 2017, Alaska Peninsula. Right: Attu Island, Aleutians.

choosing quiet and remote places — lean on repair facilities but big on warm friendship — over more developed and easier-toreach locations.

Leiv’s last major paddling adventure was his circumnavigation of South Georgia Island. In his usual understated way, he told me that there were a few times on that voyage that got nervewracking: “I got a little worried about the food supply a few times” he said, due to waiting out storms until the surf died down enough to enable him to launch again from his campsite and continue the journey. Listening to him, and picturing the grounded icebergs, the raw cold of the Southern Ocean spray, and the towering peaks of South Georgia, I must say I was a little awed and also agreed with Seth Leonard’s assessment, “Not for me.”

Leiv had not intended South Georgia to be his last kayaking endeavor by any means. On the contrary, sea kayaking led to his subsequent sailing voyages. “I was interested in remote archipelagos where no one had paddled before,” Leiv said, “and my initial motivation for buying my own sailboat was that I’d be able to sail to the Kerguelen Islands [also called the Desolation Islands, in the Southern Indian Ocean] and circumnavigate them by sea kayak.” However, between the adventure of the sailing itself and the maintenance demands of an oceangoing sloop, he found himself sailing much more than kayaking.

Leiv purchased Peregrine, his 38-foot steel yacht, in Spain in 2008. His first solo sailing journey was to bring her home to the Falklands, the length of the Atlantic. He said that it wasn’t the most comfortable voyage because he had yet to modify Peregrine

to suit his needs and fit his tastes. She had been a liveaboard home for a couple in a Spanish marina for many years, and yet, rather than working on her in Europe, Leiv, who is nothing if not self-sufficient, decided to sail her some 8,000 miles down the Atlantic so that he could work on her in the arguably much less convenient locale of his family’s remote sheep farm in the western Falklands.

Peregrine is a Trireme 38, a French design built in 1977, and she was ketch rigged when Leiv bought her. Upon his arrival home, he converted her to a sloop rig and rebuilt the galley, removing a large refrigerator to make room for a cozy woodstove. He also built a pilothouse on deck, an important part of a capable Southern Ocean cruising yacht. Most importantly, he modified the rudder to make her balance properly. While making these improvements, Leiv lived on board and made a trip to Tierra del Fuego. Peregrine might not win a concours d’elegance in St-Tropez or Monaco, but she is much more the sort of boat on which I would want to round Cape Horn: Leiv is diligent and resourceful about her maintenance and repairs, keeping her running safely and comfortably on the planet’s harshest seas without any of the major repair facilities many of us prefer to have available.

In 2011, following his refit, Leiv set off to circumnavigate the Southern Ocean. He sailed west from the Falklands to South Africa and thence to the Kerguelen Islands, his raison d’être for the voyage. Kerguelen is a harsh and windy archipelago situated at around 50° S, halfway between South Africa and Australia. The islands are solidly in the region of the high winds and

Atka Island, Aleutians.

massive graybeards that make the Southern Ocean so feared and so compelling, and they are one of the most isolated and least visited places on earth. Leiv loved his time there. Each time I’ve heard him speak about it, he lights up, remembering the glaciated peaks rising up into the cloud, the hiking he did over the tundra, and the empty cove after empty cove.

Leiv spent two months sailing among these desolate, littleknown islands; as part of the conditions for his visit, he took on board two ornithologists who used the boat as a base from which to conduct bird surveys. Using Peregrine in a similar capacity at home in the Falklands has become a regular occurrence for Leiv since then, something he enjoys as it gives further purpose to his voyaging. He says that “it’s a great way of really getting to know the coastline. When one is cruising solely for pleasure, there’s not always the same level of motivation to push on when it’s getting late or the wind is picking up, and we are usually less willing to creep in close to a rocky shore.”

After Kerguelen, it was a small matter of completing the rest of his Antarctic circumnavigation, via Western Australia, Tasmania, New Zealand, and Cape Horn. He overwintered in Hobart, Tasmania, and there met a cruising family from Kodiak, Alaska. As he got to know them, he became more and more

excited about the idea of a future voyage to Alaska. As is typical of Leiv, that was not an idle thought, but the germination of a real plan, one he would follow through with a few years later.

Once spring arrived in Tasmania, Leiv sailed for Stewart Island and New Zealand’s Chatham Islands before making his longest passage yet, across the Pacific and around Cape Horn, a distance of some 4,000 nautical miles. “I took the shortest route home,” he said about that trip, “through the southern Pacific, mostly at around 50 degrees south.” When I asked the question I should have known better than to ask given how many times I have struggled to answer it myself — “What was it like?” — he said, “Honestly? I got a little bored. Until the storms came. But for the rest of it, that’s a long time to be at sea alone.”

Again, I knew what he meant. Sometimes being at sea can be tedious, even when — or maybe especially when — you are being thrown about the cabin by erratic seas, wearing your harness for every moment on deck, wedging yourself into a corner of the galley to try to cook, getting soaked by the spray and green water cascading over the deck. Day after day of this, alone.

Alone, and very far from any other human life. Leiv’s passage home around Cape Horn took him over a place known as Point Nemo, the oceanic pole of inaccessibility, the point on

Semidi Islands, Alaska.

earth that is farthest from any land. According to the Vendée Globe ocean race website, “the humans closest to the sailors at Point Nemo are actually the inhabitants of the International Space Station, 400 kilometers above the surface of the globe!”

Following his first solo Cape Horn rounding, at home in the western Falklands, Leiv used (and still uses) Peregrine to go to Stanley, the only town in the archipelago, a trip of 170 nautical miles each way. Like he did in Kerguelen, he ferried scientists around the islands on board Peregrine. And he crewed for his father and older brother on their charter yachts, taking scientists, BBC film crews, and other guests on trips to the Antarctic Peninsula, South Georgia, and the South Sandwich Islands. A life doing all that would be fulfilling enough for many sailors, but it wasn’t long before Leiv “got itchy feet” again.

Leiv always prefers his voyages to have a goal, and for his next journey that was to be Alaska, specifically the Aleutian Islands. Similar to Kerguelen and the Falklands, the Aleutians are subpolar, tundra-covered islands where wind, fog, and large beds of kelp make sailing challenging. Perhaps this is what drew him to these islands. My own experience, from voyaging in the Aleutians and the Arctic, is that the magic of the polar regions has a way of getting into your soul, and I can only imagine how

Islands of the Four Mountains, Aleutians; Southeast Alaska.

strong this must be to one who grew up in such places. That summer of 2016, Leiv journeyed the length of the Aleutian chain in both directions — a voyage of 2,400 miles — before crossing the Gulf of Alaska from Kodiak to Canada.

The following season he returned to Kodiak (where his cruising friends he’d met in Tasmania had since returned) and the Alaska Peninsula, where we cruised in company for a few weeks, observing bears snatch salmon out of rivers, fishing for salmon ourselves, visiting abandoned canneries, and dropping anchor in secluded coves in view of tumbling tidewater glaciers. We crossed to the Inside Passage at different times, met up again in San Francisco, and then were off on separate adventures. Leiv made a beeline for Mexico’s Sea of Cortez to take care of boat maintenance — sandblasting and repainting his hull — before

crossing the Pacific for French Polynesia’s Gambier Islands. Thence another long passage south and west around Cape Horn.

Over the next few years, Leiv made voyages to Tierra del Fuego and Uruguay before heading to South Georgia, which he describes as “probably” his favorite place on earth. For two months he sailed along South Georgia’s coasts, poking into some of the least-visited regions of that island. A journey to South Georgia is the apex of a great many sailors’ ambitions, and for Leiv it held special meaning as the site of many cherished childhood memories. A childhood spent among the abandoned whaling stations, penguin colonies, glaciers, mountains, and nesting albatross of one of the planet’s richest and yet most rugged islands; a childhood spent surrounded by the heroics and tragedies of Antarctic exploration, and by beautiful and

Tigalda Island, Aleutians

fearless wildlife; and a childhood spent in communion with the indifference and harshness of the polar ocean: no wonder Leiv spent as much time revisiting the place as he did.

With his love of the sea and sailing, Leiv had barely returned from South Georgia when he was planning another big endeavor. “I felt I hadn’t quite done justice to Alaska,” he said, and so he set off again within a year, across the Pacific, to repeat much of his earlier trip to the Aleutian Islands. After two summer seasons in the Bering Sea, again reaching the westernmost outpost of the Aleutian chain at Attu, Leiv headed for home again just a few months ago, making his fifth crossing of the Gulf of Alaska and then heading straight from western Vancouver Island to French Polynesia’s Marquesas Islands. As of this writing, he is currently anchored in the Gambier

About the Author

Ellen Massey was awarded the 2022 Royal Cruising Club Trophy, the 2018 Young Voyager Award, and the 2015 Charles H. Vilas Literary Award. With Seth Leonard (NYS), she sailed almost 60,000 miles on rudimentary classic boats, including a global circumnavigation in her early 20s, a voyage to the Alaskan Arctic reaching the polar pack ice, and a second crossing of the Pacific to French Polynesia and thence to Hawaii. In 2023, right before the Maui wildfires, she made an upwind voyage through the Hawaiian archipelago aboard her 40-foot cold-molded sloop Celeste, and in spring 2024 she joined Leiv Poncet for a few weeks of sailing up the Inside Passage from Haida Gwaii to Alaska. Ellen has written for sailing magazines in the US, UK, and Canada for over 15 years, but has recently switched careers to aviation. She was honored to be an integral part of the airlift of critical supplies and medicine to Lahaina following the 2023 fires. She earned her commercial pilot’s certificate this year, followed by her commercial seaplane rating in Alaska. She lives in Hawaii and is currently working on her flight instructor certificate.

archipelago, with some 5,000 miles and his third solo Cape Horn rounding to go before returning home to the Falklands.

In keeping with his humble and quiet manner, Leiv said that he felt he hardly deserved the Blue Water Medal. When told that he’d been chosen for it this year, he said that he felt it “is not entirely mine. I am only doing what know how to do, what I grew up doing.” This is certainly true, of course, but his unfailing love of adventure, of the ocean and sailing, and of the spectacular but harsh wildernesses of the remotest parts of the world, is all his own.

THE CCA AFTER WORLD WAR II

By Sheila McCurdy, Boston Station

Active duty had a profound impact on the lives and legacies of the Cruising Club of America members who were among the 16 million Americans serving in the U.S. Armed Services during World War II. The young men had been tested by a relentless enemy and unforgiving lands and oceans in all seasons. Whatever they thought their place in the world was in 1940, their perspectives had been changed by military experience and by lifelong friendships forged with their comrades at arms. Older members, meanwhile, had used their expertise to support the war effort an ocean away from the fighting. All were ready for recreational time with family and fun on the water when peace came, and their experience with strength and sacrifice changed the character of the club.

Peace and Prosperity

The coverline on Yachting magazine’s January 1945 issue read “The Postwar Preview Issue,” but editor (and CCA charter member) Herb Stone was quick to point out that the “war is not over and its end is not even in sight … One should not be optimistic of an early victory.” With that said, there was much prognostication about the pent-up demand for boating after 15 years of the Depression and war. Harbors closed for security reasons and the rationing of gasoline, rubber, canvas, manilla rope, metal, and other marine materials discouraged on-thewater activities even for those who had a boat and money. Boating was changing. Most of the full-pages ads were for powerboats and shiny equipment. Many of the brokerage ads were for sailboats. Smaller boats up to 40 feet that could be sailed by families into small harbors and coves were expected to be popular. Architects and builders anticipated that owners of new boats would expect refrigeration, radio telephones, and other conveniences that promised to make life aboard easier and more like home. One wry CCA member wrote a letter to

the editor from “Somewhere in Southwest Pacific,” suggesting the use of a customized landing craft would make for a hospitable 56-foot “seagoing houseboat … with room for a jeep.” He added that groundings would not be an issue.

In an article in the same issue, Philip L. Rhodes (1938), the noted designer of fine sailing and motor yachts, had a different take on the future.

“Doubtless much of the casual talk about the postwar yacht is a bit advanced … [T]he pitfall is that it may cause yachtsmen to anticipate tomorrow’s yacht as a super streamlined juke box with invisible sails, rocket propulsion, electronic refrigerators and robot galley slaves.”

He suggested not waiting for some ultimate future before buying a boat and not taking a risk on new and untested materials and innovations. However, he was very keen on using nylon for spinnakers while acknowledging it was in an experimental phrase. It would be another five years before DuPont developed the polyester fiber it trademarked as Dacron. Rhodes wrote about the expanding use of modern plywood that was made with improved waterproof glues that would make dinghies cheaper and lighter.

In another article, W. H. “Ham” deFontaine (1931) anticipated the implementation of wartime materials for building yachts and equipment. Waterproof fabrics for clothing and hatch covers seemed of greatest interest, followed by sailcloth that would not mildew. He wrote of futuristic fabrics woven from glass fibers and of soundproofing and insulation made from spun glass. He also discussed the use of plastics which he relegated to minor roles of appliance covers and drawer pulls. He added,

“But this scribe is one who questions the prophesy that you will see plastics take the place of good bronze or locust for cleats … as for moldings, rail caps and the like, plastics may gradual replace wood, but I doubt it.”

The Club Transitions Back to Peace

The club did not have grand plans immediately after the war.

The Yachting cartoonist Darrell McClure envisioned military surplus flooding the maritime market.

Above: Zaida III. Left: Golliwogg.

Below: Commodore Ernest Ratsey aboard his yacht Wogg Too.

George Bonnell with anchor.

Gasoline rationing was still in place, boats had been out of commission for years, and new gear had been hard to come by. The point-to-point sailing in August 1945 was confined in Long Island Sound and out to Block Island. The season’s final party required the inevitable diversion six miles up the Connecticut River to the tidy 19th-century village of Essex where, as usual, George Bonnell (charter) drove a tractor and wagon to the dinghy landing to transport the sailors back to his waterfront farm for a fine feast. Including boats from other clubs, there were about 40 boats on each run of the cruise.

At the January 1945 meeting the membership elected Ernest A. Ratsey (1932) commodore. Ratsey was a standout in many ways. He was the first commodore who was the son of a member. His father, George Colin Ratsey (1932), was very involved in the sport of sailing, both as a business and as recreation. He ran Ratsey and Lapthorn Sailmakers in City Island, New York, and was a good and generous business man. He donated his yacht, Zaida III, to the U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary for the Coastal Picket Patrol in 1942. That December, Zaida III, was disabled by a near-hurricane-force storm off Nantucket Shoals, and the crew was feared lost. Both were finally rescued after three weeks of battering. George Ratsey died the day after her rescue after weeks of poor health.

