Seen one Caribbean island, seen them all? Not at all: the region offers amazing diversity, from incredible habitats to vibrant cultures. For many cruisers the Caribbean is an extended stopover destination – a delightful cruising ground for one season, often en route from Europe to the Pacific, or as the highlight of the Atlantic Circuit. But if you look closer, there are many opportunities to stay longer.

The hurricane season from June to December effectively cuts the Caribbean cruising year in two, between blissful sailing in winter and spring, and the need to store your yacht in a safe place for six months. This is when many cruisers either fly home or travel inland to memorable places within reach, for instance Central or South America.

The six safe cruising months can be used to explore the Caribbean in depth. If you do it clockwise you make the most of the prevailing wind and current.

While the Caribbean is renowned for short passages between islands, the whole sailing area is surprisingly large: to complete the full ‘circle’, you’d need four seasons. The geography of the region means you can make as many shortcuts as you like, or you could use each year to explore the four cardinal directions of the compass: east, south, west, north.

Sandy Spit near Green Cay, British Virgin Islands. Photo:Christian Wheatley/Getty

Eastern arrival

There is nothing better than making landfall at a Caribbean island after crossing the Atlantic Ocean. Typically, yachts arrive in December or January and have five months available to explore the nearest island chains.

If you plan to cruise for multiple seasons in the Caribbean, it pays to aim for a destination further north in the Leeward Islands. Making Antigua your first stop and dropping the anchor in the sheltered Falmouth Harbour or English Harbour is a moment to savour. After celebrating your ocean crossing and exploring the island, you can either go north to Saint Barth, Sint Maarten or Anguilla or you use the prevailing east/north-easterly winds to carry you south to the other Leeward and Windward islands.

In winter, the north-east tradewinds blow with regularity and the days and nights are pleasantly warm. In summer and autumn, the tradewinds get lighter, but the threat of hurricanes increases.

There are many options to choose from as you sail south. Machiel Hermans and Liselotte Goddijn cruised their Root 51 Pitou extensively in the Caribbean.

Palm-fringed beach. Photo: imageBBroker/Alamy

“All the islands are different and each has its own unique character. We love the French islands, because of the culture and the culinary delights. Nothing beats eating a delicious croissant for breakfast under a swaying palm tree,” Liselotte says.

Machiel adds: “The Caribbean is a windy place, but if you keep a keen eye on the weather forecast you can make beautiful and comfortable passages.”

At the southern end of the Windward Islands, Trinidad and Tobago offer many options to store your yacht for the hurricane season.

Some adventurous cruisers head even further south-west to Suriname, the smallest country in South America, where you could wait out hurricane season inland up the Suriname River. But be aware, visiting sailors have reported that there are little to no facilities for parts or repairs, and paperwork can be cumbersome.

Machiel Hermans and Liselotte Goddijn have cruised the Caribean in their Root 51 Pitou. Photo: Machiel Hermans

Staying south

Typically many cruisers head south to avoid the hurricane belt, which means the second year of an extended Caribbean cruise could be spent exploring the south Caribbean Sea. Alan and Terry Ryall cruised their 50ft Island Packet Seminole Wind for 12 years in the Caribbean. Alan recalls: “Sailing from Grenada to the Dutch ABC islands (Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao) is delightful. It’s a downwind sail and with the help of the strong west-going equatorial current, we made excellent speed.”

Terry adds: “The three Dutch islands are very different. The diving and snorkelling around Bonaire is incredibly beautiful. To protect the coral, you can’t anchor there. The available mooring balls are situated just at the dropoff, so you literally jump off the back of the boat for the most amazing underwater vistas.”

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Curaçao is the largest of the three and, apart from the quaint pastel coloured buildings, has good facilities for visiting cruisers. In the Spanish Water natural lagoon, many yachts anchor in sheltered conditions or haul out for the hurricane season. Aruba is delightful as well, and despite a lot of tourism on the island there are still authentic places to be found. Machiel Hermans notes: “There are excellent yacht storage options on Aruba, both in water and on land.”

From Aruba it’s just 250-300 miles to the South American mainland and Colombia. Despite the country having a – perhaps unfair – reputation for being unsafe, many cruisers report it to be a fascinating and attractive destination, with diverse ecosystems and culture.

The old walled city of Cartagena is a highlight for many cruisers, as well as Santa Marta, where the yacht can be left for some inland travel as well. Passage to Colombia from the ABC islands can be rough, especially when sailing closer to the coast in shallower water. There is the option to stop in Colombia and store your yacht for the hurricane season in Santa Marta or Barranquilla, or continue westward toward the San Blas islands and Panama, where there are also storage options in Shelter Bay Marina.

English Harbour, Antigua. Photo: Greg Balfour Evans/Alamy

The west-bound passage to Panama is best made when summer approaches, by April or May, as the tradewinds are not as strong and the downwind passage can be made more comfortably. In winter, the tradewinds are at their strongest and large seas can be expected on the way west.

On the way to Panama the idyllic Guna Yala, or San Blas islands, are a must-see. The indigenous Guna people are very welcoming of cruisers to their islands and keen to share their culture. “The Guna are hunter-gatherers and it is fascinating to see how they forage in their dug out canoes,” says Terry Ryall.

Coiba National Park, Panama. Photo: Max Campbell

Western adventures

The western Caribbean offers some lesser known cruising areas, with many countries in Central America blessed with beautiful nature, interesting cultures, hospitable people and delicious food. The many reefs, islets and shoals that dot the coast can make for interesting navigation and many places to drop their anchor.

The prevailing wind tends to be more north than north-east along this coast. However, the influence of land- and sea breezes can help yachts make progress when sailing northwards against the tradewinds.

Terry and Alan have spent many seasons exploring the western Caribbean. “First, it’s far less crowded and commercial than the Windward/Leeward islands, and we find there’s much more contrast and variation in terms of scenery and culture,” Alan explains.

“Second, we find it safe and welcoming: there is far less hassle. And cruising budgets stretch much further here – the value for money is incredible.”

In Panama, the Chagres River is an interesting stop; but most cruisers go to the Bocas del Toro archipelago, near the border with Costa Rica.

Caribbean coast of Colombia, South America. Photo: Christian Kober

The lack of port facilities and limited anchoring opportunities in Costa Rica lead many cruisers to visit the country by land with the boat safely tucked up in Shelter Bay, Panama.

“The Colombian Islands of Providencia and San Andreas are a great stop off north of Panama: they are around 100 miles to the east of Nicaragua and well to the south of the shallow banks at the northern tip of Nicaragua,” says Alan. “There are reports of Nicaraguan drug smugglers using the fishing camps on the small islands in the banks so it’s wise to take an outside route and avoid the inner channels.

“From there, it’s not that far to the jewel in the crown of this area: the Bay of Islands of Honduras. There are three different islands, which are all very different.

“The friendly people, the fascinating coral which you can explore either diving or snorkelling, the facilities for yachts – it’s just a wonderful place where many cruisers linger longer than expected.”

Off the coast of Belize, the natural wonders are also renowned – particularly the diving along the Mesoamerican reef, the second largest barrier reef in the world. Belize has attracted some small-scale charter yacht fleets, but the cost of permits for visiting yachts is much higher than other countries in the region.

Spectacular isolation in Panama’s Rio Chagres. Photo: Tor Johnson

Continuing north allows you to explore the coast of Mexico. Beyond the overdeveloped tourism of Cancun, the Yucatan peninsula has interesting and historic places to offer. The Yucatan Channel has a reputation for confused seas thanks to the many currents coming from different directions: the Yucatan current flows from the north, the Gulf Stream flows from the south into the Gulf of Mexico, while prevailing easterly winds and tides push in from Cuba.

For hurricane season, a widely recommended option is to go to the Rio Dulce in Guatemala, a long, winding river which widens in a few places to create sheltered lagoons – the largest a spot where yachts assemble in the hurricane season. Terry: “Our boat has a relatively shallow draught. Boats of up to 2m can get over the bar to get into Rio Dulce. Deeper draught boats may look for hurricane season storage in Panama (Shelter Bay).

“There is a big freshwater lagoon in the middle of the jungle. No hurricane has ever passed there. We’ve spent five hurricane seasons in Rio Dulce and call it a ‘sticky place’, because once you’ve discovered it, it’s hard to leave. There are several first class boat yards for haulouts and refit work. The quality of the workmanship and the low prices are very attractive.”

Brent Grimbeek and Ana Hill, seasoned circumnavigators on Impi, a Lagoon 440, are currently in Rio Dulce: “There is a large social network between cruisers here, with lots of organised get-togethers and trips. Many restaurants and bars make for a lively atmosphere,” they report. “And the jungle is incredible: we spotted hummingbirds nesting in front of our eyes, there are toucans and in the water the odd dugong cruises by.”

Alan and Terry Ryall sail the 50ft Island Packet Seminole Wind. Photo: Alan Ryall

Northern Antilles

If you have a fourth year to explore the Caribbean, or want to stay further north, you could spend a season in the Greater Antilles, before heading back to Europe in spring – or exploring the Gulf of Mexico or the US east coast.

Cuba, the Cayman islands, Jamaica, Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico are larger islands that affect the local weather conditions due to their height and position. The land breeze at night counters the tradewinds, giving calm conditions. Sailing west from Central America inevitably means a lot of upwind work, but you can track south of the islands to get shelter from wind and waves as you go along, with many stops that can be made underway. Alternatively, passing the islands on the north side gives the advantage of east-going Luperon current.

Guna Yala in the San Blas islands of Panama. Photo: Max Campbell

Both the northern and southern coasts of Cuba are interesting to visit, and between the reefs and shoals offshore there are many secure anchorages. The Bahia de Jagua on the south side has a marina, where you can moor your yacht to explore inland. Just south of Cuba is Jamaica. Near the capital Kingston the Royal Jamaica Yacht Club offers a warm welcome to cruisers.

The Dominican Republic has long been a favourite for cruisers, especially in the large Luperon Bay in the north or Samana in the north-east, which are both ports of entry. And the last stop for many before returning to Europe is the lovely island of Puerto Rico. You could opt to just stop in the capital San Juan, but if more time is available a cruise along the south side of Puerto Rico offers great anchorages. On the east side of Puerto Rico is the large Marina del Rey, where your yacht can be moored for provisioning and clearance for the long passage to Europe.

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When ocean sailors are quizzed about their voyages, the most common question they are asked is: “Were you ever scared?” Harry Anderson insists he was not, but when he had to crawl forward and fix a broken **genoa** furling line alone in the Drake Passage amid storm force winds and seas, he realised he was chillingly vulnerable.

“Going south had been easy, but going north was a disaster,” he recalls. “There was a lot of fog. A huge storm came between Cape Horn and 60°S so I put in a bit of westing and heaved to, to wait out the storm. But I lost out the westing and I just had to start to cross.

“It was the most challenging time, trying to fix the broken line and furl the sail back in with frigid water crashing over me, up at the bow. I felt I earned my chops. But I said to myself, this is what this is about. This is reality.”

Harry Anderson has been a man on a mission for 15 years. In 2011 he flew his light aircraft solo around the world eastabout and in 2019 carried out the same feat westabout.

In between, he made a lone flight to Antarctica and back, becoming only one of five aviators ever to do so, as well as a daring and lengthy transpolar flight over the North Pole. Satisfied with the record flights he’d done, he began to consider an around the world sailing voyage, and the possibility of setting a new record as the first person to both fly alone and to sail alone to all seven continents.

Anderson with his plane. Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

He accomplished this on 29 January 2025, sailing his 41ft Allures 40.9 Phywave back to Fort Lauderdale two years and five months after leaving Norfolk, Virginia.

He’d spent 350 days at sea and logged over 38,000 nautical miles, crossing the Atlantic to the Azores, Portugal, Morocco and south to Brazil, round Cape Horn to Antarctica, across the Pacific to Australia and via the Indian Ocean to South Africa, before crossing the Atlantic for the third time to return home to the US.

Anderson, now 74, lives on Bainbridge Island, near Seattle. An electrical engineer and entrepreneur, he built up a company designing wireless communication networks, sold it – then bought it back four years later and transformed it once again.

As a young man, he studied for a PhD in England, hitchhiked across Africa and has worked on four continents; his outlook is decidedly global. He has always had a taste for travel and for adventure, and the time and means to enjoy his freedom.

Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

A Family Dream

The seeds of his aviation and sailing ambitions are there in his family background. His father had been a radioman in the Navy, flying on patrol bombers out of RAF Dunkeswell in Devon to search for German submarines. His parents were both keen sailors and for a time lived aboard a yacht.

It had been their dream to sail from San Diego to Baja, and perhaps far beyond, but his mother fell ill, then died, and his father moved ashore. When his father later died, he left his sextant to Harry.

Anderson was 48 when he got his private pilot’s licence. In 2011 he made his first round the world flight in a Lancair Columbia 300, a small, single-engined plane he’d chosen because the back seat could be removed to fit in extra fuel tanks.

In 2018 he flew over the North Pole, from Resolute Bay in Canada to Longyearbyen, Norway, then in 2019 flew alone around the world for a second time, through Russia, Japan, China and Kazakhstan. Sailing had been an early interest, but never anywhere near the scale of his airborne adventures.

After moving to Puget Sound Anderson bought a Bavaria 37. “I sailed it for 12 years up the Inside Passage to Alaska, and learned about different things,” he says.

Flying over Svalbard having crossed the North Pole. Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

“But I sold it in 2018 and thought my sailing days were done. It wasn’t until 2020 that I resurrected the idea of sailing round the world. Like everyone else [in the pandemic], I was sitting around at home twiddling my thumbs, and changed my mind.”

Anderson decided he needed an aluminium yacht to sail to Antarctica and ordered the Allures. At 40ft it is small these days for such a trip, but he knew the loads would be manageable.

“It was similar in size to the Bavaria 37 so I knew I could handle it alone,” he explains. He had the boat shipped from Southampton to Baltimore, US, and the sails, watermaker and generator fitted there.

He chose a Schaefer furling boom and electric winches to make sail handling easier solo.

King George Island, Antarctica. Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

Ticking Countries Off

Anderson’s round the world voyage route did not include a sightseeing itinerary. “I planned the route to land on all seven continents most efficiently, with the shortest way, and I typically planned a week in each place.

“I was not on a cruise around the world, not there for tourism; I was truly on a mission. Part of that was that I had already been to many of these places, and they were not a mystery to me,” he reflects. The first night at sea after leaving Norfolk, Virginia, for the Azores was also the first time he’d sailed overnight on his own, and it was a turning point.

“I went to bed at 2200. I didn’t set up some bizarre sleep schedule. I thought ‘I can’t do that’, so I went to my bunk in the aft cabin, and slept and I let the boat sail on its own, no one steering or keeping watch.

It convinced me I could do that – you have to look to the electronics to be your crew. “Not many days later, I found that when I was sleeping I’d become very sensitive to the motion of the boat and I could quickly detect the wind increasing from the [sound of the] wind generator overhead.”

From the Azores he and Phywave sailed to Portugal, then to Morocco and Lanzarote, from where Anderson struck out for Brazil, crossing the Atlantic for the second time in three months.

He kept his pace steady, with a simple sailplan of poled out genoa, staysail and mainsail, using a boom brake to reduce the energy when gybing. His logs from those passages are matter-of-fact, finding little to remark on other than the emptiness of the ocean, occasional pods of dolphins and schools of flying fish.

Pago Pago. Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

Burned Out

By the end of 2022, Anderson was working south from Mar del Plata in Argentina, trying to dodge tidal currents and headwinds on his way to Patagonia.

In early 2023 he left Puerto Williams in the Beagle Channel and turned south across the Drake Passage, making landfall in fog at Deception Island and anchoring in the dark bay of its submerged volcanic caldera.

A week later he was making his way back in fierce weather, anxious to press on into the Pacific. Looking back, he remarks: “I regret not venturing further on, but I was evaluating the risk and it was riskier to extend into more difficult waters.

You have to set shore lines and one of my issues was I was unable to do that solo – when you go ashore there’s no one on board to keep position.”

Reaching Puerto Williams again he felt he badly needed a rest. “I was pretty burned out from sailing and living on the boat. The preceding seven months had been intense sailing, covering more than 12,000 miles. I was due for a break.”

On the beach at Deception Island, Antarctica. Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

The next stage beyond Chile would be a 2,200-mile voyage to Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas. Instead Anderson flew home for six weeks, and got a delivery crew to take Phywave onwards to Puerto Montt, in southern Chile.

It would mean missing out five degrees of longitude, so the voyage would fall short of a full circumnavigation. “But,” he says, “my real objective was sailing solo to seven continents.”

From French Polynesia across the Pacific, the tone of Anderson’s logs changed. With his increasing ease on Phywave, and the sporadic winds of an El Niño year, a philosophical mood crept into his writings.

“I’m sailing west across the Pacific into a setting sun, a common sailor fantasy now real, though I still see the clouds above me as a pilot would, not a sailor,” he reflected. “The days [flow] together with no distinguishing features, the tradewind direction and speed finally fairly steady.

The sky suddenly clouds over then just as quickly brightens to brilliant blue, seemingly at random, followed by nights lit up with a moon waxing full. It’s the upper half of a world that has the hypnotic, twisting rhythm of the waves beneath. And me in between.”

A toast with whiskey while crossing the equator southbound. Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

Long Haul Home

The slog from La Réunion to Richard’s Bay in South Africa, one of the most notoriously hard passages, was one of Anderson’s biggest tests. Struggling against the strong Agulhas Current and low pressures that funnel up the African coast, he remembers “raising my arms to the sky and saying ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

“I felt like I was being put upon. I had put up with a lot and I deserved a break. At the time, it felt so unrelenting.”

But after a rest in South Africa he was ready for the last long haul home to the US, stopping in Walvis Bay, Namibia, St Helena and finally Antigua for some ‘Dark ‘n’ Stormies’ – as well a complicated repair to an autopilot drive unit.

He arrived back in Fort Lauderdale on 29 January, 2025 to the fanfare of family and friends.

Lombok, Indonesia. Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

An End In Itself

Today, Anderson is back on Bainbridge Island and Phywave is on the hard near Annapolis, the other side of the country. He’s contemplating his next adventure: sailing through the Northwest Passage.

He has already flown the route by plane, landing in Barrow, Alaska. “It would be the most interesting way home,” he muses. He would again make that voyage solo. “I guess it’s what I have gotten used to, being alone,” he says.

“People ask me this about flying as well and I say I’m like a road cop that nobody wants to ride with. It would be weird and uncomfortable even bringing friends who are sailors.”

He always viewed a plane or a yacht as vehicles for an adventure and a goal, but the long voyages in Phywave took on a meaning he did not entirely anticipate. “When I am out there in the ocean that’s the part I enjoy the most.

I don’t look at ocean crossings as something to be done to get it over with. It’s a destination in itself. “In retrospect, I think I really should have savoured some of those moments more.

Sailing in rough seas. Photo: courtesy Harry Anderson

I felt that as I left St Helena – in some ways the most remote place I’ve ever been. As it receded in the distance, and it was clear this voyage was coming to an end, I said to myself: I have to savour being out here, being able to see horizon to horizon with no other boats and nothing on the radio.”

Anderson’s accounts of his voyage (on phywave.com), can be sparse and startlingly matter of fact – he was certainly not pitching for film rights. But the voyage became something more than just a companion record to his aviation feats.

His penultimate entry, alongside a big photo of his father’s sextant in its wooden case, reads: “I’ve carried my Dad’s sextant with me everywhere I’ve sailed for the past two-and-a-half years, across the world’s oceans, to seven continents, several countries and dozens of harbours and anchorages around the globe,” he writes.

“In this small way [my parents] were along with me, sailing the world as they once dreamed of doing. I think they’d have liked that.”

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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The post Why this 74-year-old swapped a plane for a yacht and sailed solo to seven continents appeared first on Yachting World.

The sea around us was filled with orange and yellow buoys, causing my imagination to go wild with visions of fouled propellers and angry aqua farmers. The markers rose and fell with the swell like a coloured carpet that glowed in the grey, rain-filtered light. Ahead of us, Jehoon Yee beckoned us to follow the route he was taking aboard his small yacht, Frog.

“I hope he’s sure about this route. Look, that ferry is taking a different route through the farms,” I called to Fiona, who was standing on the bow for better visibility.

I followed Frog’s stern as closely as I thought was safe, matching Jehoon’s every twist and turn as he led us through the gauntlet of ropes, nets and buoys. We were about to enter Yokjido, a small island fishing port in the Hallyeohaesang National Marine Park off the coast of South Korea. We’d sailed about 20 miles from Tongyeong – a journey that began in light winds and flat seas, then turned to strong gusts which had me scrambling to ease out the mainsheet, and ended with a dousing of rain as we neared our destination.

Through it all I kept Jehoon in my sights, following his path through the rocky islands and past bays filled with fish farms. I’d met Jehoon on the docks of the Tongyeong Yacht School, where his Yamaha 30 was moored near Teng Hoi, our Hallberg-Rassy 42F. He was deeply tanned and a mischievous glint in his eye contradicted his otherwise serious demeanour.

Covered bridge in Gyeongju, the ancient capital of South Korea. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Foreign visiting yachts were rare here, and after asking the usual questions about where we were from, Jehoon invited us to join him on a weekend sail. “I’ll show you where to moor on some of the little islands around here,” he said.

Jehoon also helped us file the paperwork the local authorities required even for this short cruise – a cumbersome process we were still struggling to master.

Now we followed him around the towering concrete seawall into Yokjido, and to a small floating dock. This was one of six basic marinas that had been recently created by the city Tongyeong to promote pleasure boating on the sprinkling of islands within day-tripping distance of the city.

As I helped Jehoon with his lines I invited him and his friends to come aboard Teng Hoi for arrival drinks. “But we have nothing to bring,” one of his friends said. “We have plenty of soju to drink, just come!” I assured them.

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Minutes later Jehoon and his friends arrived, bearing instant noodles and a big packet of wet wipes. The South Korean sense of hospitality that had prompted Jehoon to invite us along, also meant these sailors could not simply drop in on a visiting yacht empty-handed.

They had to bring a gift – any gift. We humbly accepted their offerings and poured them extra shots of soju, a spirit popular in Korea and Japan, to show our gratitude as we swapped stories.

Jehoon and his friends had to turn back to Tongyeong the next day, but before he left he gave us directions to the public marina in Maemuldo, the next island to the east that we planned to sail to. We spent a day hiking along Yokjido’s soaring cliffs before setting sail. The skies were grey and overcast, but we had a light southerly wind, allowing us to cover most of the 15 miles on a beam reach.

Stone statue on the shores of Jeju. Photo: Cameron Dueck

In Maemuldo we again found simple but adequate floating docks, well protected by a massive sea wall, with water so clear we could see the bottom of the harbour. We hiked to the peak, from where we could see other rocky islands rising from the sea.

This was how we’d imagined it, exploring the myriad of islands of South Korea’s coast, interacting with local sailors, visiting small fishing ports, eating at port-side raw fish restaurants where the seafood was kept alive in big glass tanks until ordered.

But we already knew that beyond Tongyeong’s small network of marinas we were unlikely to visit the many islands we could see in the distance. We’d been in Korea for about one month, long enough to have tried, and failed, at finding a path through the country’s oppressive maritime restrictions.

The Duecks’ cruising route

South Korea seemed like the obvious next destination for us after we’d spent almost a year exploring Japan. Our online research turned up very little information on the country’s clearance procedures, but we had friends who’d cruised in South Korea decades earlier and loved it.

We’d been warned about the bureaucracy of cruising in Japan, and those fears had turned out to be greatly exaggerated, so we set off confident that South Korea would also welcome us with open arms. “There’s not much information about cruising in South Korea… that’s good, as it means there won’t be many other cruisers,” I foolishly boasted to friends.

Teng Hoi off the South Korean coast. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Japan to busan

We’d left Teng Hoi in Japan’s Seto Naikai, or inland sea, over winter. It was late March when we hanked on our sails and steered for Korea with a cold, stiff wind on our nose.

The voyage from the Kanmon Straits, which connects the Sea of Japan with the Seto Naikai, to Busan, South Korea is about 120 miles. In the middle is the Japanese island of Tsushima – the Koreans call it Daemado – which has bridged the two countries geographically and culturally for centuries. It is also a clearance port, making it the perfect place to exit Japan.