The Ratsey family immigrated from England when the internationally renowned sailmaking company expanded into the U.S. market in 1902. The venerable firm had supplied sails for HMS Victory before the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, and the prowess of the loft was such that it was able to build and deliver a J/Boat genoa for Thomas Sopwith in 24 hours in the 1930s. Ernest joined his father at the loft in City Island, while Ernest’s brother, G. Colin Ratsey, ran the Ratsey and Lapthorn loft in Cowes, Isle of Wight. This sometimes put the brothers on opposite sides of the competition. Ernest supplied sails for American 12-meters in 1958, while Colin was crewing on the British challenger Sceptre for which he made sails.

of the club’s reputation. In 1945 they did not have a problem electing Commodore Ratsey. Ernest was a genial friend to many CCA members. His dedication to the club, love of good boats, and ability to tell yarns about exploits and misadventures of his cohorts earned him high regard.

Ratsey owned two boats when he became commodore: a 32-foot Ichen Ferry cutter, a class of workboat on the Solent that was adopted for racing, and a 43-foot Alden schooner. His choice of boat names would not be tolerated today: the cutter was named Golliwogg after a popular British black-faced child’s doll, and Ratsey doubled down on the schooner’s name — Wogg Too.

In 1946, William Taylor (1930), a Pulitzer Prize-winning yachting journalist, took over as club historian after the death of W.P. Stephens (charter) who had served in the position for 20 years. Stephens was a polymath of all things yachting and, having died at 91, had nearly a century of history in his teeming memory that he shared with the club and readers of Yachting Taylor’s style was distinctly lighter in his Historian Reports. Maybe it was the joy and relief of peace. He described the 1946 cruise as a bit chaotic:

Boating was changing. Most of the full-pages ads were for powerboats and shiny equipment.

Ernest noted that he was the first CCA commodore who could describe himself as a “working stiff.” Of course, the 16 previous commodores had also worked. They were lawyers, executives, financial professionals, and sailing magazine editors. The difference was that Ratsey worked in a skilled marine trade. There has been a delicate, yet foggy, distinction in yachting between those who are purely amateur “enthusiasts” and those who may love the sport but are paid for products or services by their fellow yachtsmen. From a Corinthian point of view, it is hard to determine when someone is sailing for pleasure or participating to drum up business. The broad tipping point shifted with cultural norms and individual personalities. The club had its own internal conflicts over the years about how tolerant it should be of professional sailors taking advantage

“The Club’s 1946 cruise proved that thirty boats can have a wonderful time on a cruise even if bad weather and rugged individualism play hob with the pre-arranged schedule. Twenty-three anchored near Commodore Ratsey’s Wogg Too in Block Island on the mid-August Saturday and held a rousing rendezvous. The schedule called for an overnight cruising run to Nantucket starting the following evening, but half the fleet decided to go to Cuttyhunk on Sunday instead. The weather turned bad that night and most of the fleet was scattered among Newport, Cuttyhunk, Menemsha, and other ports by Monday morning. Only six ever did get to Nantucket, but a couple of days later most of the fleet, again totaling 23 sail, was assembled in Hadley Harbor. There a mutiny set in again and instead of pushing on to Stonington they ran to Cuttyhunk and held another fine jamboree ashore and afloat… The gang that took part in the cruise had such a good time they are now convinced that schedules were made to be broken.”

The winter dinners continued in New York and Boston and spread to the other stations. In many ways the regularly scheduled meetings of members and friends knit the club together. Speakers — among them several Blue Water Medal recipients and square rigger veterans — told of adventures. While some happily regaled attendees with stories of old, other members were concerned that the average age of members, 57 years, was unsustainably high. The club promised to take unspecified action. This topic would be raised every decade or so into the future.

This is an excerpt from High Seas and Home Waters, the soon-tobe published Cruising Club of America history.

On Sailing — Words of Wisdom From 50 Years Afloat

by Skip Novak

adlard

coles, bloomsbury publishing, 2024

Review by Peter S. Plumb, Boston Station/Gulf of Maine Post

Skip Novak is a legend in his own time, with a sailing, mountaineering, and exploring career like no other. My family and I had the opportunity to meet him in Cape Town in 2013. Some friends and I had just signed a contract to charter Pelagic Australis for a February 2014 cruise from Puerto Williams, Chile, to the Antarctic Peninsula and back, and Skip, who wasn’t going to be on the charter, proposed a hike up the backside of Table Mountain. We met at the appointed location, where there was a sign reading, “Trail Closed – Danger!” Off we went under Skip’s guidance, for the most part crawling up a steep unmarked scramble to the summit. I wondered then if Skip was testing me. It was a great adventure and certainly a good metaphor for how he has lived so much of his life: pushing the envelope.

SKIP ON SAILING

Skip’s new book is a compendium of his articles published monthly in Yachting World from October 2014 to February 2023. Each piece in the 300-page collection is no more than 800 words; one can jump around and find one small gem after another. The articles are not in chronological order, but rather grouped into seven categories, including “Learning to Sail,” “Ocean Racing,” “Safety at Sea,” and “Stories from Back in the Day.” Many of the articles carry a postscript noting how events discussed in the article ultimately turned out or updating Skip’s current thinking on the topic.

Many of the articles are good old-fashioned yarns, frequently interspersed with Skip’s wit and wisdom about the joys and pratfalls of sailing, ocean racing, and dealing with boats. Other are philosophical discourses on matters such as when and under what circumstances to wear life vests. Many are autobiographical narratives; several deal with his decision to go into the high-latitude charter business, which he calls his “particular adventure charter market.” His first expedition vessel, the sturdy 54-foot Pelagic, has now roamed the extreme ends of the earth for 36 years. His second, the 75-foot Pelagic Australis, is specifically designed for Antarctic and Arctic

exploring with a lifting keel and lifting rudder. Both vessels have served as platforms for mountaineering expeditions (usually with Skip as the leader) and for significant research on the flora, fauna, and wildlife of Antarctica, the Falklands, and South Georgia Island. Both also have served as charter vessels for curious sailors like me with no mountaineering or research qualifications. In 2021, Skip sold Pelagic Australis to GreenPeace and replaced it with the new Pelagic 77 Vinson of Antarctica Another boat is on the way.

I particularly enjoyed the articles on Skip’s ocean racing adventures and his views on ocean racing generally, which range from a dissertation on women manning and crewing on Volvo Ocean Racers to reflections on his Whitbread experiences.

There are several sections on legal issues. In particular, Skip has very definite views on the various proposed — and, in some cases, adopted — polar codes. He has strong views on the enormous growth of tourism by large cruise ships in Antarctica and the Arctic as well — most sailors of CCA ilk will likely be very much in accord.

One of my favorite articles is “The Freedom of Boat Ownership,”originally published in March 2017. After ringing the usual changes on the similarity of boat ownership and standing in a cold shower tearing up $100 bills, he concludes with this wonderful thought: “Even if (the boat) is seldom used, it is always there in waiting for you, anxiously tugging at the mooring lines, which can easily be cast off with a few flicks of the wrist. Freedom.”

As Skip notes in his introduction, this is not a typical book to be read cover to cover. Rather, he suggests it might be good “… to have it on your night stand when bored with Proust or in that basket next to the loo….” But one can, as I did, read it cover to cover very enjoyably. Either way it is a good read and a fine addition to any sailor’s library.

TheBOOK REVIEW

Windward Passage: A Maxi-Yacht in Her Sixth Decade

by Randall Peffer

w ooden b oat publications , 2023

Review by R. J. Rubadeau, Boston/Gulf of Maine Post

turbulent days of the ’60s and ’70s saw a distinct changing of the guard in the world of high-stakes offshore racing. The elite fraternity of big personalities with big boats like Ticonderoga, Figaro, Bolero, and Windigo were being eclipsed by upstarts with smallerclass plastic and aluminum boats like Stormvogel, Ondine, Kialoa, and Boomerang. The former queens of the fleet found it nearly impossible to hold their time in the confusing scrum of the world’s classic distance races. The new downwind powerhouses worked the angles, stretched the allowances, and leapt up in the standings to take the silver from the wigs. The venerable Cruising Club of America’s traditional, old-school handicapping formula inevitably gave way to the International Offshore Rule, which insured that the times were a-changing for race boats and their designers.

“Peffer has spent the last 40 years honing his craft as a prolific and hugely talented storyteller of all things nautical. His astounding body of work celebrates the magic we lucky few experience when we cast off the dock lines and get out sailing.”

The highest echelon of blue-water racers decided to forget the troublesome math and focus their efforts on simply planning to cross the finish line first. Everyone else was second. Robert F. Johnson, the owner of Hereshoff’s Big Ti and a multiple TransPac winner, saw the handwriting on the wall and hired a brash 30-year-old named Alan Gurney to design the next level of the maxi boat. The duo drafted and built Windward Passage’s hull on a sand beach next to Johnson’s bar in the Bahamas, embracing a radical, unproven concept of wood strips and epoxy. Johnson doubled down by employing his amateur sailing crew as lightly skilled boatwrights. With his latest book, author Randall Peffer (BOS/BUZ) chronicles this against-all-odds exotic backstory and Windward Passage’s subsequent six-decade reign and ageless, unerring ‘It factor.” This epic saga is simply a magical, impossible, ongoing, true fairytale. Peffer has spent the last 40 years honing his craft as a prolific

and hugely talented storyteller of all things nautical. His astounding body of work celebrates the magic we lucky few experience when we cast off the dock lines and get out sailing. Every one of his feature articles, novels, and guides wafts a scent of salt air and wind pressing the sails, and this latest endeavor is nothing short of spectacular. I will endorse the décor influencer who preaches that any living room coffee table not displaying a copy of Windward Passage is not presentable for company.

Peffer opens his tale with Windward Passage’s launch: “There was surely a moment on that star-strewn Bahamas night in the late fall of 1968 as Windward Passage leaned over with her big jib humming, put her shoulder into the Gulf Stream chop, and started to charge — when her owner, ‘Big Bob’ Johnson, wanted to shout for pure joy, ‘What a boat!’ Every one of the twelve or so young sailors … sitting on the windward rail would have joined in.”

After 60 years of wins and smashed records, tens of thousands of racing miles, five owners, and enough silver to open a museum, Windward Passage is still rocking the West Coast as an iconic family-cruising yacht and day-racer without equal.

With its stunning photography by Steve Jost, this landmark volume is also a visual pleasure that turns the corner on print books’ ongoing competition with the computer screen. Designer Ronald Geisman has cleverly warmed the narrative with a full down-island menu of pastels, creative formats, and lots of space for displaying the museum-quality visuals. Come along on this incredible journey of a magnificent boat that changed the entire sailing world.

Author Peffer at the helm of Windward Passage

Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond — Sailing Through Life’s Changing Currents

* * *

by Lin Pardey

PARADISE HILL PUBLICATIONS, 2025

Review by Gretchen Dieck Biemesderfer, Essex Station

Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond is the latest of many books by prolific author and sailor Lin Pardey. I sheepishly admit that I knew little about Lin and her husband, Larry, so before reading the book, I found myself engrossed in their online videos, training programs, newsletters, cruising tips, digital courses, and books. Along this digital trail, I found a number of tips and ideas that I will be applying to our boat, Shearwater (mast loops – brilliant!). Lin is a natural teacher as well as a font of useful information.

Passages is a tribute to Larry and to her and Larry’s sailing life together. She also shares her experiences with her new sailing partner and partner in life, David Haigh, who she met after Larry slipped into Parkinsonian dementia. The book opens with what Larry and Lin call their “Cape Horn Caper” — rounding Cape Horn in 2002 — and moves onto their sailing adventures and personal life.

Lin and Larry (or maybe just Larry — Lin had her reservations at first) dreamed for years of taking their boat,

Taleisin, around Cape Horn in a westerly direction. Taleisin is a 29-foot 9-inch wooden Lyle Hess-designed sailboat with no engine that Larry and Lin built in the early 1980s and launched in 1983. After a number of years sailing, eventually reaching Europe and then exploring the U.S. East Coast, the Pardeys decided to head home to New Zealand via Cape Horn. Lin describes their meticulous planning, refitting, and preparing for the rounding while demonstrating their knowledge, experience, and appreciation for their boat and their sailing abilities. On their second try, Lin and Larry rounded Cape Horn from east to west in an 8-knot southeasterly breeze with their drifter flying.

Lin takes the reader through their subsequent adventures, including weathering significant storms while hove to with a reefed storm trysail. The Pardeys’ old-school sailing style is remarkable. Lin describes sailing thousands of miles without either an engine or major electronics and the skill needed to enter and dock in busy harbors and crowded anchorages. They relied on their barometer and their knowledge of reading ocean swells. Larry used a sextant for navigation, only obtaining a handheld GPS in his later years as a “backup.” Other interesting facts about their remarkable boat include that the bilge was varnished (having no engine), had a bathtub, and could hold 140 bottles of wine.

Before major passages, the Pardeys would study a variety of material to aid them in trip planning and navigation. In preparation for rounding Cape Horn, Lin writes, “Together we studied pilot charts for the South Atlantic, consulted the British Admiralties tome, Ocean Passages for the World. We searched out old sailing ship routing tomes like A Sailing Directory for the Ethiopic or South Atlantic Ocean 1883, ninth edition, by Alexander George Findlay FRGS with addenda to 1899, to determine our schedule.”

In the years after rounding the Horn, Lin and Larry alternated sailing, including in the Pacific Northwest, with travelling across the U.S. to give talks at boat shows and other venues and buying and renovating a small, abandoned cottage and boatyard in North Cove on Kawau Island in New Zealand. Lin describes in detail what went into planning and execution of each of these aspects of their lives. One comes away feeling that the Pardeys were constantly in motion, whether

building boats or refitting others, sailing the world (2½ circumnavigations), or rebuilding their cottage. They wrote extensively, including a number of books that helped to support their sailing adventures, and produced videos, educational materials, and training programs that made them in-demand as speakers and educators. In later years, Lin started self-publishing and published her own books and those of others.

Around 2008, Lin noticed that Larry was slowing down. “My hero was fading,” she writes. In 2009, Lin and others noted Larry’s periodic confusion and memory lapses. As many may find familiar, Lin at first justified and explained away these lapses to herself and others. She describes the slow, relentless progression of Larry’s mental decline and difficulty in walking over the next several years and the ultimate diagnosis of dementia with Parkinsonian features. He became unable to get into Taleisin without help and eventually became wheelchairbound. Then in her 70s, Lin took up the mantle of primary caregiver in addition to her writing, lecturing, and involvement with local New Zealand politics, and she continued local sailing on her Herreshoff-designed, fiberglass daysailer, Felicity. Lin poignantly describes her loneliness and increasing reliance on friends as Larry became relatively nonverbal. Finally, when

in-home care for Larry became overwhelming, Lin reluctantly took Larry to a nursing facility, where he received support that Lin could no longer provide.

Lin and Larry’s intrepidness while sailing the world makes for a fascinating adventure story that propels the reader through each chapter. There are moments, though, when Lin describes feelings and vulnerability that are entirely relatable. Her anxiety about rounding Cape Horn, her fear after Taleisin falls off a spectacular wave in the Pacific, and her sorrow, loneliness, and guilt around Larry’s progressing dementia and subsequent move into nursing care reveal an intimate side of her personality. She also describes her frustration when she realizes that her desire for more oceancrossing trips is not shared by Larry as his physical abilities decline. Lin also touches on her relationships with men, primarily Larry and David, and the guilt she feels when she embarks on a sailing trip with David when Larry is in a nursing home.

In writing about her and Larry’s love and devotion to each other and to their life together over 50 years, Lin describes a partnership whose dynamics shift over time. Now 80, she has another but very different partner with whom she is experiencing new adventures. I can’t wait to hear what she’s doing when she’s 90.

Lin and Larry relax aboard Taleisin.

Final Voyages

Edited by David Curtin (BOS) and Daniel Biemesderfer

Baker, Benjamin B.

Barnard N, Stephen

Bennett III, James G.

Blodgett IV, William W.

Cadwalader, George

Cahill, John L.

Close, Wiliam F. *

Coolidge, A. Knight

Cooper, Anthony A.

Benjamin B. Baker 1939–2024

BenjaminBeale Baker was indeed a “good shipmate.” A member of the CCA for 52 years, Ben crossed the outgoing bar on January 9, 2024, at the age of 84. Whether it was on merit or a “youth movement,” it is worthy of note that the Baker family had four members of the CCA: Ben’s father, Talbot Baker (1956), who was a great sailor and mentor; his brothers Nick (1964) and Toby (1964); and Ben himself (1972).

The ripples created from Ben’s life’s interests and work will keep the torch burning bright for those who were touched by him.

The son of Talbot and Polly Nichols Baker, Ben was born in Boston on July 1, 1939, and raised in Millis, Massachusetts. He was fortunate to spend summers on Wings Neck, Buzzards Bay, where in his formative

Gregory, James D.

Grimm, Peter W.

Jones, Andrew

Kessler, Bruce

Minor, R. Hugh Myles, John D.

Noyes, Frederick C.

Osmond, John D.

Otto, Thomas

Benjamin B. Baker

years he learned to sail, but also subconsciously realized that he could not compete with his two older brothers. Nick and Toby were getting into competitive racing in dinghies, 110s, and other classes. Ben quietly became a student of all aspects of sailing and seamanship (perhaps more than his

Quinlan, Robert M.

Robinson Jnr, Harold W.

Smith, Michael H.*

Standley, Mark, L.

Wall, Pamela K. Wilhelm, Wiliam W.* Wills, John A.

* Final Voyages essay was not available at the time of publication

brothers combined!), which served him well throughout his life. From day sailing and cruising on the family’s  Barcarole,  he went on to sail H-12s and 110s and build his own sailfish. He cruised Down East with Skipper Bob Moore (CCA, 1923). He also ran the junior sailing programs in Bar Harbor, Maine, and Manchester, Massachusetts.

As a teenager, he grew to love cooking. He participated in 3 1/2 Newport Bermuda races as a cook. Midway through the shorter race, he suffered appendicitis, and a USCG Cutter took him from Angelique (skippered by CCA member Stan Deland) to shore, where he was successfully operated on by Angelique’s co-owner, Dr. Francis Moore (CCA 1965). Apparently, the Delands and the Moores were still finding well-stowed stores of food long into that fall.

Ben’s education included Milton Academy, Harvard University, and the

University of North Carolina, from which he received a master’s degree in urban planning. During these years, he also joined the U.S. Coast Guard, completing six months basic training at Cape May, New Jersey. He joined the U.S. Coast Guard Reserves, and upon graduation from college, was commissioned as an officer. He was a proud “hooligan” and reached the pinnacle of his career as a four-striped captain. During this time, he met Deborah Murphy, a fellow reservist. They married in 1982.

Ben’s training as a city planner brought him to the New Bedford Model Cities program in 1970. He was proud to be appointed as the storied waterfront community’s city planner and remained for three successive administrations. A licensed pilot, he was involved with the local regional airport and organizing a regional airline. He was also involved with the development of SERTA, a regional transit authority that is still in operation today. His community involvement is too extensive to mention, but it was all done towards the revitalization and betterment of New Bedford and the surrounding communities.

In 1989, post-civil service, Ben and Deborah combined their love for books and opened Baker Books, which featured one of the finest maritime/nautical book selections one could want. For 25 years, they were “purveyors of information and imagination,” focusing on literacy in the greater New Bedford area. They expanded and relocated to the neighboring community of Dartmouth in 1995.

During these years, Ben always made time for life on the water. In 1968, he and Toby found a 1930 Fisher’s Island sloop for sale. Torch  cruised extensively throughout local waters, Down East, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and St. Pierre and Miquelon. In 1984, they restored Torch to her original condition and donated her to the new Herreshoff Marine Museum in Bristol, Rhode Island, where she still stands proud for all to explore.

Ben was heard to mutter, “Somebody has to stay with wood!” He set his sights on growing a fleet of wooden boats: the H-12  Tomboy  that he learned to sail was loved, restored, and is still serving sailors in the HMM sailing program; a Newport 29,  Teaser;  a classic 1931 Sidney Herreshoff 43-foot motor cruiser,  Ariel II;  a 22-foot Palmer Scott, Merlot; and a Doughdish, Ariel.

For the rest of his life, Ben, Deborah, and sons Andrew and Alex sailed and motored the beautiful waters of New England. He is survived by his brother Toby, sister Hope, and his loving family. His legacy lives on with his sons and three grandchildren. Smooth sailing, dear Ben, with all our love.

Toby Baker and Deborah Baker

Stephen N. Barnard

1933–2024

StephenN. Barnard, a resident of Newport Beach, California, passed away peacefully at home at the age of 91. Steve was a beloved husband, father, and grandfather who touched so many lives with his gentlemanly grace and passion for mentoring others.

Steve was born June 29, 1933, in Glendale, California. As a young lad, Steve wasted no time in getting out of the house, whether at the local YMCA, summer camp, downtown LA jazz clubs with his older brother, or working at Rustler Lodge in Alta circa 1949. Steve was a lifelong drummer who enjoyed accompanying his extensive collection of Dixieland music.

While at Claremont Men’s College, Steve met Barbara Lingle, and they married at Saint Andrews Presbyterian Church, Newport Beach, in January 1956. Steve served in the United States Army at Fort Baker, California, living in Mill Valley.

On completion of his military service, Steve and family moved to Whittier, California, and he began his professional career for Security Bank in downtown

Los Angeles. Driven to emulate his bank customers who seemed to be making more deposits than himself, Steve set about securing a position with Coldwell Banker, leasing and selling commercial real estate.

Steve first found his way onto a boat in college as a deckhand on the sportfishing boat Tonic in Newport Harbor. Soon after, he married Barbara, and they promptly purchased a Lido 14 to race in the local fleet in the harbor off Balboa Island. As the family grew to five, they moved up to a 43-foot Rhodes wooden yawl named Princess and did some coastal races, but mostly cruised with the family to Catalina Island throughout the summers. Steve found his way onto various ocean racers, including the Southern California distance races to La Paz and Mazatlán. In 1969 Steve purchased the fiberglass Columbia 43 sloop Carrera, which was the original test hull fitted with a Columbia 50 deck — he said they ran a jig saw around the perimeter to cut off the excess. This boat had a larger doghouse which filled the interior with light. Steve recruited various young men from the infamous ranks in the harbor and raced her throughout Southern California, including Ahmanson Cups, Whitney Series, and PORC. It was during this period that Steve was also able to crew on Bill Samuels’ Bat in the AnnapolisNewport Race and onboard the C&C 61 Robon III in the 1972 Bermuda Race,

Stephen N. Barnard

winning line honors and Class A as they sailed through a 70-plus-knot southeast gale spun off from an early-season hurricane. In calmer Newport Beach, Steve continued to take the family to Catalina Island onboard Carrera, did a bit of Etchells 22 racing, and watched his three kids race Sabots, Lasers, and the Etchells. The kids learned the usual boat maintenance: rebuilding winches, cleaning and inspecting the standing rigging and brightwork, etc.

In 1985 Steve purchased Cabaret, an S&S designed 53-foot ketch built by Palmer Johnson. Steve continued to cruise locally, but also did a two-month cruise into the sea of Cortez in Mexico with Barbara and various friends. Eventually he and Barbara determined it was too much boat for a crew of two and in 1998 purchased Cabaret II, a Kelly Peterson-designed 45-foot sloop. He cruised Cabaret II throughout Southern California and in 2007-08 did a sixmonth cruise throughout Mexico. Upon returning, they lamented the lack of wind, and shortly thereafter purchased their first powerboat, appropriately named Tonic. Tonic made bi-weekly four-day trips to Catalina for five months each year.

Steve and Barbara also participated in CCA cruises to the Channel Islands, California; Haurake Gulf, New Zealand; onboard Victory Chimes, Maine; and Ski Gam in Utah. In 1985, Steve was commodore of Newport Harbor Yacht Club, where he was a member for over 50 years and also enjoyed many friendships.

Steve is survived by Barabara, his wife of 68 years; daughter Katy (Patrick) Scruggs; sons Scott (Cindy) Barnard and Brett Barnard; grandchildren and great-grandchildren, including Stephen Scruggs and wife Tasha Bock with their daughter, Bay; Laura Scruggs; Chris Barnard and wife Kate Canty with their son, Connor; Beth and husband Tim Fay; Cole and Emmie Barnard; and stepgrandchildren Patrick Scruggs Jr. and Kathleen Scruggs.

Scott Barnard

James G. Bennett III

1953–2024

Ifirstmet Jim Bennett many years ago when he moved to Camden, Maine, and I quickly learned that he had cut his teeth sailing on Class A scows as a teenager in the Midwest, just as I had. We had both experienced the adrenaline-filled experience of crewing on those majestic 1,800-pound 38-foot rocket ships and hanging on for dear life at 25 knots, with swimming as the reward for a missed maneuver.

But now we were older and saltwater was in our veins. Having sailed on Gem, Suzy Wong, Cyrano, Zorra, Recluta, Majek, and Sandpiper, raced eight times to Bermuda (including a Marion Bermuda overall win), and sailed to South Georgia Island and transatlantic to Cape Town, South Africa (with sustained winds of 70 knots), it was time for Jim to get his own boat.

I was only too happy to help and pointed him in the direction of a beautiful J/34C with dark-blue hull, teak toe rails, all the bells and whistles one could want, and most importantly, a habit of podium finishes on the bay. With my emphatic assurances, Jim bought the boat, named her Astraea, and promptly crushed me in our first racing encounter!

After many very enjoyable years on Astraea, Jim did what any gifted naval architect would do: he crunched the

numbers on a variety of larger boats. He settled on a J/46 named Finisterre, which he campaigned and cruised extensively. He was one of the few finishers in a memorable singlehanded race with 30-knot winds and gusts to 40.

Jim, of course, was always modest in his victories (there were many) and gracious when it went the other way, offering comments like, “I really enjoy competing against you and learning from you.”

A few years later, when proposing him for membership in the CCA, I had a chance to review not only his sailing résumé but also his incredible professional résumé. I learned the true depth of his modesty: As a naval architect, program manager, and product development director, he’d won multiple billion-dollar contracts and multiple personal achievement awards for exceptional performance and integrity — honors selected by a corporate community of over 70,000.

In his retirement, Jim continued to excel in truly diverse areas. He became an expert on storm surge and the impact of climate change on Camden Harbor in general and the Camden Yacht Club in particular, pointing out to all who would listen that the frequency of extreme events had increased nine-fold over the past six years when compared to the prior 86 years. He was awarded the Georgia Lawson Memorial Award for exceptional volunteer contributions posthumously in 2024.

His ability to both mentor and gently lead was put on display when he served as a key motivator in Kirsten Neuschäfer’s decision to enter the 2022 Golden Globe Race and when his meticulous spreadsheet analysis of all the possible eligible boats led to her selection of the Cape George 36 and, ultimately, her historic victory. Kirsten expressed her gratitude for Jim’s contribution to her record-setting achievement by coming to Rockport, Maine, in 2023 for her first and only U.S. presentation. Jim, of course, almost singlehandedly organized the event, which was sold

James G. Bennett III

out, with a nearly 200-person waiting list. The audience gave raucous standing ovations, and thousands of dollars were raised for junior sailing.

We’ve lost a dynamic, authentic, and extremely talented friend, and we carry not only the sorrow of that loss but the joy and privilege of knowing Jim Bennett.

Tom Babbitt

William W. Blodgett 1941–2023

Newshas reached Florida Station of the passing of circumnavigator Bill Blodgett, 82, on August 8, 2023, from complications of a stroke in Petoskey, Michigan.

Bill and Alicia, his wife of 32 years, completed their seven-year circuit of the globe in 1997 aboard Pegaso, their 62-foot C&C custom ketch. In May of that year, he was inducted into the CCA, and the Blodgetts were presented with the Circumnavigation Award. Their passage was east to west: Panama Canal, South Pacific, New Zealand, Fiji, Australia, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, Sri Lanka, Maldives, Oman, Djibouti, Red Sea, Mediterranean, Canary Islands, Barbados, Caribbean, West Palm Beach, Florida. Alicia documented the couple’s event-filled sojourn in her 2001 book, Just the Two of Us. They began their trek, improbably, from Sandusky, Ohio, on July 4, 1990. He was already an experienced sailor, she a novice, but willing to help her new husband fulfill his dream of sailing around the world. Their encountered whales, pirates, and violent storms and were introduced to many cultures and many cruising friends.

Bill was born in Washington, D.C., and raised in Palm Beach. After receiving a degree in economics from the Wharton School, he became a CPA. He worked as an auditor for Price Waterhouse and later owned several businesses. In 1976, he purchased a small

Akron, Ohio trucking firm, which he expanded and eventually sold to FedEx. In the aftermath of their world-girdling transit in Pegaso, the Blodgetts settled in West Palm Beach, where Bill acquired Holland Pump, running it from 1999 to 2016. In 2007, he founded LobePro, a Brunswick, Georgia, pump firm.