We left the main islands of Japan behind us and soon we were beating into 20-25 knots with three reefs in the main and the staysail. Seas of 2-3m slowed our progress and showered the boat in spray, but we pushed on, arriving at noon the next day.

We tied up to a concrete wall in Hitakatsu, at the north-east end of Tsushima, and walked into the village. Buses were disgorging Korean tourists by the dozen, the voices in cafes were speaking Korean, and many shops accepted Korean won as payment.

Tsushima played a key role in defending Japan against invasions from Korea and China over the centuries. It was also a base for the wokou, or Japanese pirates, that once pillaged the Korean coast, and served as a trading port for the rice that Japan imported from Korea. Even today Tsushima uses unique finance and taxation systems that resemble those of Korea, despite Japanese ownership.

Light winds and sunny skies on passage. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Early warnings

After clearing out of Japan we continued westward, again beating. Intermittent cold rain slashed at us from the west, keeping us huddled under Teng Hoi’s hard dodger.

Squalls skidded across the horizon as we motored the final miles through a shipping channel with Busan to starboard and Geoje island off to port. We were navigating across the channel when our VHF radio came to life.

“Where are you going?” a port authority official asked. We explained we were headed for Myeongdong Marina in Changwon, and that we’d already submitted all the requested paperwork.

After a long silence, the official came back to caution us about a ship that was several miles away, and far off our track. We assured him that we were keeping watch and were aware of the traffic.

Street market on Jeju Island. Photo: Cameron Dueck

The warning struck us as over-vigilant, but it was only later that we recognised it as a harbinger of our Korean cruising experience. We were in high spirits, buoyed further by sighting otters that surfaced near our boat as we neared the marina.

A commercial shipping agent, who is a friend-of-a-friend, volunteered to help us navigate our first experience with the Korean bureaucracy as we cleared in. Myeongdong is a brand new marina, and was still awaiting its new clubhouse and onshore services.

It was also a one-hour bus ride to the nearest shops and restaurants, so after a few days we decided to move on.

Southern appeal

South Korea’s best cruising grounds, and most of its yachting culture, are concentrated on the island-dotted south coast. Many owners keep their yachts on the south coast and travel from Seoul to go sailing, because the more industrial west coast has muddy waters and extreme tidal ranges. The east coast has pristine waters, but the coastline is featureless with few welcoming ports, making the south the country’s natural maritime playground.

We made plans to island-hop our way west, sizing up various anchorages to call at on the way. That was when reality set in.

We learned that any voyage of more than 10 miles from our port of clearance required us to apply to authorities both for permission to leave our port, and permission to enter a new port. Every time we wanted to change anchorage or visit a nearby island we needed to apply for permission several days in advance, providing exact departure and arrival dates – and if we were delayed by weather, all of the paperwork had to be redone.

The author was given a live octopus by Korean sailors. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Each port clearance costs 10,000 Korean won (around £8), and local sailors are also subject to the process and fee. We soon learned that each province, office and individual officer had their own interpretation of the rules.

Some Port Authority offices insisted we use PORT-MIS, their online registration system for commercial shipping, which is only accessible to licensed shipping agents. At the time of our visit, South Korea didn’t have any agents specialised in pleasure craft, meaning we’d need to hire a commercial shipping agent at significant cost.

Moving to a new province also required us to clear customs, immigration and quarantine at both ends. Adding a twist to the red tape, we communicated with officials using their personal email rather than a general office address, and if they went on holiday the entire process needed to be restarted with a new contact.

The officials appeared confused by our requests. Foreign visiting yachts in the past had either ignored the requirements, pretended to be a local yacht, or had remained in one port rather than cruise.

Han Kim, a director of the Gyeongnam Sailing Federation and the manager of a marina in Busan, offered us help and advice on a daily basis. He explained that recent security incidents had led to increased scrutiny of foreign yachts.

In 2020 a Korean man entered the country with a yacht he’d bought in Croatia, carrying an undeclared firearm that he used to shoot his girlfriend. Drug smugglers had used South Korean ports as trans-shipment points, creating further alarm. We were also reminded repeatedly by South Koreans that their country is technically still at war with North Korea.

A statue guards a Korean martial arts temple. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Kim told us the number of foreign yachts visiting South Korea each year is in the single digits. “I think some people that have attempted to come may have been put off by the paperwork,” he observed.

So we decided to simplify our plans and sail directly to Tongyeong which, like Changwon, is in the province of Gyeongnam and is a short day trip down the coast. There was no wind, so we motored, which was just as well as the inside route forced us to wind our way through endless fish farms that filled the protected waters.

We’d noted a bridge we’d need to pass under on the north side of Geojedo. Charts showed it had 20m clearance, only 1m higher than our mast. We checked the tides, and spoke to local sailors, all of which reassured us that we’d have several metres of clearance and that they regularly passed underneath it with taller masts.

But one mile from the bridge the Coast Guard called us on the radio. “There is a bridge in front of you. It is a great danger to you,” they informed us.

I explained that the charts, tides, and local sailors all indicated that we were safe to pass through, but they were unconvinced and commanded us to stop. We were drifting within sight of the bridge when a Coast Guard boat pulled up next to us and a phalanx of boiler-suited, hard-hat wearing officials crowded their bow, waving and shouting in Korean and blowing whistles.

Monks give a seonmudo martial arts demonstration. Photo: Cameron Dueck

One of them pulled out a loudhailer. “Danger! Danger! Very big danger! You must turn around!”

I attempted to argue, shouting across the water, but Fiona turned me back to the helm. “There’s no use, you’ll never change their minds,” she said. We detoured 10 miles to avoid the bridge, with the Coast Guard boat motoring behind us for half an hour before returning to base where they continued to watch us on AIS.

In the next hours they called us on the radio several times, asking us to change our heading by a few degrees or take a different route. They even telephoned the agent who’d helped us clear into the country to ask him about our voyage plans. Part of me was incensed at their interference, but we were also amused they were taking such an interest in our safety.

At the Tongyeong Sailing School, we found our sailing tribe, with new friends like Jehoon eager to offer their help with finding fuel and parts, or navigate bureaucracy. The city, and the province of Gyeongnam, have ambitions to turn the area into a marine sports hub. Han, who completed the Clipper Round the World Race in 2015/16, has played an instrumental role in bringing the Clipper Race to Tongyeong in 2026.

Market in Myeongdong. Photo: Maremagnum/Getty

Explore ashore

Once it became clear we’d not see as much of Korea as we’d hoped from our boat, we travelled inland instead. We went to a Busan Giants baseball game, stayed at a temple where we learned martial art basics from the monks, and revelled in Seoul’s sleek art museums and plentiful parks.

South Korea was electing a new president during our visit, which encouraged us to learn more about its history. Colonised by Japan, divided from North Korea after World War II by domineering American generals, it then suffered decades of brutal military rule before the bloody birth of its democracy in the 1980s. The country is dotted with museums to the democratic struggle, and its modern commitment to peace.

The inland travel was fun, and gave us a deeper appreciation of Korean culture, but we were on a sailing voyage after all and had not yet given up our aspirations to see more of the coastline. Our new local sailing friends helped us identify a string of islands to visit on our way to Jeju, South Korea’s most popular tourist island, about 110 miles south-west of Tongyeng.

This route would take us to ports in neighbouring South Jeolla Province, which increased the complexity of our plans. Fiona spent two weeks researching, emailing, telephoning and filling out forms. Then, just when we thought we were making progress, an official told our agent we were not allowed to enter port unless for repair or to change crew.

Disappointed and frustrated, we decided to instead sail directly to Jeju which, as its own province focused on foreign tourism, demanded less paperwork. Han was deeply apologetic and dismayed at the difficulties we were facing. He even wrote a letter of petition to the government, hoping to push South Korea towards realising its potential as a cruising destination.

Teng Hoi at anchor off Bijindo. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Another tangle

We left Tongyeong and motored to nearby Bijindo, an island with a bay created by a narrow isthmus of sand, where we anchored for the night. After seven weeks in port, Teng Hoi’s hull had grown a thick beard, so we scrubbed the bottom and basked in the freedom of our only night at anchor in Korean waters.

The next day we set off for Jeju amid light winds, alternating between motoring and slow sailing whenever we had enough breeze. But soon we came across the huge floating masses of seaweed that pollute these waters each spring.

We manoeuvred around the first few clumps, but then the engine bogged as a mass of seaweed wrapped around the propeller. We reversed, but the weed clung fast. Finally Fiona donned a mask and dove into the water with a knife to cut it all away.

Lush Yokji Island, off the south coast of South Korea. Photo: Cameron Dueck

That night we passed through large fleets of squid fishing boats, whose brilliant lights lit up the sea for miles around and created eerie outlines of the rocky, remote islands we passed.

Jeju is known for three things: rocks, women and wind. As an island created by numerous volcanic eruptions it has plenty of jagged black rocks along its coast.

The famous haenyo are female divers who dive off its coast without scuba gear, to harvest abalone, sea urchins and other sea food. And the island was indeed windy, with unpredictable weather.

Soon after we arrived in Jeju we decided to make one more attempt at cruising, sketching out a plan to sail around the island, a voyage of about 120 miles, with stops in a few small fishing ports along the way. We soon ran into familiar challenges, and found the fishing ports that looked so inviting were closed to yachts. Instead we rented bicycles and made a six-day loop around the island.

We followed the black, rocky coastline and saw haenyo diving and bringing seafood ashore. And we pedalled hard against the wind, all the time thinking these would be excellent sailing conditions.

Squid drying in port on Jeju. Photo: Cameron Dueck

After a month in Jeju our South Korean visas were about to expire, and we’d finally accepted that cruising its coastline was out of our reach. We pointed Teng Hoi back towards Japan, catching steady southerly winds on our beam for a fast, smooth passage across the Japan Sea.

A few days after arriving in Japan we received a message from Han. He’d met with government officials and had been granted agent access to the PORT-MIS online registration system.

“So now I can help visiting yachts deal with all the paperwork,” he said. Fiona and I looked at each other, recalling the small islands, remote fishing ports and quiet bays we’d researched but were unable to sail to. Should we turn around and try again?

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Patagonia isn’t a place you rush through. At least not if you want to experience it fully. Its fjords and channels, carved by glaciers and swept by wind, demand patience and reward curiosity. On a 35ft glassfibre sailboat, you don’t rush – not through williwaws, not through ice, and certainly not through the wilderness and remoteness you rarely find anywhere else.

Curiously, I never dreamed of being a sailor. My ideas of adventure were more about where I wanted to go than how I’d get there. I was drawn to the idea of wild landscapes and vast spaces, far from everything. Sailing came later – almost by accident – when my partner Nao and I realised it might be the perfect way to reach those places.

Lauric Thiault captures a slow voyage through the most remote corners of Patagonia. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

We first bought Tupaia, a 1970s Dufour 35, to see if the life afloat might suit us. In the beginning it was a lot of trial and error, spending our summers in the less-travelled corners of northern Europe. During the winters, we learned to fix whatever broke and fine-tuned Tupaia based on the experience gained over each season. Bit by bit, we learned our boat and found our rhythm.

The freedom and enjoyment of being self-reliant and taking care of our little floating home had us hooked. After three years of slow learning and growing confidence, we started to think bigger. Not record-setting voyages or dramatic crossings. Just longer trips in wilder places.

We’ve now spent 500 days sailing through southern Chile, mostly against the prevailing winds. Out here, freedom didn’t mean going wherever we wanted, whenever we pleased – it meant adapting to the weather, letting Mother Nature set the pace. Nothing happened quickly, and that was exactly how we wanted it.

Lauric Thiault is a French environmental scientist and photographer who grew up in Polynesia. He and his partner, Nao Nakamura, have been living aboard their 1974 Dufour 35, Tupaia, for the past five years. In 2023, they set sail from Brittany for Patagonia, capturing their adventures at youtube.com/@tupaia. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

Sailing Patagonia: Tierra del Fuego in winter

Chilean Patagonia might be overrun if it weren’t so remote, and if its weather didn’t do such a good job of keeping most people away. The thousands of islands fringing the continent’s southern edge – from Cape Horn to Chiloé – stretch across 1,500 miles of countless fjords and weather-beaten islands. But despite its growing reputation among adventurers, the place still feels empty. Even in high season, most of this vast sailing ground sees few visitors.