Besides his love of sailing, Bill played nationally competitive tennis and was an avid golfer, skier, scuba diver, and pilot.

He participated in charities, including American Cancer Society, and social and athletic clubs, including the Everglades Club and the Little Harbor Club. He served as a board member and treasurer of Palm Beach Atlantic University for more than 20 years.

Bill is remembered for his business acumen, athleticism, optimism, and strong Christian faith. He was married four times, first to Cecile Clover, with whom he had two sons, William and Burtt; second, to Sherry Congdon; third to Alicia Cuomo, who died in in 2020; and to Sandy Thompson. Survivors include a sister, Jean Bruns; brother, Edward; three stepchildren, Shari Jorge, Scott, and Todd Peterson; grandchildren, nieces and nephews.

Russ Hoadley

George Cadwalader 1939–2024

Retired

Marine Corps Major George Cadwalader spent his early years on a small farm in Pennsylvania but was never far from the water and boats of one form or another.

He rowed at St Paul’s School and at Yale. In a typically self-effacing story, George told his sons that Yale had accepted him because it had an arrangement with St. Paul’s to take its bottom student. He made many fast and faithful friends at Yale, including Bill Cook, BOS, and Duncan Spencer, and he rowed on a Yale four-man crew for the 1960 Olympic Trials.

From Yale, George went directly into the Marine Corps, fulfilling a family duty extending back to the Revolution. Serving as an advisor before the U.S. officially entered the Vietnam conflict, he suffered a minefield injury that cut short his service and resulted in a medical discharge.

In the CCA, we all love our boats, but to say George had “affairs” with the boats he chose would be no understatement (Norrie Hoyt called it his addiction). His first affair was in 1969 with Nimbus, a Cal 20 that he rebuilt, strengthened, and, with Duncan, sailed from Newport to Ireland in 29 days, setting a record for a boat of that size.

George came to Woods Hole, Massachusetts, shortly after that, lured by a senior staff job at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. He started a family with his lovely and talented wife, Yara, and established his home and workshop on the shore of Eel Pond. With that new start, his love affairs with boats of all kinds flourished. Josephine was a Tumlare, a class familiar to those of us who were initiated in offshore racing by Adlard Coles. George’s care of Josephine set a standard for all locals who loved their wooden boats.

George soon tired of the bureaucracy at the institution, so he conceived of and founded the noteworthy Penikese Island School, which became an enormous

William W. Blodgett

part of his life for the next 23 years. In his book, Castaways, George details with candor and humor how he and his friends David “Pops” Masch and Dan Clark built the mess hall and dormitory needed for sustaining the hard-luck youngsters he would rescue from the court system. On the island, neighbor to Cuttyhunk in Buzzards Bay, George led a small staff and often skippered the 35-foot ferry/supply boat. The community he established was akin to a boot camp, at which the boys would be exposed to basic life skills and gain the confidence to take a straighter path.

George’s next and longest nautical affair was with Westflight, a stout Gauntlet class British cutter of the late 1940s that required a total rebuild due to its mix of metals and oak. George’s solution was to cold mold a whole new skin to the hull, which he did himself. His friend Duncan called her an “oak submarine” for her habit of going through seas rather than over them. Nevertheless, Westflight carried the Cadwaladers to the Azores, Bermuda, and on several other offshore jaunts.

In the early eighties, my 1929 Bill Harris-designed cutter was in need of a new rear end. The transom and aft plank ends were punky, and I had found a local carpenter who had more than sufficient talent to do the job but didn’t have a driver’s license or a local place to work. George liked my boat, and since

he’d had moved Westflight to a shed for re-sheathing, he offered the use of his driveway and shop. I had just started to appreciate the depth and enduring friendship of the man.

In May 1987, when my son Ben (BOS) was born, George asked if I could sail Westflight home from Bermuda. He was winding down his Penikese stewardship and his editor required a clean draft of Castaways by the end of June. That trip was my first significant “in command” offshore passage and part of my qualifying proposal for CCA. As honest and true a friend as George was, he had an acerbic wit— though delivered with Victorian elegance (George had been captain of the boxing team at St. Paul’s and was a mental pugilist until the end). When he surveyed the crew I’d gathered for the passage, he focused on one — a medical-school professor who had played for the Pittsburgh Steelers while in grad school but was not an especially able sailor. I attempted to elevate the doctor’s nautical repute by assuring George that he had qualified for a U.S. Coast Guard six-pack license. Not to be dissuaded, George said, “Bob, at all times keep the good doctor away from the controls of the vessel unless foundering is imminent — then lash him to the helm! It’s always beneficial to tell the insurers a licensed man was in charge!”

If you visited George, especially in the last few years, you had to be ready to be challenged with a lively repartee (after he lit into Alexa, his Amazon assistant). This was pure George!

In spite of these encounters, or more likely due to them, a crowd of those he had befriended, helped, and challenged for over 50 years attended his memorial service on September 14, 2024. At 1600, the Eel Pond draw bridge opened one last time as if in a salute for George, and his simple lobster boat, Frannie Cahoon, carried him out to Woods Hole passage. There he will keep watch over the sailors, fishermen, and the Penikese Island boat as long as there’s a tide in Woods Hole.

A community leader, George will be admired in the Woods Hole and the Buzzards Bay area for generations. He leaves his wife, Yara, his sons George Jr. and Thomas, and their families.

Bob Morris with Bill Cook

John L. Cahill

1932–2024

Jack was born on November 4, 1932, in Seattle, Washington, son of Alice and Seattle Times general manager Harry Cahill. He graduated from the University of Washington, where he was a member of the rowing team. He married Beverly Benson in 1957.

Jack earned his medical degree from John Hopkins School of Medicine and held positions at Peter Brent Brigham Hospital and Children’s Medical Center in Boston. He completed his surgical training as senior thoracic surgical registrar at the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children in London.

After moving back to Seattle with Beverly and their children, John, Lisa, and Lauren, Jack treated patients as a thoracic surgeon at Swedish Hospital, Children’s Orthopedic Hospital, and Northwest Hospital for many years. One of the many highlights of his career was being part of the 1978 medical team that successfully separated Siamese twins joined at the abdomen.

Jack was a lifelong sailor. His first boat, as a youth, was a Geary 18. Upon his return to Seattle from London, he acquired a Cal 40, Spectre, and joined Seattle’s unique fleet of Cal 40s (21 in number). Jack and Spectre spent many years racing and family cruising in the San Juan Islands of Washington and British Columbia. Later vessels included a Baltic 51, Sirus, and a Swan 65, Talina

In later years, Jack and Bev relocated to Coronado Cays, California. This change initiated explorations of new seas on their Baltic 55, Allegra. They shared these seas with new friends made

George Cadwalader

through the CCA, which they joined in 2003. Allegra, conveniently moored in their nearby slip, logged many sea miles between San Diego and Mexico, much of it spent racing and exploring popular ports of call. In addition to Allegra journeys were many memorable CCA events such as the Irish, Croatia, and the Sea of Cortez cruises.

Jack was adventurous, accommodating, an exceptional skipper, and a joy to be with. He stood a good watch.

Tom O’Brien

A. Knight Coolidge 1945–2023

A.Knight Coolidge, 78, passed away peacefully November 13, 2023, in Damariscotta, Maine. Knight was born in Chicago, Illinois, September 30, 1945. His first childhood home was a repurposed Chicago World’s Fair guardhouse just south of the University of Chicago, where his parents, Dr. Thomas B. Coolidge and Helen K. Coolidge, taught and worked.

Equally competitive and charismatic, Knight was both a good student and athlete, as well as a class clown and charmer. After attending the University of Chicago Laboratory High School, he matriculated at the University of

Chicago, where he earned a bachelor’s degree in philosophy and a master’s of business administration from the university’s Booth School of Business. During his school years, he played soccer, basketball, baseball, and most importantly for his later life, learned to sail.

At a young age, Knight developed a love of adventure and sailing through reading and dinghy sailing in Belmont Harbor, Chicago. Looking for greater endeavors, he set his sights on getting aboard one of the larger offshore racing boats. After learning that the  Aura II had recently been purchased by Chicagoan Wally Stenhouse, Knight arrived unannounced at Wally’s office asking to crew on his new boat. This surprise tactic worked, and Knight would use it for the rest of his life. Wally offered him $25 a week to keep the boat clean, and he quickly became an integral part of the crew. When Aura II left Lake Michigan for the Atlantic, Knight went with her.

Before the advent of GPS, longdistance offshore ocean racing required knowledge of celestial navigation. Knight, enterprising as always, stepped forward to develop this skill. Studying on his own and taking courses at Chicago’s Adler Planetarium, Knight quickly learned enough to qualify as the boat’s navigator. He burnished this skill in practice as he continued to race with Wally over the years. In 1971, a new boat, Aura, was built and launched, and she went on to win the World Ocean Racing Championship, a three-year venture, with Knight as principal navigator and tactician.

Knight’s navigational proficiency made him one of yachting’s most sought-after navigators during the 1970s and 1980s. This prestige and Knight’s passion for adventure would eventually take him to all corners of the globe and into the storied lives of a myriad of people who became his friends.

As a youth, Knight summered and sailed on the coast of Maine. He relocated to Round Pond in midlife and

continued as a waterman, sailing, racing, and puttering about on every style of classic boat imaginable.

Knight’s home quickly became a focal point for Round Pond’s community. A multitude of friends came to visit, reminisce, tease, and squabble for mutual enjoyment. Holding court in his characteristic baggy khakis and creased white button-down shirt, Knight enjoyed bringing together as many interesting people as he could fit under one roof while handing out advice (reality-based or not) and constantly stirring the pot of inspiration.

Never one to sit still, Knight was often seen making his way up and down the coast sitting behind the wheel of one from his fleet of derelict old cars. Knight never let someone pass by without a smile, a wave, or exchange of wisecracks.

In so many ways, this embodied the ethos Knight carried when it came to interacting with people and life. Through good times and bad, he led with his sense of humor and compassion for others, always aiming to make those around him smile.

He is survived by his beloved son, Alton Coolidge, his brother, Robert Coolidge, and his innumerable friends. Alton Coolidge, Clyde Watkins, and Chuck Gates

John L. Cahill

A. Knight Coolidge

Anthony A. Cooper 1928–2024

Tony Cooper was born and raised in New Britain, Connecticut, and graduated from Kent School and Williams College. He was drafted at the start of the Korean War and served in Italy, rising to the rank of sergeant first class in two years, an achievement of which he was incredibly proud.

Tony was married for almost 70 years to Ann Murdoch Cooper, whom he adored with deep love and respect. While he handled the finances, he was completely dependent on Ann for all else, especially during his later years. They shared homes in New Britain and Guilford, Connecticut, and Brownsville, Vermont.

His career spanned 38 years with the 8,000-employee Fafnir Bearing Company in New Britain. For several years, he and his family lived in England while he served as director of manufacturing at Fafnir’s British subsidiary.

A community leader throughout his lifetime, he served as chairman of New Britain General Hospital (now the Hospital of Central Connecticut) and served as either president or chief officer of the New Britain Red Cross, the Mooreland Hill School, the New Britain Redevelopment Commission, the Sachem’s Head Association, and other organizations. He was also a director of the New Britain Bank & Trust Co. and a member of the advisory committee of the Hartford National Bank.

Tony developed his love of boating at a very early age at Sachem’s Head Yacht Club in Guilford. As a teen, he sailed his father’s Eastern Interclub up and down Long Island Sound, competing in both local and regional races. He went on to become a highly skilled ocean racer/sailor and a self-taught celestial navigator, which he put to good use on his S&S Nevins 40, Prima Donna, and later his Santana 39, Makai.

He skippered Prima Donna in the 1960 and 1962 Newport Bermuda

races, capturing a fourth in class in 1962. He participated in many more Bermuda races as well as numerous offshore passages. Locally he won trophies from the Storm Trysail Club and the Off Soundings Club. Tony also won the Essex Yacht Club Sam Wetherill Trophy.

Makai was a custom-built Santana 39 launched in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, in the spring of 1977. Tony spent two years coordinating construction of Makai at Saybrook Marine Service, a project he enjoyed immensely. Tony and Ann spent the next 30 years cruising on Makai from Long Island Sound to down east Maine. Their annual two- or three-week family cruise with children Chip, Colin, and Robin took them from southern New England to the coast of Maine.

Tony was elected to membership to the CCA in January 1975. He served a term on the CCA Board of Governors and as rear commodore of the Essex Station. He was also a lifelong member of Sachem’s Head Yacht Club. His other memberships included the Storm Trysail Club, the Off Soundings Club, and the Essex Yacht Club.

He is survived by his loving wife, Ann; his three children, Chip (also a CCA member, ESS), Colin, and Robin; and seven grandchildren.

Stanley M. “Chip” Cooper

James D. Gregory 1959–2024

JamesD. Gregory was “true” in every aspect of his life.

Jim was a true sailor. He was devoted to the sport since age 11, when he was towed in after capsizing the family’s new Lightning dinghy in Long Island Sound. His passion was racing, but he truly loved everything about boats. Jim’s favorite races were long-distance, downwind races, where he would take his watch and listen to “Dark Side of the Moon” in the middle of the night. Jim raced with crews of family and friends in numerous offshore and inshore regattas, including Pacific Cup Races, Puerto Vallarta Races, Newport to Cabo Races, Newport Bermuda Races, and the St. Francis Yacht Club’s Big Boat Series, always finishing in first or second place. Jim raced in at least 15 Block Island Races, winning first place in his division in 2021 on Morpheus, his Schumacher 50, built in 2002 in New Zealand. Jim spent the last 13 years of his life living, sailing, and racing aboard Morpheus with his wife, Debbie, and friends who would join them along the way. Jim logged at least 85,000 nautical miles on Morpheus alone.

Jim was a true friend. He possessed an uncanny ability connect with almost anyone. He was generous and had the rare gift of building community wherever he was. In 2017, for example, Jim found himself as the owners’ representative to the team from Barcelona at the Rolex New York Yacht Club Invitational Cup. Despite not speaking a word of Spanish, Jim found himself out late each evening with the Spanish team and racing with them each day. Years later, when he was looking for a good marina near Barcelona, those friendships led him to Badalona, Morpheus’ home port while she was in the Mediterranean. Jim’s wife, Debbie, said Jim “was always there for his friends, whether figuring out how to bake a file into a cake to break a friend out of jail, paddling a

Anthony A. Cooper

boat three miles down the estuary after running out of fuel, or flying 6,000 miles to join them for a funeral.” Jim maintained countless friendships from high school, college, fraternity, and business, as well as yacht racing and cruising, for decades.

Jim was a true father, husband, and brother. As much as Jim tried to avoid being in charge, he was always the first person his family would look to when one needed an opinion, a sounding board, or help building a porch. Jim’s ultimate goal was a strong network of family and friends. He was blessed to live long enough to see both his boys grow into successful young men, to know his grandson, Parker, and to learn that there was a baby sister, whose middle name will be “James,”on the way.

Jim passed away three months after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He had just enough time to say his goodbyes to family and friends. During this time, he would have two observations about his illness. One was that his “bucket list was pretty empty,” as he had spent the last 13 years sailing Morpheus throughout the East Coast, Mediterranean, and Caribbean, traveling and enjoying his life. The other was that, after his first bout of cancer in 2001, he would have “made the deal” that allowed him to live another 20 years. He actually got 23 more years. He was satisfied with that.

Besides the CCA, Jim was a member of the Richmond Yacht Club where he revitalized its Junior Sailing program, the New York Yacht Club, the Singlehanded Sailing Society, the Pacific Cup Race Organizing Committee, and the Storm Trysail Club.

Jim graduated from Cal Berkeley in 1983, with a degree in computer science. He was a seventh- generation native Californian with an ancestor who was a skipper for Matson Lines aboard the ship Mariposa. Jim is survived by wife, Debra; sons Christopher and Patrick; daughter-in-law Kelsey; grandson Parker; sisters Kathleen Humphrey and Laura Beasley; and brother Robert Gregory. He will be missed.

Debra Gregory, Bob Hanelt

Peter W. Grimm 1937–2023

PeterGrimm was born in Oak Park, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, on March 24, 1937. He died on August 11, 2023, surrounded by family at Grey Rocks, their home near Egg Harbor on Green Bay in Door County, Wisconsin. His mother’s grandparents built Grey Rocks over 100 years ago when the area was still wilderness. For generations, the family spent their summers at Grey Rocks. This is where they all first learned to sail.

Peter’s parents both died when he was quite young. He lived in the Chicago area, raised by relatives, until he was 15. In those early years, he raced out of Chicago Yacht Club. He then went east to live with relatives in Montclair, New Jersey. He graduated from Montclair Academy and then from Brown University.

Peter and his beloved wife, Nancy, lived most of the year in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where they raised four children and instilled in them all a love of sailing, racing, and all that happens on water. Every summer, he’d fly his 1958 Beechcraft Baron up to Door County

for the season. All his life, he loved to fly, second only to sailing. He flew until he was 70. He was a longtime member of the Experimental Aircraft Association.

Peter began his professional yachting career working for Quincy Adams Yacht Yard in Quincy, Massachusetts. He started out as a yacht broker in Wisconsin and Chicago. In 1967 he partnered with his longtime racing buddy Dick Bertram. That close partnership lasted until 1974, when Peter formed a partnership including others. This business was then sold to Sparkman and Stephens in 2000, with Peter staying on to run their Fort Lauderdale office. Peter loved the brokerage business. He loved his customers, who stayed with him throughout their sailing lives. He loved their boats in an era when their owners kept and cherished their boats for many years. Peter had an engineering mind and remembered all the details of every boat, many of which he sold and resold many times. He raced on many of the legendary yachts of the 1950–1970 era.

In 1967 Peter bought the famous 72-foot yawl Escapade, designed by Philip Rhodes and built in 1938. She became “Queen of the Great Lakes,” setting records in the Bayview Mackinac Race, the Chicago Mackinac Race, and many others on the Great Lakes. At the time, she had the longest length overall permitted by the CCA

James D. Gregory

Peter W. Grimm

rule, and therefore was allowed in the Newport Bermuda Race, joining the other queens, Bolero and Baruna, both designed by Olin Stephens.

Peter was the first commodore under age 40 of the Fort Lauderdale Yacht Club. He was a founder of the Southern Ocean Racing Conference and past chairman of its race committee. For many years, he was race committee chairman of the Worth Monroe Race, named after CCA member Worth Monroe, and chief inspector for the Bermuda Race. He was a longtime member of the Cruising Club of America, the New York Yacht Club, the Storm Trysail Club, and the Fort Lauderdale Yacht Club.

Throughout his life, he inspired young sailors, many sailing organizations, and everyone who sailed with him or worked with him. His life’s story will continue to inspire.

Peter was preceded in death by Nancy, his beloved wife of 66 years. He is survived by his children, Peter William Grimm Jr., Karyn Grimm Herndon (Eric), Leslie Ann Grimm (Michael Shelton), and Laurence Scott Grimm (Courtney); his grandchildren, Peter III (Alex), Julia, Bailey, Carl (Janna), Stuart (Jamie), William, Hannah, Sarah, and Emma; his great-grandchildren Peter IV, Thomson, Everett, Cassidy, Brooks, and Sheridan; and his niece, Erica Lasselle McElhaney (Ken).

Gus Hancock

Andrew Lewis Jones

1944–2024

Andrew “Andy” Lewis Jones died peacefully at home in Toronto, Ontario, on September 13, 2024, surrounded by his family. He had bravely waged a lengthy battle with cancer.

Born July 17, 1944, to Helen (Brown) and Henry Mason “Mase” Jones in Montreal, he was the youngest of three boys. He spent his formative years in Grimsby, Ontario, where he was introduced to sailing by his father,

with whom he crewed on the wooden racing boats Stranger and El Margaret, well known on Lake Ontario. When the family moved to Sarnia, Ontario, Andy again joined his father on the family’s Folkboat.

Andy attended Clarkson University in Potsdam, New York. Following graduation, he returned to Canada, settling in Toronto, where he qualified as a charted accountant with Price Waterhouse before taking off for three wonderful years at the firm’s Paris office in the 1970s. Upon his return, Andy met and married the love of his life, Jo Tomsett, and became a member of the Royal Canadian Yacht Club in the early 1980s. At the RCYC, Andy joined Bob Medland on the crew of Peter Alberti’s C&C 34, AFIKA III. He raced on board AFIKA III for about ten years, competing in five Bayview Mackinac races and five Lake Ontario International Races.

Andy loved being on a boat and particularly being at the helm. Before he left for Paris, he had shared a CS 27 with his brother Denis. In the early 1990s, Andy acquired the British-designed, Norwegian-built 1955 wooden boat Inger Ann for Jo and him to enjoy sailing and cruising on Lake Ontario. And enjoy they did. With beautiful lines and an interior modified for comfort by Mark Ellis in the early 2000s, the Inger Ann was safe and reliable in any weather.

When Andy retired in 2004, CCA members Donna and Mike Hill invited him to sail from Annapolis to Antigua on Baccalieu III, their Oyster 56, heralding his transition from lake to ocean sailor. He was hooked. In 2007, Andy joined the CCA. For the next 15 years, he fulfilled a boyhood dream, joining friends to sail the Atlantic, Caribbean, Pacific, and Indian oceans. Andy and Jo participated in seven CCA club cruises with Arthur and Barbara English, Mike and Donna Hill, and Sally and Bob Medland. His last crossing, from Tasmania to New Zealand, was in 2019 on board Jean and Jim Foley’s Chuck Paine-designed, 62-foot Onora.

Outside of his sailing adventures, Andy had a successful career, becoming a partner at Price Waterhouse, an officer at Olympia and York, and vice president of finance at the Ontario Teachers’ Pension Plan, but work was never the focus of his life. Andy was a voracious reader, a loyal friend, an honest man filled with curiosity and integrity. He loved people, most of all his family: his wife, Jo; his children, Ruth and David, and their partners, Jon and Ines; his brothers and in-laws, nieces and nephews, and an ever-growing younger generation. In his last two years, he was overjoyed to become Pops to his two grandsons, Patrick and West.

We miss you, dear friend and your fun-loving and always-up-for-adventure ways — lover of good food and wine and anything French, chef, hockey player, mentor, companion, role model, and good shipmate.

Ruth Jones, Bob Medland, Arthur English Bruce Kessler 1936–2024

Bruce Kessler, a lifelong adventurer who left his mark as a winning professional automobile racer, a veteran Hollywood director, and one of the first Americans to circumnavigate the globe

Andrew Lewis Jones

as captain of a motoryacht, died April 4, 2024. He marked his 88th birthday on March 23.

Bruce was born in Seattle, lived most of his life in California, and died in Marina del Rey, his longtime home. But he was never more at home than when he was aboard his boat at sea or in port. Over his lifetime, he logged over 100,000 nautical miles as captain of his own cruising boats.

Born with a need for speed, Bruce roared onto the scene as a race-car driver at age 16, first competing in Sports Car Club of America events driving his mom’s Jaguar XK120. He rose quickly as one of America’s top drivers, moving up to a custom Scarab built by his close friend Lance Reventlow. Then he went to Europe to drive for Ferrari with his teammate and friend, Dan Gurney. At age 22 in 1958, he was driving for Ferrari at the 24 Hours of Le Mans in France, when, in the middle of the night, in the rain, he crashed into the wreckage of another car and survived, though seriously injured.

Surviving two more crashes in the next two years, he retired from racing and made his first film, a short subject called “The Sound of Speed,” featuring Lance Reventlow testing his 1960 Formula 1 Scarab at Riverside International Raceway in California. The film was the U.S. entry in its category at the 1962 Cannes International Film Festival. That was his entrée into the Hollywood film and television industry.

Directing was Bruce’s vocation, but boats were never far from his mind. From the time he could barely walk down a dock, boating and fishing were his passion. His first boat was a 26-foot sport fisherman in 1960, but he soon found that he wanted to fish farther and farther from home, and his sportfishers grew in size, topping out at 48 feet. By then he was roaming deep into Baja Mexico, far from his San Diego homeport. “At that point, I realized trawlers had become a logical progression for me,” he told a friend. “Range and

sea-keeping abilities were paramount in my mind.”

He turned to his friend, naval architect Steve Seaton, for the design of his next boat. Then he approached Delta Marine, a renowned American builder of tough commercial fishing vessels, and asked them to take Seaton’s design, apply what they knew about building rugged boats, and develop a long-range trawler yacht for him. They showed no interest. Twisting arms at Delta wasn’t easy, but Bruce leaned in and persisted. Eventually the company gave in, and Delta began work on its first recreational motoryacht: 70 feet overall with a 20-foot beam, 10-foot draft and displacement of 116 tons. She was a big boat.

The boat was launched May 1, 1985. Her massive hull was painted a deep, rich British racing green. Bruce christened his new ride Zopilote, after the black buzzards that scavenged the shores of the waters he fished off Mexico.

The new boat was as unique as her name. At the time, no one had any idea what an iconic and groundbreaking trawler yacht she would become. In the world of offshore cruising boats, Zopilote proved to be a game-changer, and it wasn’t long before Delta ceased building fishing boats and shifted entirely to yachts — hefty offshore yachts like Zopilote, then larger and fancier superyachts.

Bruce and the love of his life, actress Joan Freeman, moved merrily ahead. They first cruised their new Zopilote from Seattle to Alaska, then down the West Coast to Panama, through the canal, on to Florida, then Maine, and the Caribbean, before returning home to Southern California. Along the way, they began to focus on their next chapter — taking Zopilote around the world. “I always wanted to go farther, to somewhere that no one else had gone,” he told an interviewer.

In 1990, almost five years after the boat was launched, Bruce and Joan departed California, bound for the South Pacific on what would play out as a 35,000-mile circumnavigation. When they arrived in Fort Lauderdale from Europe after their final leg in 1993, Zopilote became the sixth powerboat in history to complete a circumnavigation.

Until Zopilote’s trip around the world, circumnavigations aboard pleasure boats had been almost entirely the province of sailing yachts. Zopilote’s circumnavigation made headlines around the yachting world. She appeared on the cover of Yachting magazine twice during the trip. Her high-profile circumnavigation inspired a new movement, and “cruising under power” quickly gained new respect and followers. It also marked the beginning of a new wave of offshore cruising powerboats capable of crossing oceans — one that began to roll through the boating industry. Suddenly, Bruce was in high demand as a speaker, an offshore cruising advocate who had been there and done that.

Always calm, modest, and “aw-shucks” self-effacing, Bruce took his newfound yachting celebrity in stride, always ready to lend a hand to others who dreamed of crossing oceans or just cruising under power. He was a popular speaker at TrawlerFests, boat shows, yacht clubs, and other boating gatherings. He also helped create and promote powerboat rallies, including the FUBAR Rally and the historic Nordhavn Atlantic Rally, a first which

Bruce Kessler

saw 19 powerboats cross the Atlantic in convoy in 2004. He never asked or accepted fees for his appearances. He simply loved being around cruising yachties, and they loved him.

For all her glory, Zopilote met a tragic end, striking an uncharted underwater ledge in Alaska and sinking in minutes in 1994. Bruce and his crew of four escaped to a liferaft with no one lost or injured. He was devastated by the loss, but before long he was looking ahead, eyes on the horizon.

He went on to build a new Seatondesigned 64-foot passagemaker, Spirit of Zopilote, in the same style and color as the original. The new boat was Northern Marine’s first build, and she was delivered in 1997.

Over the next 27 years, Bruce and Joan lived and cruised aboard Spirit of Zopilote from Alaska though the Panama Canal, and on to Florida, the Bahamas, and the Canadian Maritimes. They chose Maine’s picturesque Southwest Harbor, on Mount Desert Island, as their homeport, and Bruce, Joan and Spirit of Zopilote were well-known summer residents there for his last two decades. At Dysart’s Great Harbor Marina in Southwest Harbor, Bruce was well known as “the mayor of the dock,” always quick to take docklines and extend a welcome to new arrivals.

Over his lifetime, Bruce logged more than 100,000 nautical miles (and 25,000 hours) underway as captain of his own vessels. He was a recipient of the Motorsports Hall of Fame of America’s Spirit of Competition Award and a Lifetime Achievement Award from PassageMaker magazine. He was a member of the Directors Guild of America and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. In 2001 he was the first non-sailing powerboater elected to membership in the Cruising Club of America.

Bruce was also a member of the Ocean Cruising Club, a longtime member of the Del Rey Yacht Club, the Southwestern Yacht Club (San Digeo), the Marlin Club (San Diego), and the

Tuna Club (Avalon, Catalina Island), and an honorary commodore of the Seven Seas Cruising Association.

In 2007 Bruce founded the FUBAR (Fleet Underway to Baja Rally), a 980-mile powerboat flotilla cruise from San Diego around the tip of the Baja peninsula to La Paz, Mexico, as a continuing fundraiser for junior sailing at Del Rey Yacht Club. The mission of the rally was to give powerboaters an opportunity to experience long-distance cruising to Mexico with the safety of a flotilla of 50-plus boats, complete with mechanical, communications, and medical personnel in the fleet.