We had just completed a focused 7,500-mile Atlantic crossing in four months to reach southern Chile before winter. It hadn’t been exactly rushed, but we’d made few stops, with little room for exploration. Arriving in Puerto Williams, the southernmost town in the world, we were ready to slow down.

Mooring Patagonia-style at Seno Helado in the Canal Barbara. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

We began exploring the Beagle Channel which, despite lying at the ‘end of the world’, is surprisingly busy in the summer. Proximity to Ushuaia means charter boats and cruise ships weave through these waters en route to Antarctica. Come April, the crowds leave, and the golden days take over. As the South Pacific and Antarctic high-pressure systems drift apart, the ‘channel’ that funnels storms across Tierra del Fuego widens.

A stable high over the mainland often nudges those systems north or south, sparing the Beagle and giving us an unexpected number of calm and sunny spells. With the days shortening, the sun just hovered, low and golden behind the jagged peaks of the Darwin Range. Sometimes it felt like the entire day was a soft, extended sunrise, fading into a pink-toned evening.

Last fjord, last catch – mussels at Estero Cahuelmo. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

Our life settled into a rhythm that would define our time here. The good weather brought busy days – we sailed, hiked, and fished. When the weather turned, we slowed down, reading, resting, and catching up on boat chores. Mornings began with lighting the stove and waiting for the warmth to slowly fill the cabin, something that could take hours in winter.

Evenings were dedicated to downloading GRIB files and sending our position to the Armada via Iridium, a system we deliberately chose over the cheaper and more efficient Starlink to avoid the distractions of the internet. No two days felt the same. As the seasons changed we felt the first ice floes tapping against the hull, saw the first glacier at arm’s length, there was the first time we hiked from the shore to the snow line above.

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Confinement

Everywhere we went, we found an excess of perfectly sheltered coves known locally as caletas. Safe spots can be tight, but we quickly became proficient in the art of mooring Patagonian-style: backing into tight inlets, dropping the anchor and running long stern lines to trees or boulders on shore. It’s a method used routinely by local fishermen and sailors. Like many cruisers, we were hesitant at first. It seemed like a lot of hassle. But once in the channels, it quickly proved essential.

Blue hour with a view in Seno Pia. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

The holding ground here is generally excellent, but space is the real constraint. Gusts funnel down steep walls, so the most sheltered moorings are those where the seabed shelves sharply just a few metres from shore, ideally close to a dense patch of trees. When there is no shore as such, no transition between water and forest, you know that conditions in that spot are usually calm, even on the worst days.

We usually leave about three times the depth of chain on the bottom, then once the anchor is set, Nao rows ashore to set the first line while I keep the boat steady. That’s the tricky part: especially when the wind is pushing you out. But once the first line is set, the rest is easy.

Navigating deep into a maze of growlers in Seno Garibaldi, Tierra del Fuego. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

We always put out a minimum of two lines to the stern, and if needed, we can easily add more at the bow. Tied in tight, Tupaia barely moves. And in a place where the wind can rise quickly, that stability turns a restless night into a peaceful one.

This proved especially true during our time in the Wollaston-Hermite Archipelago. We spent eight days holed up in Puerto Maxwell, pinned by back-to-back lows. Every morning, we checked the GRIB files, hoping for a reprieve, only to watch another massive front build in from the west. Gusts whipped through the anchorage in a steady run of williwaws, sending white spray across the surface and making our boat sway against her seven shorelines. Our rigging howled, the ‘furious fifties’ earned their name.

Magellanic penguin at Isla Rupert in the Strait of Magellan. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

But we didn’t mind. I would even go as far as to say that this was the most memorable – if not the highlight – of this section. There was something strangely exciting in being completely cut off, knowing that we could not return to the world nor the world come to us. Confined in the few square metres of the galley, we spent our days cooking, making small repairs, and watching the clouds stream down the mountains at unbelievable speed from our fogged-up window.

On a few occasions we managed to make short land excursions to watch the storm roll over Cape Horn and the surrounding islands – raw, powerful, and unforgettable from our vantage point.

Frozen stalactites hang like a curtain along the shores of Caleta Chorito, Beagle Channel. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

Wildlife is woven into every corner of Patagonia. Caranchos, chimangos, kingfishers and other birds fill every anchorage – condors soar on thermals, V-formations of cormorants skim low over the fjords, and albatross glide effortlessly above the waves. Below the surface, dolphins, sea lions, and whales pass through, though it was on our return to the Beagle Channel, off Ushuaia, that we encountered the most striking concentrations of marine life.

We used our time in Ushuaia to provision, stuffing fresh produce and four months’ worth of dry and canned food in the hold. It was also a last chance to glean advice from the few charter professionals still around. We left Ushuaia and Puerto Williams under clear skies, making the best of an easterly breeze through the Beagle Channel before veering north around the eastern tip of Tierra del Fuego.

Still waters of Seno Garibaldi capture the mountain’s reflection, under a serene sky, at Caleta Scherzo. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

There, we faced the toughest passage of the trip. Our resolve to see Patagonia as more than a series of challenges was swiftly shaken. It was here we faced the toughest passage of the trip. Conditions were cold and relentless, with williwaws flinging water into the air like smoke so dense it obscured the shoreline, turning the landscape into a blur of blue-grey and noise. On the towering cliffs of dark, bare rock surrounding us, waterfalls that hadn’t frozen were blown back upwards by the wind.

When we finally reached shelter in Caleta Brecknock, we discovered the full extent of the damage: one of the shrouds was compromised, and both the staysail and mainsail were torn. It took us a week to carry out repairs.

Kelp forests can tangle in the propeller. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

From then on Tupaia began making new noises; small creaks and groans that hinted at stress in the structural bulkheads. Yet rather than discourage us, the experience only deepened our commitment. There was something profoundly satisfying about moving through Patagonia’s remotest corners entirely on our own and taking full responsibility for every part of the journey.

Legendary waters

Sailing through these waters, it’s impossible not to think of those who came before us – Magellan, FitzRoy, Martial, Sarmiento, Agostini – figures who shaped the history of these coasts, and whose names now mark channels, mountains, and anchorages. It blows my mind to think how they managed to navigate these waters under such harsh conditions, with no charts, no forecasts, and no room for error.

A calm winter day in the Wollaston-Hermite archipelago. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

And long before them, the Yámanas and Kawésqar had been navigating this coastline for thousands of years, in open canoes, guided by a deep knowledge of, and connection to, this place.

With each mile, the sailing grew more remote, the landscape more dramatic. There were no beacons, no lighthouses, nothing but the contours of the land to guide us – along with our own judgment and, of course, the chartplotter. By the time we reached Seno Agostini we were surrounded by so many tidewater glaciers spilling into the sea that we started calling it ‘Glacier Avenue’.

Making good speed across Golfo Almirante Montt. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

Dozens of ice tongues curled down from the peaks, some wide and stately, others fractured and blue, creaking under their own weight. The stillness was broken only by the distant crack of calving seracs and the faint scrape of the frozen layer of ice brushing against the hull.

We entered the legendary Strait of Magellan at Cape Froward – the southernmost point of continental South America. Westbound sailing in this section is famously difficult: the strait’s shape funnels the prevailing north-west winds directly against you, while contrary currents and a steep, short-period sea make every mile hard-earned.

On top of that, the season was shifting from winter to summer, bringing chubascos – sudden unpredictable squalls. But we took it slow, tacking from one side of the strait to the other, making small but steady progress each day.

‘We became proficient in the art of mooring Patagonian-style’. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

Over the course of a month, we had just three calm days which we used to make detours – one to a spectacular tidewater glacier, another to a penguin colony tucked into the forest. The rest of the time, we worked our way forward into headwinds of 25-30 knots on the better days. On the harder days, the wind howled relentlessly, making progress impossible. We stayed put, riding out the weather in windy anchorages. It was here that Graham Cox spent a month waiting for favourable conditions before he could continue westward.

Outside, the weather was so ridiculously bad that we could only laugh.

At least we had the company of the local fishermen, whose kindness and generosity stood out. We always made a point of going over to chat. Despite the hard, exhausting nature of their work, they welcomed us aboard to drink mate and offer astonishing amounts of shellfish, fish, centolla (king crab), or sea urchins.

These encounters became some of the most meaningful moments of the journey – opportunities to hear about their lives, the history of the region, and to gain invaluable local knowledge about anchorages and places worth exploring. No-one knows these waters better.

Winter sailing takes a little extra work, but the reward is having these wild places all to yourself. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

Our only chance to sail downwind came during detours to the east. That wasn’t the reason we chose to visit the Última Esperanza area, but it was a relief when conditions finally worked in our favour after two months of sailing to windward. This region lies at the meeting point of two very different worlds. On one side are the wet, mountainous channels; on the other, the open plains stretch endlessly across Argentina.

Sailing through Última Esperanza offered a taste of both: the dramatic cliffs and glacier-fed fjords of the Cordillera de las Montañas, with condors circling overhead, and, beyond the Bellavista region, glimpses of the rolling pampa dotted with guanacos.

Summer in the Ice Fields

After some restocking in Puerto Natales and a quick visa run to Argentina, we set off on Christmas Day, working our way west then north again. By then the typical days of prevailing summer weather in the channels were well established: north-west winds and overcast skies. And it rained, not hard but almost every day. Nothing was dry but the stove and the wall behind it.

Ashore, the vegetation dripped with moisture, and the carpet of moss was as full as a sponge can be. Our route was lined with more cypress trees, and the nothofagus forests grew taller and thicker. We made a few diversions deep into the Andes, where the steep mountains and the narrow fjords intensified the sense of scale. But the grandeur of this region is found not only in what you see, but in what you know is out there.

Sailing to windward on a calm winter day in the Brazo Noroeste of the Beagle Channel. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

That beyond the islands stretches a wilderness so vast and remote that few people, if any, have ever set foot on it. Given our modest sailing background, we hadn’t imagined reaching places so distant and so beautiful. When we came across our first huemules (south Andean deer), it felt like we were reaching a high point.

Then we entered Seno Eyre and reached Pío XI. Even in a region where the bar for scenery is already impossibly high, this glacier stands apart. It’s the largest tidewater glacier in South America, at 65km long, over 60m tall and 4.5km wide at the face.

We were already running short on superlatives, but Pío XI shattered whatever standards we had left. From our boat, we listened to sharp cracks and groans as the glacier inched forward. After a while, we could sense when a collapse was coming: the crackling would build, ice would shift, and then – with a thunderous roar – a massive block would break off and crash into the sea. We stayed the whole day, watching in awe, until the late summer dusk called us back to the safety of a caleta.

We’d now been in Patagonia for almost a year and were starting to feel more comfortable venturing off the main route. After a 10-day stop in Puerto Edén – the most isolated village in Chile – waiting for a weather window, we made a few more diversions into the uncharted, ice-filled fjords of the east. The sense of isolation was profound. Each anchorage felt as if no one had ever been there before.

Then came the Golfo de Penas, a milestone for anyone sailing through Patagonia. It marks the boundary between south and north; a point we’d been hearing about since Puerto Williams. Its reputation precedes it: conditions are so notoriously rough that most yachts make the circumnavigation as quickly as possible, eager to return to the shelter of the channels. Fortunately, a rare stretch of good weather allowed us to explore it more thoroughly than we’d ever hoped.

A friendly pause with horses along the path to Raper lighthouse. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

For 12 hours we were back in open water, with the Andes rising to starboard, the far horizon of the Pacific stretching out to port. We spent the night at sea, the calm almost surreal given the gulf’s reputation. The next morning the air was flooded with a deep yellow glow. In that vibrant light, albatross escorted us across the water.

What came next took us entirely by surprise. There’s little written about this section of the coast, and nothing had prepared us for what we found: wide, white sand beaches and lush green forests – it could have been north-eastern Australia were it not for the snow-covered peaks looming just behind. We had no idea a landscape like this even existed in Patagonia.

Further north lies the Taitao Peninsula, where the strongest weather system of the season shattered wind records: 97 knots, according to the keepers at the Raper lighthouse, who were still repairing their roof when we stopped by a few days later. But from the shelter of our cove, it all felt very far away.