FUBAR later changed its name to CUBAR (Cruise Underway to Baja Rally) and is now run every two years by under San Diego Yacht Club. It remains a fundraiser for junior sailing programs.

Milt Baker

Ralph H. Minor 1925–2024

RalphHugh Minor, 98, passed away peacefully on January 5, 2024, at his home on Tulalip Bay, Washington. He had just enjoyed Christmas festivities with his extended family and celebrated his 72nd wedding anniversary on December 28 with Jackie and their three children.

The eldest of five children, Hugh was born in Everett, Washington, on February 22, 1925. As a child, his most important daily task was milking the family cow and feeding the goats before catching the bus to school. While attending Snohomish High School, Hugh became an Eagle Scout and class of 1942 senior class president and valedictorian.

After graduating, he enrolled at the University of Washington in engineering and joined the Naval ROTC. Hugh received an appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy, where he learned to sail and graduated with distinction with the class of 1947. He then served

as a line officer for 3 years on the Light Cruiser Astoria (CL 90), making cruises to Alaska, China, Japan, Korea and Guam.

Following his Naval service, Hugh completed a year of pre-med at the University of Washington before he was accepted to the UW Medical School, class of 1954. He married Jackie Carpenter of Everett in 1951 while he was still a med student, and they welcomed their first of three children, Karen, in 1953.

After medical school, Hugh, Jackie, and Karen moved to Philadelphia for his general internship. Both Jackie and Hugh wanted to be nearer their large families and to Puget Sound, so they moved back to Everett in September 1959, and he went into private ophthalmology practice. Jackie and Hugh bought a summer beach cabin on Tulalip Bay, which they eventually remodeled into their permanent residence. Equally important, they purchased their first sailboat, a Victory 21, in 1961. When cruising, Jackie and Hugh slept under a boom tent, and the kids slept in a tent on the beach. When the children were in their early teens, Hugh bought three C-Larks and a 505 and organized a sailing school on Tulalip Bay. The Victory 21 was followed by a Thunderbird, Flair, which featured a working head. Next was a Cal 33, En Passant, which means French for “in passing” and, appropriately enough, was

Ralph H. Minor

highly competitive on the racing circuit. Boating and especially sailing was central to Hugh’s life. Notable were the many family cruises north into Canada, first via sailboat, and later with their powerboat, Mentor. Hugh sailed the 1978 Vic-Maui International Yacht Race with sons Ralph and Deane as crew members on board his Tartan 41 Endurance. He sailed the 1977 Transpac on his brother-in-law’s boat. In addition, in 1999 he sailed to Tahiti with fellow CCA members Chuck and Charlie Guildner, covering 3,300 miles and 21 days at sea. When asked how he liked the long passage, he said, “I missed Jackie.”

His summer cruise with Jackie to southeast Alaska aboard Mentor in 2001 was especially memorable,and a nice bookend to his boating career. Beginning in 1968, Sun Valley was a home away from home. Jackie and Hugh spent most of each winter there following his retirement in 1991. Hugh often skied six days a week well into his early 80s.

Hugh also enjoyed HAM radio (call sign WB7POK) and was a regular on the Northwest Boating Net. He loved to tinker with his boats and spent untold hours changing oil and applying bottom paint to the hulls of his boats, amongst other tasks. Hugh was a member of the Seattle Yacht Club, the Everett Yacht Club, the Navy Yacht Club, and the Cruising Club of America, where he was a member for 34 years.

Hugh is survived by his wife of 72 years, Jackie Carpenter Minor; brother, Dean; daughter, Karen Jones; sons Ralph (Mary) and Deane (Leslie); seven grandchildren, and eight great grandchildren.

John Kennell and Ralph Minor

away on November 27, 2023, after a swift decline with a blood disease.

A great lover of the outdoors, Jack gravitated to Maine, where he built a log home on a Down East island in Pleasant Bay, Washington County.

He attended the University of Maine at Orono and was then offered a commission in a special aviation cadet program in the U.S. Air Force. He received his wings in 14 months and served five years during the Cold War. Jack continued a flying career as captain with American Airlines, where we met.

decision was made: let’s circumnavigate! We sailed Airlia to the Panama Canal and west into the Pacific — the longest passage was 30 days to the Marquesas — and then followed the yellow brick road through French Polynesia, Tonga, Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, New Caledonia, and beyond. Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand and Sri Lanka were next, followed by the slog up the Red Sea. When we arrived in Egypt, we sailed directly into the Mediterranean to Cypress. It took days to get the red dust from the Sahara off the rig and the boat.

One of our favorite countries was Turkey. History and antiquities are all around, the people are friendly, and the food is delicious. Airlia visited many places in the Mediterranean as we worked our way to Gibraltar. She was reprovisioned for our trip to the Canaries and then across the pond. The Atlantic crossing was rough. The following seas kept the cockpit wet and salted. Crossing our outbound path of almost 11 years prior, Airlia entered English Harbor in Antigua.

In addition to the CCA, Jack was a member of the Ocean Cruising Club, the Portsmouth Yacht Club, and the Vero Beach Yacht Club.

John D. Myles 1939–2023

John

D. Myles was born on July 9, 1939, in New Jersey and grew up in Nutley and Pompton Plains. He passed

While living in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, he was introduced to sailing on a small boat. Despite capsizing, he was truly bitten by the bug. His first boat was a Bullseye, which is now moored in Stonington, Maine. His love of sailing started a search for a cruising boat. He bought a Reliance 44 hull and spent five years filling her up and designing a ketch rig. He named her Airlia, a Greek woman’s name meaning “of the air.” One night when he was building, he didn’t come in for supper, and his boys went looking for him. They found he had glassed himself while working the inside transom area. They had to cut him out of his clothes and pull him out!

Jack and I initially cruised the coast of Maine and Nova Scotia, then eventually turned south to the Florida Keys, the Bahamas, and the Caribbean. The

Jack was a steadfast worker, a very prudent sailor, a wonderful mate, and above all, a gracious and humble man. He is survived by wife, Diane; three sons (one a serious racer); eight grandsons; and many other loving family members. Oh my, we miss him!

Diane Morrow Myles

Frederick C. Noyes 1933–2024

Editor’s note: Occasionally, it can be very challenging to find a personal friend of a member who has passed to write a Final Voyage essay when most, if not all, of their colleagues have already passed. In this case, we are lucky to have received a touching and brief record of Nick Noyes from his mate, Patricia Noyes:

John D. Myles

Frederick (Nick) Noyes, 90, passed away peacefully on March 9, 2024.  He is survived by his wife of 53 years, Patricia, and his children, Chaney Noyes Abbott and Nicholas Noyes, along with two grandchildren, Addison Anne Abbott and Michael (Boomer) Abbott.

He was a lifelong racing and cruising sailor, with memberships in the New York Yacht Club, Cruising Club of America, and Royal Ocean Racing Club.

I cannot begin to detail his extensive racing and sailing experiences, which I know the CCA prefers.  I had hoped to have John Rousmaniere, a dear friend, write a bit, but I understand he has retired.

Nick would understand and would be pleased to have a mention. He held the CCA in very high esteem.

Many thanks, Patricia Noyes

John D. Osmond III, MD 1942–2024

JohnD. Osmond III passed away peacefully on September 20, 2024, at his home in the Oyster Harbor community of Osterville, Massachusetts, with his loving wife and two daughters holding his hands. The

Osmonds also had a home in Tequesta, Florida.

John was born on June 26, 1942, in Louisville, Kentucky, and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. He graduated from Denison University in 1964 and Case Western Reserve University School of Medicine in 1968. He served one year of his medical internship at the University of Southern California/ LACUSC Medical Center and finished his residency at Massachusetts General Hospital/Harvard Medical School in Boston.

John learned to sail in Lake Huron’s North Channel while at Camp Adanac on Manitoulin Island in Ontario, Canada. Seeking a deeper level of knowledge, he attended Culver Summer Naval School on Lake Maxinkuckee in Culver, Indiana. He further honed his skills on the waters of Massachusetts during his residency in Boston.

Upon completing his residency, John sailed into Hyannis Harbor on his Swan 36 for an interview at Cape Cod Radiology and “never left.” He fell in love with the beauty and waters of Cape Cod, where he could pursue his love of sailing. John began his lifelong career as a physician at Cape Cod Radiology, retiring in 2019. He was a beloved member of the Cape Cod Hospital staff, serving as chief of staff from 1988 to 1990.

John participated in the second Hyannis to Nantucket Figawi Race in 1974. From then on, he raced in the annual Memorial Day event for 45 years, spending magical weekends with many friends and enjoying sailing camaraderie on Nantucket Island. John was involved in the race’s yearly organization and production and served on the Figawi Board of Governors for 50 years. He was instrumental in designing the original Figawi emblem.

John was a passionate ocean racing sailor, and he contributed to the sport in a variety of important roles. He served on race committees and as a national judge at multiple regattas and venues worldwide. He served on

the boards of trustees for the Hyannis Yacht Club and the New York Yacht Club. He was chairman of the Offshore Committee of the United States Sailing Association and the deputy chairman of the International Offshore Racing Council at ISAF (now World Sailing). John was past commodore of the Storm Trysail Club and twice served as chairman of the club’s popular biennial Block Island Race Week. In 2012, he was the chairman of the Newport to Bermuda Race and principal race officer for the next ten years as a member of the Cruising Club of America.

John competed in countless offshore races. From 1980 to 1990, he raced his C&C 40, Thorfinn. Beginning in 1990, he successfully campaigned with partners Perry Harris and Robert Morton on their Frers 45, Brigadoon VI. John competed in 15 Newport to Bermuda races. He was a regular crew member aboard Bill Koch’s Matador and Matador² (1984–1993). A highlight of the Matador campaign was winning the Maxi Yacht World Championship in 1990. Veteran America’s Cup sailor Gary Jobson fondly recalls “racing with John many times during the Matador years. He was a member of the after guard and often trimmed the mainsail on the 80-foot racing yacht. John was a little older than most of the crew and was a seasoned veteran who had a steadying influence. Any time the

John D. Osmond III, MD

Frederick C. Noyes

competition became intense, John was always on hand to calm tensions and keep everyone focused on their task. I remember John to be thoughtful and always friendly with everyone around the waterfront. If you needed some wise council on any issue in the sport of sailing, John was always available and helpful.”

John and his wife, Ellyn, traveled the world for their sailing adventures, visiting South America, the Bahamas, the Caribbean, Europe, Asia, New Zealand, and Australia.

“John was a gentleman in every sense of the word,” remembers New York Yacht Club Vice Commodore Clare Harrington, who worked closely with him on Race Committee assignments, the NYYC cruise, and organizing the Newport to Bermuda Race. Clare found John to be “a thoughtful, kind, engaging, and loyal friend. He was highly skilled, and his opinions carried great weight.”

Jay Gowell, the commodore of the Cruising Club of America, notes, “John has been a wonderful sage advisor to the (Bermuda) race, and supportive of the changes we have made when others were a bit stubborn. He also has been a calming influence on louder, emotional voices.”

Fred Deichmann, the chair of the 2014 Newport to Bermuda Race, adds, “John was unflappable in a crisis, steady at all times, and exhibited a great sense of humor at the idiosyncrasies of sailors and crew. He will be sorely missed by all who knew and worked with him.”

A.J Evans, another past chairman, and crew mate, says John was “a diplomat in managing the many characters who touched the Bermuda Race.”

John also was an avid golfer. He enjoyed not only the game, but also the camaraderie that came with being a member of both the Oyster Harbors Club in Osterville and the Jupiter Hills Club in Tequesta. At his home in Jupiter Hills, he was either out playing the game, on his back patio enjoying the fantastic view of the 14th hole and

watching his friends playing through, or sprucing up the yard with his beloved leaf blower.

John is survived by his wife, Ellyn Coyle Osmond; two daughters, Courtenay Anne Cruger of Osterville and Jupiter, Florida, and Vanessa Cruger White of Knoxville, Tennessee; and his two much-adored granddaughters, Saige Cruger White and Paisley Clark White, who loved their “Bappa.” John proudly adorned his car with the license plate BAPPA. John is also survived by his sister, Jean Schneider Montgomery, and her husband, Bob, of South Bend, Indiana (Katherine and Anne); brothers Charles Osmond of Cincinnati, Ohio (David, Sarah and Christina) and Mark and his wife, Christie Osmond, of Winnetka, Illinois (Jeffery, Megan and Alex); and many grandnieces and grandnephews, including his recently born grandnephew, Johnny Osmond. He is predeceased by his parents, Dr. John D. Osmond Jr. and Jean Lindstrom Osmond of Cleveland, Ohio, and brother-in-law, Tom Schneider. Gary Jobson and Ellyn Osmond

Thomas O. Otto III 1936–2024

ThomasOtto, a longtime resident of Miami, Florida, sailed his last voyage on June 7, 2024. The ocean led Tom to many of his best adventures and most treasured friends.

Born in Miami to Marjorie Fales Otto and Dr. Thomas Osgood Otto II, Tom grew up on Miami Beach. His mother, an early aviatrix, flew amphibious planes at the Viking Airport on Miami Beach. His father, also an aviator, served in World Wars I and II and later became the chief of surgery at Jackson Hospital.

After attending Ransom Everglades School and Deerfield Academy, Thomas graduated from the University of Florida in 1958 with a degree in international trade and finance. Eager to learn, he

took a post-graduate MIT/Harvard Law School joint course called Law of the Sea and Technology.

In 1958, he entered Officer Candidate School at the Coast Guard Academy. Active from 1959 to 1962, then in active reserve, he was stationed in Galveston, Texas, and Jacksonville, Florida. Ranked lieutenant, he resigned his reserve commission, then worked for Stockton, Whatley, Davin & Co. until he returned to Miami in 1962 to work for Bertram Yachts.

In late 1966/early 1967, he worked for Ratsey & Lapthorn sailmakers in City Island, New York. It was an exciting time in that neighborhood, living on Tursiops, his Hinckley Pilot 35. He and his family spent a summer cruising until they moved into their home in Southport, Connecticut. This led to many happy cruises with family and friends in New England.

Tom returned to Miami to join Dr. Walton Smith and the International Oceanographic Foundation as treasurer handling boat donations and later as vice president in charge of marine operations.

Starting Thomas O. Otto & Associates, he became a marine industry consultant bringing his understanding of engineering, wind, design, and boats to projects ranging from vessel design, construction, use, management, maintenance, and evaluations, as well as

Thomas O. Otto III

undersea, offshore, and harbor projects and admiralty-related consultation and investigation.