A slow return

During one of our side trips we found ourselves in Laguna San Rafael, blessed with perfect weather again, approaching the last glacier of our journey. In the grandeur of the place, something closed: a chapter of the journey was behind us. Beyond this point the deep sense of isolation we’d experienced began to fade. Fish farms and the occasional small fishing village reminded us we were drawing closer to the edges of inhabited Patagonia. It was still wild, but no longer quite as remote.

A refreshing dip in front of the Jorge Montt glacier. Photo: Lauric Thiaul

From there, we spent two months sailing back and forth between the Chonos Archipelago and the mainland, where volcanoes rose from the low clouds and thermal springs bubbled up from the earth. Finally we arrived in Chiloé, a bucolic escape from the harsh elements we’d been navigating for so long. The island’s charm lies in its gentle simplicity: rolling hills, picturesque villages, and a slow pace of life that eased the transition from the wilderness.

It’s no wonder people find the sailing life so hard to leave behind. How long it will hold us, I don’t know. But with more than 40 days of bluewater cruising ahead, bound for French Polynesia, one thing is clear: we’ve only scratched the surface of what this life can offer, of the raw beauty, exhilaration, solitude, and sense of freedom that comes with it. One day, we’ll return to these southern waters, not to retrace our steps, but to keep exploring freedom to its limits.

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Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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‘I read in the newspaper about people drowning in the Central Med, and I asked myself whether I needed to do something,’ says Johannes, a one-time Tall Ships Skipper.

These days he sails on NADIR, the 18m steel-hull ketch run by RESQSHIP, an NGO which conducts monitoring activities to help refugees in the Central Mediterranean.

Every year, its operational vessel NADIR hosts 70 volunteers across 10 rotations. Some, like Johannes and skipper-incumbent Lauren, who’ll set off for her first turn at the helm in September, come directly from the maritime world. Others have no prior sailing experience.

Together, Johannes and Lauren share their unique experience of being part of RESQSHIP’s crew. Their close-up view of what happens onboard a search and rescue sailing yacht sheds light on the knots and loopholes in Europe’s immigration systems, and how civilian efforts have been working to untangle them.

Sailing yachts or search and rescue boats?

In many ways, NADIR is just like any other sailing yacht.

It’s classed as a pleasure craft, rigged for cruising, and crewed by civilians. It prepares for a mission like any yacht heading out for a small crossing; repairs, resupplies, routine checks.

S/Y NADIR is an 18m steel-hull k etch conducting monitoring activities in the Central Mediterranean. Photo: Leon Salner / RESQSHIP.

Yet, ‘It’s a different kind of psychological thinking and mental preparation,’ Johannes says, when you set off knowing you may have to jump into an emergency situation.

‘Mass casualty we face very often, so we prepare for this.’

While passage planning, NADIR’s skippers aren’t just concerned with keeping their own crew safe. Though this is the top priority, Lauren says they’re also considering ‘who might be out there in an overcrowded boat, facing those conditions.’

S/Y NADIR is an 18m steel-hull k etch conducting monitoring activities in the Central Mediterranean. Photo: Leon Salner / RESQSHIP.

Crewing on a search and rescue boat

While roles onboard NADIR are multi-function, every 7-person crew has a qualified Skipper, Co-Skipper, Officer of Watch, RHIB driver, and an onboard paramedic.

Though many volunteers come without prior sailing knowledge, all of them are trained to a high standard.

‘In the end,’ Lauren says, ‘The doctors that might not have been sailing before, they might even end up knowing more than other sailors.’

During training, every member of the crew drills skills most sailors might only try a few times. Things like setting out the tender in minimum time; coming alongside; performing man overboard recoveries in any conditions, with the target both conscious and unconscious; and throwing lines, even over a crowded deck, all need to be second nature.

They establish clear procedures for recovering people from the water and guiding them to the right place to sit. Someone coming from a distress situation, who may be in an altered mental state, may instinctually try and get below deck, which would result in a crowded saloon that leaves no room for operation.

‘There are these very small steps that sound quite obvious when you speak about them, but in a rescue you don’t have the time to think about it,’ Johannes says. ‘All these procedures have to be trained and agreed on within this group of seven before. Especially on a small ship, everyone needs to be prepared and know where the equipment is and how to do it.’

Ahead of each mission, incoming crews also receive a thorough technical and mental preparation, as well as professional legal briefings and psychological support to help manage the emotional toll.

Every member of crew volunteering on NADIR undergoes extensive preparation ahead of each operation Photo: Leon Salner / RESQSHIP.

According to the International Organization for Migration, 2024 was the deadliest year on record for migrants. 8,938 people died on migration routes worldwide.

2,452 of these lives were lost in the Mediterranean, where the IOM says adequate search and rescue systems and safe and regular migration routes are urgently needed.

Since its founding in 2019, RESQSHIP alone has assisted more than 13,000 people.

RESQSHIP’s work at sea

It can seem, ‘A bit crazy, this closeness of the sailing sport and money and us trying to do something,’ says Johannes.

The races that clip past the Island of Lampedusa, NADIR’s closest Port of Safety, “probably spend millions on the regatta sailing yachts, and 30 miles South there’s a rescue operation.”

He’s quick to point out another double standard between leisure cruising and maritime rescue.

“One year ago, there was a luxury sailing yacht, Bayesian, sinking close to Sicily, and there was probably assistance there in 20 minutes. That got coverage. Of course it’s very sad that people drowned there, but the public media attention it got was so much bigger than the boats with many more refugees sinking.”

Still, he sees a lot of untapped potential in the cruising community.

‘I always walk through ports in the islands, and there are so many sailing boats just sitting there. There’s so much capacity, even if the states don’t act, to have a massive civil action. We speak of a “Civil Fleet,” but it’s just a euphemism.

It’s still just a couple of boats out there, and not enough of them.’

S/Y NADIR conducts monitoring activities in the Central Mediterranean. Photo: Friedhold Ulonska / RESQSHIP.

The “Civil Fleet”

Besides NADIR, only two other sailboats (Trotamar III, Dakini) currently operate in the Central Med alongside search and rescue boats run by larger NGOs like SeaWatch, Mediterranea, and SOSMediterranee.

The biggest advantage small sailing boats have over these larger motor vessels is their low cost, both skippers maintain.

As a sporty motor-sailer, NADIR can travel significant distances under engine, as well as move by sail. The sails offer greater stability and give NADIR the option of heaving-to while patrolling instead of having to zig-zag back and forth, saving time, money, and fuel.

‘We can do a three week rotation with 8,000 euro,’ says Johannes. ‘For the bigger ships, this doesn’t even cover one day of fuel.’

Heaving-to also offers extra comfort during sleep rotations, ensuring crews get enough rest to operate safely. Getting enough sleep is crucial to keep crews from making mistakes during operations, he explains. It can even prove to be a limiting factor.

S/Y NADIR conducts monitoring activities in the Central Mediterranean. Photo: Leon Salner.

‘It’s very different mental space you’re in on a search and rescue vessel instead of on a sailing yacht,’ Lauren says. On a leisure cruise, ‘You wouldn’t expect a Mayday Relay, and it may take you a while to realise what’s actually happening. But when I’m on NADIR, it’s something I’m expecting. You’re in alert mode, in tune the whole time. It’s not a holiday.’

NADIR also has a surprising capacity to store equipment and take on several passengers.

‘Lots of people probably can’t imagine having 100 people on a small vessel,’ she laughs. ‘But you can take a lot before your own stability becomes a problem.’

Being small enough to dock next to the other yachts in Lampedusa and to easily anchor in any one of the island’s sheltered bays, NADIR can also  reach the rescue zone more quickly than the bigger NGOs, whose larger search and rescue boats are regularly sent to the mainland under the controversial “Distant Ports” practice, through which Italian authorities have been regularly instructing NGO ships in the Central Med to disembark passengers in far-off ports in Central and Northern Italy.

What actually happens on a search and rescue boat?

In addition to its monitoring activities, if it encounters vessels at risk of capsizing or carrying medical emergencies S/Y NADIR also performs rescues. Photo: Leon Salner / RESQSHIP.

At sea, RESQSHIP operates within its rights as a civilian vessel to monitor areas with a high concentration of distress cases, documenting and stabilising the situation.

‘This direct accountability is very effective,’ Johannes explains. ‘It already makes a difference when we are on scene. Sometimes the authorities get alerted about a distress case, but the responsible MRCC does not take over coordination,’ or at least not immediately. ‘Once a German sailing vessel is on scene with cameras, they feel more obliged to. Then it will not be just a silent drowning in the night.’

‘If there’s immediate risk of capsizing, if water enters the boat or there are severe medical cases amongst the survivors, which is very often the case, we do have to perform rescues.’

Most of their interventions have to do with primary care measures like distributing lifejackets, which the Italian Coast Guard does not always provide. Rescued people might have wounds, or just need to go to the toilet. Often they’ve been sitting in their own vomit and pee.

The crew gives them dry clothes, or at least emergency blankets, and distributes water and crackers. If urgent medical care is needed, NADIR’s saloon has the equipment of a small emergency room, with bench extensions for a table, monitors, and oxygen.

Rescue at sea: a case study

The refugee vessels encountered by S/Y NADIR are often carrying children onboard. Photo: Friedhold Ulonska / RESQSHIP.

Stressing that this is just the most recent example, Johannes describes an operation that took place just days before our interview, in which NADIR answered a Mayday Relay issued by a rescue plane that had spotted a migrant boat.

The vessel had been at sea for four to six days without supplies, and had several babies on board.

NADIR made its way onsite, where crew were told some refugees had jumped into the water when the boat’s engine gave out, hoping to push it forward. Waves had quickly separated them from the boat.

NADIR was able to find most– though not all – of the shipwrecked people on the way back to Lampedusa. No one they picked up had been spotted by the patrolling planes.

What to do if you encounter a distress situation while sailing

A civilian yacht encountering a distress case at sea is legally obligated to call for assistance. Photo: Leon Salner / RESQSHIP.

In any comparable situation, or if you should find yourself facing a distress case, after alerting the authorities Johannes recommends keeping a distance and monitoring its progress.

To avoid making the situation more unstable, keep a distance of a couple hundred meters so people don’t try to swim to your vessel. In case of a capsize, you will still be close enough to throw out a life-raft and anything else you might have on board that can help people survive until a bigger vessel approaches.

Should the other boat still have a working engine, it can help to continue on course and show them the way so that support is readily available until the relevant Coast Guard arrives.

It’s important to remember that people on the move are often unequipped to call for help, while almost every sailing vessel has a VHF. Even if you’re not prepared to help a distress case, you can still activate the process by sending a Mayday Relay.

Ultimately, Lauren says, ‘Even if you’re not prepared to really help a certain distress case, it’s still important to just be there. The worst thing a sailor– or anybody– can imagine, is that you’re out there and nobody knows. There’s nobody to come for you.’

‘Having a vessel there that is telling you, we don’t want to drown you, we want to help, we’ll stay here and try to call for help, is really important on a mental and physical level for the people in that situation.’

She adds, ‘People are afraid of people who are in distress, but if you were in that situation you would just be so relieved to see anybody at all on the horizon.’

For anyone worried about criminal repercussions for offering assistance, ‘It’s really the other way around,’ Johannes says firmly. ‘The people being criminalised are the people who need rescue.’

He advises caution if taking any photos or video of the boat or the people onboard, as identifying visual details can be used by authorities to arbitrarily target specific individuals for arrest on arrival.

Obstacles to performing rescues at sea

A civilian yacht encountering a distress case at sea is legally obligated to call for assistance. Photo: Margherita Cioppi / RESQSHIP.

Any civilian yacht that comes across an unseaworthy boat is legally obligated to make a distress case alert on VHF16, at which point it should receive immediate assistance and guidance from authorities.

‘This is really not the case that we are experiencing out there,’ says Johannes. He wavers between resignation, exasperated amusement, and latent rage as he explains that when it comes to migrant boats, things suddenly get more complicated.

International law stipulates that once an MRCC (Maritime Rescue Coordination Centre) has been alerted, the communication gets forwarded until one MRCC takes over coordination. This process should be almost immediate.

Instead, Johannes says, ‘We are calling, and they say, “Ah, no, we are not responsible. You have to call the other one.”’

Search and rescue activities in the central Mediterranean often require careful coordination with between the MRCC, humanitarian vessels, and local authorities. Photo: Paula Gaess.