“Tom was renowned along the South Florida waterfront as a hardworking, versatile, and flexible marine engineer, a man who knew all the players and often had many balls in the air at the same time,” Milt Baker says. “In 1991, for example, his close friend and noted Hollywood director, CCA member Bruce Kessler, called on him for help putting together a Miami Vice-style TV series built around fast, state-of-the-art stealth boats in South Florida. Tom and Bruce loved working together for several months trying to move the production forward, but sadly it never made it to season one.”

Tom enjoyed fishing, both fly and spinning, especially in the Florida Keys with the Pennekamps, in Biscayne Bay and the Everglades with Tim Kelsey, and in Maine with Bob Hinckley.

He participated in the 1966 Buenos Aires/Rio Race on Ondine with CCA member Sumner “Huey” Long, finishing third; as navigator and watch captain in the Bermuda/Copenhagen Race on Guinevere with CCA member George Moffett, finishing second; and in the 1966 Southern Ocean Racing Conference races for first overall. Tom raced with Bob Hinckley on Night Train in the Monhegan Island Race; with Chuck Blair and his family on Hot Foot from 1968 to 1974; and with great friend Alan Gurney, architect of Guinevere and Hot Foot.

Some powerboat races of note include winning the 1964 Cowes Torquay Race (Charles Gardner, owner/driver; Tom Otto, co-driver; Ivgr Verlander, mechanic) and an early 1970s Key West Grand Prix in a Kiekhaefer Aeromarine 1 Cigarette 1 (Bob Magoon, owner/ driver; Gene Latham,-mechanic; Tom Otto, navigator/co-driver).

About 1972, Tom drove and navigated George Moffett’s photographic expedition through the icebergs of Newfoundland in a Boston Whaler Outrage. Tom kept his

passengers safe as they wielded long lenses to photograph birds, wildlife, and icebergs and captured some amazing shots that appeared on the front and back covers of the July-August 1973 edition of Sea Frontiers magazine.

Joining CCA in 1992, Tom was involved in the Florida Station, serving on the Membership Committee and as chairman of the Environment of the Sea Committee. He had the honor of racing and cruising with CCA members, including Bob Hinckley, Mitchell Gibbons-Neff, Bill Munroe, and Bruce Kessler.

Tom was member number nine of Biscayne Bay Yacht Club. He served as fleet captain and manager of special projects, including erecting the new flagpole. When asked about it, he would grin and confirm that it was taller than the flagpole at the club next door.

A true and loyal gentleman, Tom loved his friends. Immaculately dressed and endearingly self-deprecating, he was always ready with a humorous and detailed story. His large group of friends from all walks of life will miss him very, very much.

Thomas is survived by his former wife and dear friend, Carol Anne Otto, and daughters Deborah Lynn Otto and Caroline Fales Otto; his loving partner, Beatrice Keep Garner, and her daughter and son-in-law, Meg and Jeff Wright; and his grand friend forever, Sydney Wright. He is fondly remembered by Mark Stevens, beloved cousins, friends, colleagues, and neighbors.

Chris Willits

Robert M. Quinlan

1944–2024

Bob Quinlan became a CCA member in 2005. That’s the same year he and Charlie Welch were Ned Cabot’s crew crossing from Greenland to Iceland, where they were caught in a 36-hour storm at sea. They had hoped for a short cruise along the

East Greenland shore before heading off to Iceland. The forecast had been favorable as they left Prins Christians Sund, but it soon turned unfavorable, then nasty. A gale quickly arose. It became a storm. All sail was struck and shoved below. It became one of those bare-poles, avoid-a-broach, all-handssteering endurance tests in 40-foot seas, where each of the three were by turns at the helm soaking wet, freezing cold, scared, and exhausted. The one on watch had the con and every other responsibility for the hour of his trick on the wheel. When nature called, the cockpit scuppers received it.

Others might have called it quits on North Atlantic and Arctic sailing after that, but Bob kept going back for more — around Ireland in 2006, Svalbard in 2007, two cruises in the Baltic in 2009, Scotland in 2010, to the Faroes in 2011, and Iceland to Greenland again in 2012, all as watch captain and crew for Ned, who’d be pipe-smoking, story-telling, encouraging this, suggesting that, and all-around taking care of things. They were together as surgical residents and became fast friends and sailing companions thereafter. Ned said they sailed together for 30 years.

Obituaries for Bob, who succumbed at age 80 to a rare form of pancreatic cancer on June 23, 2024, describe a man driven over a lifetime by the various wonders in front of him. The Catholic

Robert M. Quinlan

church, golf, Holy Cross, hospital volunteering, Cornell Medical School, a surgical residency, U. S. Navy Medical Corps, experimental biology, and more than 40 years at UMass Memorial Health Comprehensive Breast Center — renamed in 2023 as the Bob M. Quinlan, MD, Breast Center.

Bob came to the wonder of sailing in his 30s, and he had the good sense to do his ocean adventures on someone else’s boat, but he had his own boat locally. He was a member of the New Bedford Yacht Club for three decades, most recently sailing his Sabre 30, Rabben II, out of Padanaram. That boat was just sold this spring, perhaps most fittingly, to a blind octogenarian with a captain.

What one experienced in Bob’s company was extraordinary personal connection and empathy, whether as a crewmate or a patient. He was sure of his own capabilities in that way good leaders have of drawing out the best capabilities in others. Just as he led his surgical patients toward mindsets that enhanced their healing processes, he communicated encouragement and certainty of action on a sailboat that improved situational decision-making.

He leaves behind his wife, Diane Quinlan, with whom he shared his life and passion for family, patient care, and sailing in Buzzard’s Bay; stepdaughter, Lauren B. Connors, and her husband and daughter; and his former wife, Judith S. Quinlan, and their children, Sarah Quinlan and Mark Quinlan, as well as Mark’s wife and two children. He is also survived by his brother, Paul G. Quinlan, and sister, Janice L. Brown, along with much extended family and many more of us lucky enough to have experienced his extraordinary skill, friendship, and grace.

Fin Perry

Harold W. Robinson

1937– 2023

HaroldWendell Robinson Jr., born January 2, 1937, passed away on December 19,2023, after a valiant battle with Parkinson’s disease.

Harry began sailing as a youngster when he took lessons on the Charles River in Boston during the summers. He always had some kind of boat through the years but returned to sailing on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire when he was in his 30s. After meeting other passionate sailors, he helped establish the Moultonborough Sailing Association and was an active racer on his Buccaneer 18 and C&C 24, the first of many boats named Eclipse

With his renewed love of sailing, Harry and his wife, Joan, started bareboating in the Caribbean for vacation. After several years of this, he could not resist the draw of ocean sailing and purchased a Sabre 34, another Eclipse, sailing out of the New Bedford Yacht Club in Padanaram Harbor in South Dartmouth, Massachusetts. As a member of the New Bedford Yacht Club, he was fleet captain for a number of years, leading club cruises to Long Island Sound, Narragansett Bay, Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, and Maine and Canada.

While he thoroughly enjoyed cruising, he also loved racing his boats, including the new Eclipse, a Sabre 36. He was a regular participant in the Buzzards Bay Regatta, the Whalers Race, Edgartown Race Week, Newport Race Week, Block Island Race Week, Sabre Regatta, and numerous other local racing events. Harry was also active in organizing several of these events, including coordinating the ThreeQuarter Ton Nationals. Throughout the years of racing, Harry amassed an extensive bar ware set, which was evidence of his success!

When he and Joan decided to cruise long-term after retirement, they moved onto the next Eclipse, a Passport 41. He and Joan sailed to Nova Scotia, the

Maine coast, and the Caribbean for eight years, going as far south as Trinidad and Tobago. During these years, they made many good friends, all who shared the same love of sailing. When they finally decided to return to the mainland, they settled at the Tarpon Bay Yacht Club in Port St. Lucie, Florida, where they were able to keep their boat a stone’s throw from their home and continue to sail southern Florida and the Bahamas. After becoming a member of CCA, he and Joan sailed the CCA Cruise to the Bahamas in 2010 and the Stockholm, Sweden Cruise in 2019. Harry also ran the CCA Stuart Luncheons for a number of years until COVID interrupted them.

Harry and Joan eventually sold the Passport 41, moving to a Mainship 350 powerboat, the final Eclipse, which they enjoyed for another five years before Parkinson’s made it difficult for Harry to maneuver around the boat. It was very difficult for him to be “boatless,” but he understood it was time. Being on the water was what made Harry happy. He made many wonderful memories and friends throughout his life of sailing, and it is what defines him when you talk to those who knew him.

Joan and Scott Robinson

Harold W. Robinson

Mark L. Standley

1938–2023

Mark Lewis Standley, of Gloucester, Massachusetts, died from complications from Parkinson’s disease on December 17, 2023. He was an avid sailor and skier, cruising the coast of Maine and skiing Cannon Mountain with wife, Janet Linton Standley.

Mark was born in Beverly, Massachusetts, in 1938 to Robert Joseph and Ruth Lewis Standley. He graduated from Beverly High School in 1956 and went on to Northeastern University, graduating with a bachelor’s of science degree in civil engineering. Mark worked his entire career in Gloucester, starting with the Bureau of Fisheries before moving to Bomco, where he worked for nearly 50 years.

Mark enjoyed a lifetime love of sailing. He worked at Graves Yacht Yard in Marblehead through high school, competed in small boat racing in college, several Bermuda and Halifax races, as well as local series including frostbiting. A 1977 transatlantic crossing with CCA member Tom Walker was one of the highlights of his sailing career.

Mark’s first large boat was a 1929 Alden Triangle, Diana, followed by Allegro, a 1935 Kretzer 30, and finally Jezebel, a 1966 Swan 36 prototype, which he owned for 36 years. Mark maintained these beautiful vessels perfectly, as he was both a skilled woodworker and machinist.

Mark and Janet enjoyed sailing trips to Newfoundland, Baja California, Scottish Hebrides, Alaska, Norway, Finland, and Croatia with CCA member Sandy Weld aboard Windigo. Mark was a longtime member of the Cruising Club of America and the Annisquam Yacht Club.

He was awarded the City of Gloucester’s Mariners Medal for his role in rescuing ten victims from the charter fishing vessel Comet in 1973. The Comet sank May 19 in cold, blustery

conditions in Block Island Sound. Mark assisted in the recovery efforts aboard my mother’s Cal 39, Decibel, devising a lifting tackle that enabled the crew to hoist the incapacitated survivors onboard. The Coast Guard was notified and participated in the rescue of one additional person and the recovery of 12 bodies. The Mariners Medal is awarded sparingly by the city of Gloucester for “acts of heroism and extraordinary seamanship on the high seas.”

Mark was a recipient of the Annisquam Yacht Club’s Smith Trophy, an award for outstanding achievement in or extraordinary contributions to the sport of sailing.

Mark and I were both elected to the CCA in 1988. We had sailed together for many years before that, both cruising and offshore racing. He was an exceptional shipmate, who could fix almost anything and was ready and willing to pitch in no matter what job needed attention. Mark was also my close neighbor and could be counted upon to assist with tackling any problem with cars, boats, engines of all kinds, and house projects too. For many seasons, we helped each other with the hauling and launching of our boats using, Yankee engineering and the natural tide cycles.

In addition to ocean sailing, Mark enjoyed ice boating on Chebacco Lake in the ice boat Red Head Too, built by

his father in 1938.

Mark’s skiing career began in the cemetery across from his childhood home in Beverly. He joined the ski team at Northeastern and continued to compete in New England Masters racing through the 1960s, becoming a member of the Ski Club Hochgebirge and later holding the offices of vice president and president.

Mark and Janet proudly hosted an infamous Christmas party for over 50 years. This party always attracted a large number of eir neighbors and friends who were sailors and could spin quite a few interesting sailing stories. Mark was always ready with a libation on land or sea!

Mark is survived by his wife, Janet; son Robert and daughter-in-law Jennifer (Acton, Massachusetts), daughter Heather (Darwin, Australia); and grandchildren Isabel, Cody, Nathaniel, and Charlotte, in whom he helped instil a love of the ocean, sailing, and skiing. Mark was preceded in death by his brother Paul and is survived by his brother David, sister-in-law Muriel, niece Lisa, and nephews Scott, Dana, and Neal.

James Watson

Pamela K. Wall 1944–2024

Theworld of blue-water cruising lost one of its finest ambassadors when our beloved Pam Wall sailed her final voyage Aug. 2, 2024, in Fort Lauderdale.

We remember Pam for not only her unparalleled sailing and cruising accomplishments but also her profound impact on our cruising world. She was barely 5 feet tall, but she cast a giant shadow across the cruising community. She knew well and was well-known by all the notable sailors and cruisers of her day. Her legacy, woven into the fabric of the cruising community, will continue to inspire and guide future generations

Mark L. Standley

of offshore sailors and adventurers.

Pamela K. Wall was born on April 14, 1944, in Highland Park, Illinois, a picturesque suburb just north of Chicago. From a young age, Pam was immersed in the world of sailing, a passion kindled by her father’s love for Lake Michigan and yacht racing. Her early years were spent sailing various family boats out of Chicago Yacht Club and Wilmette Harbor, and it was clear even then that she was destined for a life on the water.

Her life took a fateful turn when she met Andy Wall, a tall, dashing Australian sailor whose own story was as remarkable as it was inspiring. Andy’s solo journey across the Pacific Ocean, from Sydney to San Francisco and then to Tahiti and South America, showcased his prowess as an ocean sailor. In the mid-1960s, he became the first Australian to round Cape Horn, a remarkable feat accomplished without electronic navigation or radios.

When Pam and Andy met it was a union of kindred spirits. Their shared love for sailing and adventure quickly blossomed into a profound partnership. Captivated by Andy’s daring spirit, Pam quickly joined him in a life of exploration. Their honeymoon, spent crossing the Atlantic from Fort Lauderdale to England aboard his 28-foot sloop, Carronade, was just the beginning of a remarkable voyage together. Pam later

described that first ocean passage as “the happiest time of my life.”

After spending three years exploring Europe, Pam and Andy returned to the United States to build a larger vessel. They bought the plans for an iconic ocean racer, the Freya 39, which had won the Sydney-Hobart Race three years straight in the 1960s. They laid up the hull in Petaluma California, trucked it back to Fort Lauderdale, and completed the boat, Kandarik, themselves, with Pam working at MackShaw Sailmakers and contributing to the boat’s construction while nurturing their growing family.

Pam and Andy’s commitment to their project was evident in every detail of Kandarik’s design and construction. The boat was built to withstand the rigors of long-distance voyaging and provide a comfortable and safe home for the family. The attention to detail and fine craftsmanship and seamanship design reflected Pam and Andy’s dedication to their shared dream.