As it frequently operates in overlapping areas of MRCC jurisdiction, NADIR might be required to alert Italy, Malta, Libya, Tunisia. As a registered German vessel, they also always inform German authorities.

This spread leaves plenty of room for communicative delays and procedural ambiguity and can result in missed or delayed action, he explains. NADIR may be instructed to wait hours next to an unseaworthy boat, which its skippers say is hard to endure.

Authorities aren’t immune to this kind of procedural paralysis, either.

‘They want to assist and help,’ Johannes says of the Italian Coast Guard, which he describes as a generally “reliable partner”. ‘But they get some orders from the MRCC, which falls under the authority of the Ministry of the Interior in Rome, and then their hands are bound.’

The Italian Coast Guard and the Italian Ministry of Interior did not respond to a request for comment. 

Search and rescue activities in the central Mediterranean often require careful coordination with between the MRCC, humanitarian vessels, and local authorities. Photo: Leon Salner / RESQSHIP.

Often, both humanitarian vessels and search and rescue boats are asked to cooperate with authorities that aren’t authorities at all.

‘The other side, the so-called “Libyan Coast Guard,” there are no words for, because they are not a real coast guard. They are not acting in a legal frame,’ Johannes says. ‘So far we haven’t had huge problems with them, but we sometimes have come too late and witnessed pullbacks, or have been ordered to leave the area.’

Other humanitarian vessels have been subject to far more worrying encounters.

On 24 August, the rescue vessel Ocean Viking was shot at by the Libyan Coast Guard while in international waters. There were 87 survivors on board in addition to the humanitarian crew.

While the crew searched the surrounding waters for people in distress, a Libyan patrol vessel approached Ocean Viking and demanded the ship leave the area. After Ocean Viking informed them they would comply, two men aboard the patrol vessel opened fire for at least 20 minutes of assault gunfire, deliberately targeting crew members on the bridge, states a press release from SOS Mediterranee.

Though no one was physically wounded, the attack caused extensive damage to the ship, its RHIBs, rescue equipment. Ocean Viking issued a Mayday and alerted NATO1, seeking protection and assistance. They were referred to the closest NATO asset — an Italian navy ship, which they said did not answer the phone.

The Ocean Viking, chartered by NGO SOS Mediterranee to conduct search and rescue activities in the central Mediterranean. Photo: James Grady / Alamy.

“Pull backs” and incidents like this one are part of what has been called a “shadow immigration system”, through which migrating peoples are captured at sea by Libyan militias operating on EU-gifted motor-vessels and taken to detention centres in Libya.

Since 2017, the EU has contributed €42,223,900 in funding to the first phase of the “Support to Integrated border and migration management in Libya” project, which has the stated aims of enhancing Libyan authorities operational capacity in responding to border crossings, both at sea and in the desert.

The project, and its effects, have been the subject of extensive investigative reporting, according to which migrant captives are held and often tortured while their relatives are extorted for money.

To make a long, bloodcurdling story short, Johannes explains that paying these militias to keep refugees from European waters allows the EU to externalise its handling of migration flow, shifting responsibility for the fleeing people and keeping the matter out of sight.

He says, ‘The policy of giving money to Tunisia and Libya, so basically to failed states, and paying them to pull back the people,’ means that, ‘In the public media there are no images of drowning people.’

Photo: Paula Gaess / RESQSHIP.

In response to a request for comment, a Commission Spokesperson for the EU stated:

When it comes to migration, the EU adopts a comprehensive approach to migration governance in its relationship with partner countries. Human rights being at the heart of EU intervention. This includes advocating for and promoting the protection of the rights of migrants, asylum seekers and refugees, fostering legal migration, addressing the root causes of irregular migration, combating smuggling of migrants and trafficking of human beings. 

At the same time, we also work with partners on reinforcing their border management capacities, and ensuring assisted voluntary, safe and dignified returns, and support to sustainable reintegration in the countries of origin.

 This has been the core of our work in our comprehensive partnerships and in our bilateral relations with partner countries in the region. In all these cases, the respect for human rights and human dignity of all migrants, refugees and asylum seekers has been central. They are the fundamental principles of migration management, in line with obligations under International Law. The EU expects its partners to fulfil these international obligations, including the right to non-refoulement.

The Commission does not have competences on search and rescue, which ultimately falls under EU Member States’ remits. All parties in a Search and Rescue operation need to operate with the required diligence and in full respect of international law and international maritime law. The European Commission encourages all actors, competent authorities as well as private stakeholders, to improve cooperation in search and rescue operations. We remain open and interested in continuing our dialogue with NGOs, including those active at sea.

What does the law say about what happens at sea?

On paper, these pull-backs, not to mention the shootings of humanitarian vessels, shouldn’t be happening.

In June 2024, Crotone Civil Court in Italy ruled that, ‘Interceptions at sea conducted by the Libyan Coast Guard cannot legally qualify as rescue operations since the Libyan authorities are systematically armed, fire gunshots to intimidate civil society actors and migrants, and create an overall situation of danger.’

In response to the shooting of Ocean Viking, the European Center for Constitutional Human Rights (ECCHR) and other humanitarian groups including Amnesty International, Médecins Sans Frontières, ActionAid International and Refugees in Libya, as well as dozens of other organisations from at least ten countries across Europe and the MENA region, have signed an open letter to the EU commission asking it to cut its funding to the Libyan Coast Guard.

Published on 23 September, the letter states, ‘The Libyan Coast Guard does not comply with the standards required to make it a legitimate search and rescue (SAR) actor, and is involved in violent attacks on people in distress during interceptions,’ as found by the Court of Crotone.

Furthermore, it alleges that, ‘Eight years of EU support has not improved this actor’s human rights records, but enabled and legitimised abuses, in violation of Article 29 of the NDICI regulation – which excludes activities that may result in human rights violations from EU funding.’

The shooting of humanitarian vessel Ocean Viking resulted led to an open letter to the EU Commission signed by dozens of NGOs and human rights organisations. Photo: Leon Salner / RESQSHIP.

The letter called for the European Commission to restore the rule of law at its maritime border; suspend cooperation with Libya; and urged Italy to terminate its 2017 Memorandum of Understanding with Libya.

It also asked the EC to finance and coordinate a state-led European search and rescue programme in the Central Mediterranean that can ‘support states in opening safe routes for refugees and migrants to escape Libya, and reduce their reliance on dangerous routes.’

The search and rescue catch-22

But what do the legal intricacies mean for skippers like Lauren and Johannes, or for a civilian yacht that comes across a distress situation?

Photo: Paula Gaess / RESQSHIP.

In June 2024, the Crotone Civil Court had also ruled that, ‘Libya cannot be considered a safe place for disembarkation due to its serious and systematic violations of human rights and the fact that it has never ratified the Geneva Convention.’

This means that pull-backs likely fall into something called “refoulment”, the act of returning refugees or asylum seekers to places or countries where they might face persecution, which is overtly prohibited by EU and international law. All those involved are liable.

Yet, the Libyan Coast Guard regularly demands that humanitarian and search and rescue boats surrender rescued migrating people and leave the scene. Other state authorities instruct them to comply, leaving humanitarian crews in a difficult double bind.

‘On the one hand, if you alert an authority and you know that they will bring people back to torture, you are making yourself accountable to criminal law for bringing people back to a country where they aren’t safe,’ Johannes explains. ‘On the other hand, we have to comply with what the Italian authorities ask of us.’

He stresses that the organisation’s very survival, its ability to keep helping refugees, is at stake.

‘We have to be hyper-perfect if we want to stay in operation.’

Search and rescue boats detained under the Piantedosi Decree

S/Y NADIR was detained twice this summer, marking the first ever time a sailing yacht was detained in conjunction to search and rescue activities. Photo: Paula Gaess / RESQSHIP.

In recent months, this emphasis on compliance still hasn’t been enough to keep organisations like RESQSHIP in operation.

Over the summer, NADIR was detained twice by Italian authorities. Many other boats in the “Civil Fleet,” as well as SeaWatch’s rescue plane SeaBird 1, suffered a similar fate.

NADIR’s first seizure on 8 June was the first ever time a sailing yacht had been detained in conjunction with search and rescue activities.

Its crew had just evacuated 112 people from an unseaworthy wooden boat in international waters off the coast of Libya, approximately a 12 hour sail from Lampedusa. Under the Piantedosi Decree, RESQSHIP was accused of (1) not communicating with the Libyan authorities, which Lauren specifies they had, and (2) not following orders regarding its assigned Port of Safety.

Video footage circulated in the meantime shows NADIR being surrounded by Frontex, Coast Guard and Guardia di Finanza and granted access to the Port of Lampedusa, the last Port of Safety agreed upon in written form with the MRCC, by the local Harbour Master.

The Piantedosi Decree introduces additional requirements for NGO search and rescue boats, and legitimises the “Distant Ports” practice. It gives Italian authorities the right to fine and detain rescue ships on various grounds, including alleged failure to abide by instructions from the so-called Libyan Coast Guard.

S/Y NADIR conducts monitoring activities in the Central Mediterranean. Photo: Friedhold Ulonska / RESQSHIP.

However, the Decree itself was under consideration in the Italian Constitutional Court from 21 May 2025 after interventions from Human Rights Watch and the European Center for Constitutional and Human Rights. A challenge to its legality had been previously raised by NGO SOS Mediterranee following the detainment of its ship Ocean Viking, the same vessel affected by the 24 August shoot-out.

While the challenge was dismissed on 8 July 2025, the ICC’s ruling did recognise the Piantedosi Decree’s overtly punitive nature.

It also acknowledged its intent to dissuade search and rescue activities, and reiterated the legal requirement that rescue operations end in a port of demonstrable safety; where fundamental human rights of the rescued persons are guaranteed; in the shortest amount of time possible; and without undue burden on the vessel’s captain.

These stipulations seem to contrast “Distant Ports” orders, Human Rights Watch has said.

Italy’s Interior Minister Matteo Piantedosi maintains that the practice is designed to reduce strain on reception systems in the regions surrounding the Central Mediterranean, Sicily and Calabria, and to more evenly distribute refugee arrivals among various ports.

Yet like the recent detentions, ‘The intention behind the practice – and indeed, the only notable consequence of its introduction – appears to be to keep NGO rescue vessels far away from the areas where boats carrying refugees and migrants are most often in distress,’ writes Amnesty International.

A single detention can rack up thousands of euros in fines and take search and rescue boats out of operation for at least 20 days at a time, impacting two full rotations.

‘All it does is keep us away from the sea,’ Johannes says. ‘We are just there to help people […] They want to silence us and not have any public out there.’

The ICC also established humanitarian vessels’ right to not comply with unlawful orders (those which contradict the SAR Convention and International Maritime Organisation’s Guidelines), including those which may be issued by the Libyan “Coast Guard”, and to disregard any order which conflicts with the fundamental duty to save a human life.

What does this mean for humanitarian vessels?

S/Y NADIR conducts monitoring activities in the Central Mediterranean. Photo: Paula Gaess / RESQSHIP.

In order to defend their right to operate, intervene, and disobey illegitimate orders, humanitarian organisations regularly have to play a game of legal and procedural whack-a-mole. Johannes says that currently, between the Italian and the European courts, there are 10 ongoing “Distant Port” related legal hearings underway.

Whatever its outcome, by the time a case hits the courtroom it’s already too late. They have lost valuable time, with a likely cost of human lives.

‘Even if they end up losing the legal battle, they won,’ Johannes says. ‘We do not want to shift our fight from being out at sea and helping people into legal battles in front of courts.’

‘Our biggest demand is that there’s a state actor getting active again, and that responsibility is not shifting.’ He maintains the route will only get more dangerous under the current European policy.

‘As long as there are reasons for the people to go on such a journey […] they will not stop trying.’

The danger, he says, lies in ‘thinking this is somehow a phenomenon that can be controlled.’ ✦

The 2025 operational season is coming to an end. Crewing for next year will be available on the website in October/November. RESQSHIP also welcomes donations and material contributions, in particular of safe and working medical supplies.

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The post ‘Mass casualty we face very often,’ says skipper of search and rescue sailing yacht in the Central Med appeared first on Yachting World.

‘Laaaaaaaaaand ho!’

The first shouts drifted through the companionway at 0545 on 25 April. Hiva Oa was visible in the pre-dawn light just off our starboard bow. French Polynesia: the South Sea Islands.

I lingered in my bunk a minute longer, lost in a sleepy stupor from the low drone of the engine. The last hundred miles of the crossing had been frustratingly windless, but there is no better sleep aid than constant rpms.

When I stepped into the cockpit, the island was close by to starboard. High green hills surrounded us on three sides as Falken approached the bay, a ragged ridgeline running down the centre of the island, and black volcanic slopes disappeared into the sea where the long south-easterly swell exploded onto the rocky cliffs in high plumes of spray. The crew was quiet, gazing at the land like they hadn’t seen any in weeks.

On the breeze came the rich smell of earth, my favourite part of any landfall and the most surprising – and emotional – to first-time passagemakers. We cut the engine a half-mile off and left the Farr 65 Falken to her own devices while the crew stripped down and jumped over the side, whooping into the cool water. Then we motored into the anchorage, threading between a dozen other boats.

Inside the breakwater the swell still found us, rolling the deck under our feet as we rigged the shade awning and popped the champagne. After nearly 17 days and 3,259 miles, the Marquesas were ours, and that satisfying sense of accomplishment started sinking in. And yet here’s the thing – if I ever cross the Pacific again, I might consider skipping them.

I know, I know, this is heresy. The Marquesas are sacred ground for bluewater sailors, one of the all-time iconic ports of call. They’re the mythical first landfall after the long haul from the Americas, the stuff of legendary sea stories and Polynesian fantasies. The dream.

The reality was weeks rolling at anchor and biblical rain. Weary after nearly three weeks at sea and longing for rest and respite, I eventually found what I was looking for further south-west, in the Tuamotus and finally Tahiti – still lagoons, coconut palms, unfathomably blue water, and deep rest.

17 days and 3,259 miles across the Pacific was a long haul to the Marquesas. Photo: Aidan Gray

Enchanted Isles

My South Pacific passage began by flying into the Galapagos to skipper Falken, which felt like cheating. In 36 hours I’d gone from playing with my five-year-old son on his trampoline in Sweden, to south of the equator, halfway around the planet, experiencing the surreal way time bends on long-haul international flights.

The Galapagos reminded me in a curious way of Svalbard – a group of remote, exotic islands, a heavily protected environment and an abundance of rare wildlife that you only see in these specific places. That the two islands are separated by 80° of latitude is moot. Where walrus and polar bears preside over the icy landscape up north, sea lions, blue-footed boobies and giant tortoises dot the terrain in the south.

The sea lions are particularly entertaining – in San Cristobal they own the waterfront, sleeping on park benches, occupying the transoms of boats who don’t put up enough fender defences, and barking at anyone who comes too close.

Before our ocean departure, first mate Emily Caruso ran the crew through MOB drills: point one: stay on the boat. The water was warm and calm, so we did live recovery practice. It was a hell of a job hauling someone up Falken’s high topsides, even in flat calm at anchor compared to the rolling Pacific swells coming our way. The drill did its job of making everyone think like a sailor: pay attention and, above all, don’t fall in.

instructions from skipper Andy Schell for the crew working forward. Photo: Aidan Gray

Pollywogs & Shellbacks

We crossed the equator southbound just as the sun was kissing the horizon to the west. To mark the moment the crew shut down the engine and fired a cannon salute (yes, Falken carries a small cannon), and with that King Neptune appeared. His accomplice ‘Davy Jones’ read our supposed crimes against the deep – steering too wide, sleeping too long, being general ‘ne’er-do-wells’ – and sentenced us accordingly.

My punishment was a ‘haircut’ from the Royal Barber, whose kit consisted of a bucket of saltwater and a pair of safety scissors. We drank Doctor Doom’s foul elixir, sang shanties, and banged spoons on a pot in the place of a drum. We graduated from Pollywogs to Shellbacks, initiated into Neptune’s realm.

But the wind didn’t return. The engine went back on, the sails stayed limp, and our ceremony faded into the monotonous cacophony of the iron genny. For days we pushed on, the boat rolling in a low swell, the rig shuddering every time the boom and the sea got out of sync. Old sea captains cursed calms more than storms for the damage they did to ship’s gear and crew morale. We were able to tick off 350 miles under power in two days – a far cry from the weeks the square-riggers could be becalmed here – but frustrating all the same. Patience in the doldrums is easy to preach but hard to live.

Article continues below…

The tropical South Pacific is also hot. And very humid. Nothing could have prepared us for the heat of equatorial sailing. When we slept, our bodies left an imprint against the sheets like a crime scene outline, but in sweat.

Outside it was marginally cooler in the breeze, but then we had to avoid the sun. We had an umbrella rigged up in the cockpit to provide a little extra shade (this despite the superstitious implications – umbrellas on board, like bananas, are considered very bad luck at sea). The only shade before noon was a small sliver next to the mast on the port side, which had become a popular spot for the on-watch while taking turns driving.

1,000 MILES Offshore

When the south-east trades finally filled in, Falken flat-out flew, covering 225-plus miles for eight consecutive days. The sailing was effortless; a poled out yankee and reefed mainsail made for fingertip steering, with each watch gunning for the surfing record. We regularly hit double-digit speeds, and topped out at over 16 knots.

Sea lions rule the roost in San Cristobal, Galapagos.
Photo: Aidan Gray

Though thankful for the wind, we hadn’t had many truly great starry nights on the passage. But one particular evening late into the passage, they were out in full splendour. The Milky Way dazzled to port, the Southern Cross lost among the myriad stars surrounding it. The Big Dipper hovered on the horizon to starboard, its pointer stars aimed at Polaris, now well below the northern horizon from our perspective in the Southern Hemisphere.

Arcturus and Spica, two of the brightest, were visible behind the helmsman’s head. It’s impossible to properly describe how stunning a fully starlit sky is at sea, where the only light pollution for a thousand miles is the masthead tricolour weaving around aloft as the boat pitches and rolls.

While we still had a long way to sail, by now the cracks had started to show in the crew’s resolve to stay in the moment. I was partly to blame – I’d raised the topic one night of what food everyone was most looking forward to eating when we arrived ashore (the correct answer is always a cheeseburger and a cold beer). But we hadn’t fully broken the spell.

The stars that night were a reminder to stay present. Falken had sailed 2,307 miles, with 1,000 more to go.

The Marquesas off the port bow after 17 days at sea. Photo: Aidan Gray

Marquesas to Starboard?

But our mid-ocean dreaming of burgers and beer gets to the core of why I might consider skipping the Marquesas next time. What is it that you want most after a long passage? Not having an opportunity for that first great meal ashore (there is one mediocre restaurant on the waterfront in Nuku Hiva) nagged at me.

Voyaging in remote places is a series of continuous ups and downs, emotionally and physically, and they tend to balance each other out over the long term. The Marquesas are spectacularly, exotically beautiful, but they are rarely comfortable. Anchorages are tight, deep, or exposed. Unlike the Caribbean, there aren’t shops and cafes on the waterfront – only goats, horses and an open-air market (though the French grocery store was well-stocked and the hardware store helpful).

Refuelling required a jerry can shuffle in the dinghy. I readily acknowledge that for many these are simply features of the adventure, not a negative. But I’d never really heard anyone mention it before. I’m also not a typical cruiser, Falken is not your typical cruising boat. It’s a business. Between 59° North passages with paying crew, we usually have just a few days of staying put to rest and reset.

In the Marquesas we had down time, but weren’t truly able to explore. Handling Falken’s big mainsail without a full crew is a project in itself, so sailing off to find a better anchorage wasn’t on the cards.

It was a rolling South Pacific passage. Photo: Aidan Gray

We did some exploring – hikes into lush valleys, enjoyed beers with other sailors, and completed minor boat work. But more often it felt like we were just waiting to depart while enduring the heat, humidity and ‘no-nos’, the horrendous sand flies. I wasn’t actually sure we’d ever get out of Nuku Hiva.

After more than two weeks at anchor in a rolling Taiohae Bay, when the crew arrived for the next leg, days of torrential rain delayed our departure further when the harbour became flooded with debris washed off the mountains. So when the skies finally cleared, we bolted.

Five hundred blissful, beam reaching miles later and the contrast between the chaotic anchorage at Taiohae in Nuku Hiva and the tranquillity of Kauehi village in the Tuamotus couldn’t have been any more stark. Where in Nuku Hiva Falken had rolled heavily in an unbroken swell that backwashed against the seawall, we sat perfectly still inside the protected lagoon at Kauehi atoll.

In Kauehi the sea-level elevation allowed the breeze to blow freely, and kept the bugs away. Crystal-clear water was highlighted in spectacular shades of turquoise and deep blue, occasionally disturbed by yellow-tinted lemon sharks that swam by the boat. We spent two blissful nights here, relaxing and exploring. With no cell service at the village, refreshingly nobody was even on their phones.

Not being able to enjoy the same little luxuries that had accompanied all my Atlantic landfalls after a long stint as sea perhaps clouded my judgement of Hiva Oa and Nuku Hiva. And one of those is being able to sleep on a still boat. There are no docks anywhere in the Marquesas and, with no fringing reef and incessant swell, there are also no calm anchorages.

South Pacific cruising is not always bright skies and blue seas. Photo: Aidan Gray

The strain of spending three weeks at sea isn’t relieved in the same way it’s relieved in say, Horta. It wasn’t until Tahiti, seven weeks after I’d joined Falken in the Galapagos, that we finally got that truly cathartic moment of luxurious release.

Tahiti was familiar, in both the best and worst senses of the word. High-end marinas – or a protected anchorage inside the reef at much less cost; a huge air-conditioned Carrefour grocery store; hipster smoothies at the beach bar; rum distilleries and rainforest hikes. It was everything a crew fantasises about towards the tail end of any long passage.

With its protected lagoons, fruit falling from the sky, friendly people, and French cuisine galore, Tahiti is like true paradise – why would you ever choose to leave? But for me, the passage ended in Tahiti, both literally and figuratively. I flew home after a week exploring the island and recouping my energy from the long ocean passage.

Returning dreams

Expectations dictate what you get out of a voyage. With hindsight, I realise my first Pacific crossing was about the South Seas myth at the expense of enjoying some of the reality. For my second Pacific crossing – and there will have to be a second – I know I can choose our own path. But, honestly, I don’t think I could resist going back.

59° North’s Falken is a 65ft Bruce Farr design built in 1999, originally for a round the world race. Photo: 59° North Sailing

Because for all my griping, you simply can’t miss the Marquesas. The sense of achievement of arrival after 3,000 miles at sea is unmatched. The cultural depth – from the tattoo traditions to the exotic feasts – is unlike anywhere else. You’re not being sold anything in the Marquesas, which may have frustrated my yearnings for a post-crossing reward, but in the moment is quite the relief.

And that first sight of land after weeks at sea… there’s nothing like it. One morning you’re looking at an empty horizon, the next at unfathomably steep mountains carved from the sea. So if you’re crossing the Pacific for the first time, definitely don’t avoid the Marquesas.

Instead, calibrate your expectations. It’s so easy in the age of Starlink to expect that anywhere you go, things will always be more or less the same. Leave all that behind, and experience the Marquesas for what they are – an isolated outpost in the middle of the vast Pacific with some of the most dramatic scenery and friendliest people on Earth. Ignore my heretic hot take. Go.

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Fika rolls in the swell as Sophie clings to the mast. Twenty-four hours since we left Melbourne, we are sailing through Bass Strait, notorious for its gale force winds and nasty seas.

I hoist Sophie skyward towards the masthead and, with each roll, look up to check her progress. Her movement becomes increasingly precarious, like a human pendulum. I watch my daughter wrap her long limbs around every available hold to prevent her being flung into the mast. I dread to wonder what Sophie will find at the top. It’s only day two and I admit to feeling a little defeated: we have over 5,000 miles to go.

It has been a tough 24 hours. My inner critic is berating my decision to take us offshore to avoid a predicted wind hole between us and Australia’s Victorian coast. These light conditions are uncharacteristic of Bass Strait. The race tracker only reinforces my foolishness. The rest of the fleet is sailing swiftly north-east. Meanwhile we are ghosting along heading south-east towards Tasmania, next stop: Antarctica!