In 1984, Pam, Andy, and their children, Samantha and Jamie, headed to sea on an ambitious circumnavigation of the globe. Kandarik became their floating home as they set out to explore the world. For the next 6½ years, the Walls navigated through diverse cultures and landscapes, immersing themselves in the traditions and educational opportunities that each port offered.

Their journey was more than an adventure; it was a transformative experience for the whole family. Pam and Andy shared with Samantha and Jamie not just the beauty of the world but also the values of resilience, adaptability, and open-mindedness.

During their travels, the Walls took advantage of almost every opportunity to immerse themselves in local cultures. They engaged with communities, learned new languages, and embraced the customs and traditions of the places they visited. This cultural immersion enriched their journey and offered valuable lessons for Samantha and Jamie.

Upon their return to Fort Lauderdale,

the Wall family’s circumnavigation was celebrated with admiration and awe. Pam and Andy’s voyage had not only expanded their horizons but also inspired countless others to pursue their own cruising dreams.

Their return to Florida also marked a new chapter in Pam’s life. She joined West Marine’s flagship store in Fort Lauderdale as an outfitting consultant, where her hands-on cruising expertise became a valuable resource for fellow sailors. Pam’s knowledge of sailing and boat outfitting was unparalleled, and her guidance helped thousands of cruisers prepare for their own adventures.

During my own circumnavigation, Pam helped my wife and me source essential parts and equipment, including a windlass motor sent to Thailand, radio parts to Sri Lanka, and even a replacement forestay to Sudan. We were just two of hundreds of world cruisers she helped.

Pam also became prominent on the boat-show lecture circuit. Her talks were a blend of education, history, entertainment, and championing of women sailors. She shared her own experiences and insights, offering practical tips and advice for those preparing for long-distance voyaging. Her presentations were not only informative but also inspiring, encouraging her audience to embrace the challenges and rewards of sailing.

She was particularly dedicated to mentoring women in sailing, and her decade-long involvement in the Women on the Water Week (WOW) at the Bitter End Yacht Club in the British Virgin Islands was a testam-ent to her commitment to empowering female sailors. She was a co-founder of Women and Cruising and a regular teacher at the Annapolis’s Cruisers University.

She was a mentor and role model for many aspiring female sailors, offering guidance, encouragement, and support. Her dedication to helping others achieve their goals was a hallmark of her character and a testament to her passion for sailing.

Pamela K. Wall

Pam’s dedication to the sailing community was matched only by her generosity and kindness. She was always quick to offer a helping hand, whether providing crucial equipment for repairs in remote locations or offering guidance on complex cruising issues. Pam’s problem-solving skills were instrumental in assisting fellow cruisers.

Pam has been an enthusiastic member of the Florida Station, contributing her time and energy as Miami luncheon chair for many years. Her tireless efforts in organizing and hosting these events brought together sailors and enthusiasts, fostering a sense of camaraderie and community within the maritime world.

Clint Bush & Milt Baker

John A. “Jack” Wills 1938–2024

JohnA. “Jack” Wills, a former Florida Station rear commodore (2011-12), died April 1, 2024, at 86, after a gradual Alzheimer-related decline. Jack is survived by his wife of 63 years, Glory, of Port St. Lucie, Florida; a son, John, of Stonington, Connecticut; and daughter, Holly, of Old Lyme, Connecticut.

Jack taught himself how to sail at age12, when he converted a rowboat with a mainsail he stitched himself. That was the beginning of a lifelong passion. Through it all, Jack had a loyal crew following. At his May memorial service,

nine former shipmates made a special effort to be present, Glory said.

After a stint as a Navy aviator in the 1960s, including service at Pensacola Naval Air Station, Jack transitioned to commercial flight and had a distinguished career, first with PanAm and later Delta. He and Glory settled in Old Lyme, Connecticut, where they raised their children.

Jack was “quite a character,” in Glory’s words, as he skippered an enthusiastic sailing family on Long Island Sound and the New England coast aboard Jet Stream, their widely known 2003 Wauquiez 45, out of Old Lyme and Stonington.

Over the years, Jack and Glory regularly took part in Block Island races, cruised to Penobscot Bay in Maine, and participated in popular Off Soundings events held twice yearly

from Mystic, Connecticut. Jack raced to Bermuda with his son, John, and fellow CCA member John Brooks in the 1980s. Over the years, he competed in weekly club events on a variety of boats leading to the Wauquiez, including a J/24 named Sparky and several C&Cs that bore his aviation-inspired name, Jet Stream. “When we moved South, we had a closet full of trophies,” Glory recalled with pride.

After Jack retired, the couple moved in 2000 from Connecticut to Florida. They turned over their beloved Jet Stream to their daughter Holly and her family, where it continues to be sailed from Old Lyme.

Jack was elected to CCA in 2005, and he soon became known in the Florida Station as “Fast Track Jack” for participating enthusiastically in — and leading as rear commodore — CCA activities. He was known for “filling the room” at station luncheons.

Thinking back over their boating life, Glory reflected on the scores of racers and cruisers they’d met along the way — at Block Island mashups or quiet moorings along the Connecticut coast or in Maine. She especially appreciated the CCA. “We never sailed around the world, but we met — and I’ve cooked meals at the moorings — for those who have,” she said. “CCA created connections. I loved it. Sailing was a wonderful time in our lives.”

Russ Hoadley and Glory Wills

John A. “Jack” Wills

“Now comes good sailing.” Henry David Thoreau’s last words

PHOTO: Dan Biemesderfer

Guidelines for Final Voyages

PROCEDURE

• When you hear of a member’s death, please notify the relevant station’s rear commodore, historian, and the Final Voyages coordinator/editor as soon as possible. Please do so if in any doubt that the information has not been communicated. You may be the first to notify someone. All appreciate expediency in such times

• The RC will coordinate with Final Voyages and advise for an Eight Bells announcement to be sent to notify the CCA — flag officers, webmaster, Voyages, and others beyond the deceased member’s station.

• The RC and historian will coordinate with Final Voyages to arrange for a member familiar with the deceased to write a Final Voyage essay and obtain a photo for due publication in the next edition of Voyages, Final Voyages section.

LENGTH

• Write-ups should be a minimum of 250 and a maximum of 700 words.

ESSENTIALS

• The Final Voyages essay should primarily honor the member’s involvement in the CCA. It should describe the member’s life and achievements in sailing, and his or her contributions to the sport and to the CCA.

• Please include the persons full formal name, including prefixes, suffixes and middle name, the year of birth and date of death.

• Include BRIEF professional, military, and educational credentials, if desired. Obituaries written for newspapers or general-interest media are usually not appropriate for Final Voyages, but may be posted on the CCA website in the interim.

• Sailing-related anecdotes are most welcome.

• Include the Final Voyage’s author(s) in the footnote at the end.

FORMAT

• Type single-spaced text in a Word file and italicize yacht names and book titles. Use only one space between sentences, provide full names rather than abbreviations, and do not use prolonged capitalization.

• All text should be in one font style and free of formatting (other than italics for boat names and book titles).

• Photos should be sent separately from the text file. Please do not embed photos in the Word file.

• Please email the Word file and photos as email attachments.

PHOTOS

• High-resolution, uncropped, digital images are best, sent in JPEG, or TIFF, format.

• When possible, a photo of the person out sailing or on a boat as a part of the sailing tribute is a nice to have.

• We can fix photos that are under- or over-exposed and do some color-correcting. Out-of-focus shots are a problem, and rarely can we salvage low-resolution digital images.

• For additional details about photos, see Guidelines for Photos.

DEADLINE - October 31, 2025

• Final Voyages essays received after that date will be held for the next annual issue of Voyages.

Send Final Voyages Material to David Curtin, Editor: finalvoyages@cruisingclub.org or: dcurtin626@aol.com

Guidelines for Photos

OWNERSHIP

• Photos submitted must be your own or you must obtain the photographer’s permission and provide appropriate author credit. We are happy to give credit for photos published.

FORMAT

• High-resolution digital images (ideally set at 300 DPI or PPI, dots or pixels per inch) are essential.

• TIFF and JPEG are the best digital formats. Please do not send other types of files without asking us first.

• We can fix photos that are a little under- or over-exposed; do some color-correcting; and, rarely, improve low-resolution digital photos, but we cannot salvage out-of-focus images.

• If you have only prints, slides, or negatives (for historical articles or obituaries), please have good digital copies made locally, then send us copies of the digital files.

IMAGE QUALITY and PHOTO SIZE

• When shooting digital photos, set your camera’s “Image Quality” and “Picture Size” to “High” or “Best.” Anything less, and the photos will likely be too small to use in print.

• Please DO NOT send laser, inkjet, or desktop photo-printing software printouts; photocopies; newspaper or magazine pages; or any low-resolution digital images. Photos become unusable when scanned or digitally resampled.

• To be sure your photo will print clearly, check the pixels by running your mouse over the image file in your browser, or right-click on the file itself and select “Properties” to see pixel counts. The relationship between digital image pixels and maximum print size is as follows: 600 x 900 pixels = 2 x 3 inches; 1200 x 1800 pixels = 4 x 6 inches; 2400 x 3000 pixels = 8 x 10 inches. The more pixels a photo has, the better the clarity will be when printed.

• Please note that some online photo storage services automatically compress photos to a smaller file size. Read the fine print before using these services. Ideally you should save your best photo files on a drive that keeps them at their full, original resolution.

PHOTO EDITING

• We prefer photos NOT to have been edited, cropped, or color-corrected beforehand.

• If you have edited the image at all, you should save it at the highest quality. Better still, save it as a TIFF, a lossless file setting.

• If you decide you must edit the shot, please go easy, particularly on saturation and contrast. What looks good on screen can often look terrible in print.

PHOTO SUBMISSION

• Please limit the number of photos submitted to your 10 or 12 best images per article—easy to say, hard to do.

• Please include a separate CAPTION LIST as a Word file, with BRIEF information for each image (location, people’s names, and boat names). Label each caption and image with a number or title that we can tie back to your article. Captions can easily be edited and refined once the article layout and design have been prepared, and it is difficult to know which photos fit your story most effectively without having a caption list upfront.

• Send photo files as email attachments, or use a reputable web-based service such as Dropbox (dropbox.com) or WeTransfer (wetransfer.com). These are currently among the best electronic methods for sending many digital photos and other files at once.

• If you submit photos by email, send a message describing how many emails with attachments will follow, then forward the image files in small batches. We will confirm all images received.

• If an Apple user, please be certain files are JPEGs or TIFFs that are Windows- and PC-compatible.

Guidelines for Articles

LENGTH

• From 1,000 to 3,500 words. Any article in excess of 3,500 words will be returned to the author to be edited.

FORMAT

• Word document with no embedded formatting or photos. Please send photos separately.

• Type single-spaced text, italicize yacht names and book titles, and use only one space between sentences.

• If you use word-processing software other than Word, please “Save As” or “Export” to convert your file into Word.

• Include dates and miles covered on your trip.

• Send files as email attachments, or upload via Dropbox or WeTransfer along with your photos (see Guidelines for Photos - Photo Submission for further information).

STYLE GUIDE

• For authors new to Voyages, we can supply a comprehensive Voyages Style Guide. It will help us immeasurably if you look at this prior to submitting your article.

AUTHOR BIO and BOAT INFORMATION

• Please include a short sailing-oriented biographical sketch and good digital photo of the author, the boat’s home port, and the author’s CCA station.

• Please note the station for each CCA member named in your article in the following format: Name (BOS/GMP).

• Include a brief description of your boat and, if possible, any other boat(s) mentioned in your article, including home port, designer, builder, model, and year launched.

MAPS and CHARTS

• Please include a digital image or photocopy of a map or nautical chart showing the places you visited, with your route clearly marked.

DEADLINE FOR 2026 ISSUE - October 31, 2025

• Manuscripts submitted after the deadline will be held for the following year.

Send Articles and Photos to: Voyages Editor - Dan Biemesderfer voyages@cruisingclub.org or: daniel.biemesderfer@yale.edu

Last Words from the Editor dan biemesderfer

It’swith great pleasure that I offer this edition of Voyages as the new editor. While my learning curve has been steep, I’ve had the help of previous editors, including Ami and Bob Green, as well as our professional staff. Through them I’ve been able to learn the ins and outs of assembling this wonderful magazine. I hope you’ll enjoy reading this edition as much as I’ve enjoyed putting it together.

I would like to acknowledge the numerous authors who shared their adventures with us. One of the “perks” of being the editor of Voyages is that I get to interact with the many CCA members who are doing interesting sailing (or powering — right, Jill Hearne?). In this issue, you’ll hear from David Conover about his rendezvous with the Maine Maritime Academy’s arctic explorer Bowdoin in Greenland’s Disko Bay. You’ll venture to South Georgia Island with Skip Novak and Sally Poncet to study the albatross population. Nico Walsh takes us on a journey following the footsteps of Eric Hiscock along the west coast of Scotland. Others take us to the Mediterranean, the South Pacific, the Indian Ocean, the Straits of Magellan, and all oceans in between.

We’re fortunate to be able to publish an article by Lydia Mullan reprinted from SAIL magazine about the sinking of Alliance in the 2024 Newport Bermuda Race. Alliance, coowned by CCA members Mary Martin and Eric Irwin, sank after suffering catastrophic damage from a collision, possibly with a container. This story is important reading as it describes how, with proper training and forethought, a disaster at sea can

be successfully managed.

As you might expect, there are a number of talented people to thank for this product. First, we have a wonderful professional team. Virginia M. (Ginny) Wright is our proofreader/editor whose turnaround time is amazing. Frequently I’ll send her the Word file of an article in the evening and by the time I’m up the next day, it’s returned with detailed editing. We also have a very talented design team consisting of Claire MacMaster (Barefoot Art Graphic Design), Hillary Steinau (Camden Design), and Tara Law (Tara Law Design). These are the artists who assemble the text with the photography to get the images you see in the final publication. Claire also ensures that I stay on track. I also have to thank David Curtin, editor of Final Voyages, for his efforts collecting and editing the essays about our departed members. Finally, thanks go out to David Pratt for his help assembling maps for various articles.

I’d like to also take this opportunity to announce a new feature that will appear in the next edition of Voyages — Letters to Voyages. I’m encouraging members who have something they’d like to share to write a short letter (maximum 500 words), perhaps with a photo or two. Topics might include, but aren’t limited to, comments about previous articles, short sailing stories that might not be appropriate for a full-length article, and thoughts about CCA in general. Letters will be edited and, if need be, selected.

Wishing you fair winds from the editor’s desk.

THE PLACES WE CRUISED