Fika is running under symmetric spinnaker. The wind continues to veer northwards and I’m not sure what the right tactic is. Regardless, it’s time to sock the spinnaker and lower it. My heart sinks when I realise the halyard is jammed and the spinnaker will not come down. But there’s no time for self-pity. This is the sail of a lifetime. A priceless journey with my incredible daughter. We are sailing in the Melbourne Osaka Cup; double-handed, non-stop from Australia to Japan.

Fika is a seakindly Najad 490 family cruising yacht and the backbone of Annette Hesselman’s sail training business. The yacht was mildly modified for easier short-handed sailing in readiness for the Melbourne Osaka Cup. Photo: Al Dillon/Melbourne Osaka Cup

Melbourne Osaka Cup

This race has been on my mind since I watched the start of the first Melbourne Osaka Cup in 1987 aboard my father’s timber motorboat. I was a sailing-obsessed teenager believing I one day would sail around the world just like my idols, Naomi James and Claire Francis.

At 5,500 miles the Melbourne Osaka Cup is the longest longitudinal yacht race in the world and the equivalent of eight Sydney to Hobart yacht races. Competitors sail from 38°S to 34°N, traversing many weather systems, and travelling backward through the seasons from autumn in Melbourne to summer at the equator and spring in Japan, via the Tasman, Coral, and Solomon Seas, and North Pacific. It is held approximately every five years.

In 2025, crew ages ranged from 27 to 76 years, with six female sailors. The 16 yachts included every conceivable style, from an S&S 34, Class 40s, J-Boats, one-off designs, – such as the Reichel-Pugh Alive with a pro crew – and cruising yachts including our Najad 490, Fika.

Having competed in the 2018 Melbourne Osaka Cup, I found the race truly life changing. It is a humbling experience feeling the enormity of the vast ocean. Coping with the incredibly challenging light winds and lack of progress at times teaches patience, perseverance and humility. Successfully completing the 2018 race gave me the confidence to start my own sailing adventure business, which is now an RYA Training Centre.

Mother and daughter Annette and Sophie worked well together. Photo: Sophie Snijders/Sailing Nakama

Co-skippers

After the 2018 race, my then-20-year-old daughter, Sophie, offered to be my first mate for the return voyage back to Australia. We set sail for what Sophie described initially, and naively, as a sunset cruise. It soon became rudely apparent that the delivery would be anything but with constant shipping, squalls, heat and discomfort aboard the spartan racing yacht I sailed at the time.

On the two-month passage home Sophie proved invaluable and I cherished every moment. Following our return, Sophie moved aboard her own yacht, Nakama, and began sailing around Australia while completing her degree and documenting her travels on YouTube (@SlimSophSailingNakama). So I didn’t hesitate to enter the 2025 race – nor to ask Sophie if she’d be my co-skipper.

I am incredibly fortunate to have the most beautiful yacht to sail on our adventure. Fika is the backbone of my sail training business, and we spend much of our time plying the oceans while sharing knowledge, skills and hopefully developing the confidence of all who sail aboard. Designed by Judel Vrolijk, it’s a Najad 490, built in Sweden in 2001. With no intention to swap Fika for a fancy racing yacht, Sophie and I set about preparing her for the marathon sail from Melbourne to Osaka.

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With her fine lines and outstanding design, the Najad 490 is a seakindly yacht. As dogged as her owner, when conditions deteriorate she just knuckles down and gets on with the job. Despite her weight (19 tonnes), Fika performs well and can easily make 200 miles a day on passage. With a versatile cutter rig she’s well set up for offshore sailing, though we have tried to simplify by replacing the furling boom with a conventional boom and single line reefing leading to the centre cockpit.

Our training schedule included a 750-mile sail out to Lord Howe Island, and our qualifying race: the Rolex Sydney-Hobart (in which we won the double-handed PHS Division). With each training sail, we tweaked Fika’s deck set-up and tested our original spinnakers and second-hand Code 0. Each training sail also reinforced how compatible Sophie and I are as a team. In the seven years since that delivery, I felt my daughter had become my sailing peer.

The two months leading up to the race were spent in Melbourne. Both my elderly parents were hospitalised six weeks before the start. My time became focused on mum and dad rather than the race. At times I felt incredibly selfish to be even thinking about starting, and seriously wondered if we would make it. My husband, Gerry, and Sophie’s partner, Simon, worked tirelessly to support us and help prepare Fika. Despite the sadness of leaving my parents, it was a huge relief to finally cross the start line.

Fika raced with a limited sail wardrobe, but still a lot for two to handle, especially when the spinnaker halyard jammed, requiring a mast climb. Photo: Sophie Snijders/Sailing Nakama

Bass Strait

Shortly after the start, we find ourselves in this predicament in Bass Strait. Besides the stuck spinnaker halyard, our hydraulic boom vang is faulty, greedily gulping all the hydraulic fluid required to work not only the vang but the backstay and babystay.

One step at a time, we tackle each of the issues. At the masthead, Sophie discovers the halyard soft shackle is caught around another fitting but is able to free it. We jury rig a Dyneema rope boom vang, then bleed and refill the hydraulic system with oil after isolating the vang from the more critical backstay. After four days we head offshore to find the north-bound East Australian Current. I feel immensely proud of the two of us as we problem solve.

At last we start making progress. I turn the race tracker back on and watch as we slowly rejoin the main fleet. We capture the tradewinds and make our way northwards along the Australian coast some 100 miles offshore. We push Fika as hard as possible, flying the spinnaker and Code 0 well into the night, sacrificing precious sleep for speed. Fika is in her element powering along on a broad reach. The gap to the fleet reduces to 5 miles from our nearest competitor Magellan, a one-off Knoop 39. It’s a game of snakes and ladders, and we are climbing a ladder.

Glassy seas and no wind were a regular feature. Photo: Sophie Snijders/Sailing Nakama

As we shed layers of clothing with the warming weather, we settle into a lovely routine sharing our meals, taking it in turns to catch up on sleep during the day, then sitting on the side deck in the shade for a ‘happy hour’ of soda water and nibbles. I relish our time together.

A low pressure trough disrupts our progress and prematurely stifles the south-east trades. The wind backs to the north-east and then north. The dice has rolled and we have landed on a snake. Our progress slows in lightening winds and the fleet sneaks ahead. We fly the Code 0 and chafe through the outer sheath of the halyard. With a bulging halyard we are unable to lower the sail. At midnight, Sophie and I mouse a spare while cutting the deformed one away. With success, we lower the Code 0 in the strengthening wind.

Solomon Sea

The temperature continues to rise as we inch closer towards the equator. Saltwater baths bring brief, welcome relief. We tack our way north, averaging just three miles an hour towards the entrance to the Solomon Sea. At 13°S the ocean resembles a mirror, the doldrums still a few hundred miles away.

Our progress is excruciatingly slow through the Solomon Sea as we experience light to no wind, headwinds, thunderstorm cells and constant squalls. If we are doing greater than one knot, we are veritably hooning along.

Sophie and I work hard to keep Fika moving with our limited sail wardrobe. We use the radar to monitor squalls, timing each reef to within a nautical mile of being hit. We’re relieved whenever a storm cell and rain squall passes to the north or south of us.

Annette at Fika’s wheel. Photo: Sophie Snijders/Sailing Nakama

Unfortunately there are times when there’s no escape. Squalls torment us, each bringing a minute of wind before it changes its mind in direction and strength. Then they get bored, toss us out like a play toy and move on. We’re inevitably left wallowing, usually pointing in the wrong direction. The larger storm cells bring torrential rain, 30-plus knots of wind and scary electrical storms. One night, Sophie and I cower in the cockpit with bolts of lightning and deafening thunder overhead. It lasts for an hour.

Mirror calm

There are, however, moments of sheer beauty. Periods of no wind often bring a glassy sea. We drop the sails and marvel at the stars and planets reflecting on the mirror-like ocean. I stop looking at the race tracker, as I end up berating myself for each mile lost to the competitors.

I feel powerless when our progress is poor, and give myself pep talks to sail our own race. I feel myself learning the gift of patience and perseverance. Sophie is much more at peace with our situation, she calmly listens to my moaning and puts it all in perspective. I try to mimic the tranquillity surrounding us.

It is hard to know where the doldrums start and finish, but we continue to experience calms and squalls until approximately 2°S. The Code 0 is a godsend and keeps Fika moving in the slightest breeze, until it tears from luff to leech. Our wings are clipped and we drift westwards with the equatorial current, trying to fight it whenever there is wind.

Thunderstorm cells and squalls were a constant threat in the Solomon Sea. Photo: Sophie Snijders/Sailing Nakama

We are hit by squalls, spat out, and spun around. I stop fighting the tide and try to be at peace with the doldrums. The nights are magnificent and when there is no swell, we drop the sails and drift while the sea and sky become one.

The strain on Fika from the constant slatting is noticeable, and at times distressing, with halyard chafe, mainsail cars coming apart and the main traveller loosening and leaking. We reef or drop the mainsail to prevent damage, use the preventer to hold the boom when the main is up. It is a never ending battle.

Flocks of small cumulus puffs herald the arrival of the north-east trades. Our spirits rise with our newfound movement and we revel in making progress once again. Fika glides along on a close reach under full sail and staysail. We are once again gaining on Magellan.

Pacific dreams

With our newfound freedom from constant sail changes, we watch the world go by from the cockpit, awestruck at the beauty surrounding us. The ocean is a magnificent blue. It is alive and dancing, seducing us with its vibrancy. Flying fish, false killer whales, booby birds and giant tuna grace Fika’s presence. I’m spellbound by the clouds and realise I can predict the day ahead by their behaviour and size. Time is marked by the phases of the moon, its light and reflection on the dark ocean bringing comfort to our night watches.

Fika’s huge overlapping headsail was a handful in tacks. Photo: Sophie Snijders/Sailing Nakama

We cross the equator and mark the milestone with an offering of rum to King Neptune. I make us Turks Head bracelets to mark the occasion, and we celebrate with pancakes. This is Sophie’s second crossing and my third.

All the while there is never-ending navigation and tactics to decode. Sophie and I spend each morning uploading GRIB files and working out the best strategy for passing through the Federated States of Micronesia and the Marianna Islands. Having made a decision, I then doubt myself when I see the other yachts taking different routes through the islands. We opt for the rhumb line, and I remind myself, again, to sail our own race. Sophie is steadfastly unfazed.

Osaka Wan

With 1,000 miles to go we feel like we are almost there, but know that our greatest challenge is yet to come. We leave the tradewinds and sail into the variables. As we inch closer to Japan shipping increases and we plan our final leg weaving our way through the Kuroshio Current to exploit its northbound flow.

The weather is moody and we prepare for low pressure systems sweeping across the course. Following a gale warning we make our final approach towards the entrance to Kii Suido, the entrance to Osaka Bay. With no moon, and building wind and seas, we sail blindly through the night. The phosphorescence outlines the breaking waves behind us. Fika is goosewinged with reefed sails, surfing down waves at 14-15 knots. It is a black night with a cacophony of ships flashing on our AIS and radar. We are back to chasing Magellan hard, now 12 miles ahead.

Sailing through the seasons from autumn to summer requires a full complement of foul weather gear. Photo: Sophie Snijders/Sailing Nakama

I hope that our luck holds and we don’t entangle the multitude of fishing floats and matted nylon rope ‘islands’ we’ve seen during daylight hours. With Fika’s skeg-hung rudder we’re susceptible to snagging flotsam.

By dawn, we are in fog with ships surrounding us. Horns sound every few minutes. We have just 70 miles to go and Sophie and I are tired. I know these last miles may take us 24 hours as the winds are fickle in the Osaka Wan. I remind us both that we need to stay safe and patient – in 2018 five yachts finished within hours of each other. All of us lost sense and many yachts did more damage in the final 50 miles than the whole race.

Sophie tackles each ship and its impending collision one by one. The wind eases and we favour the western side of Kii Suido which is predicted to have more wind. We are gaining on Magellan, painstakingly close to the finish. Inch by inch we close in. By dusk we ghost through the Yura Seto, the neck between the Kii Suido and Osaka Wan. There is a Traffic Separation Scheme with ships funnelling through. With luck, a gap opens between ships and we cross through it without being run down.

Sophie watches telltales. Photo: Sophie Snijders/Sailing Nakama

The final hours of our race are incredibly tense as we pass Magellan, only for them to overtake us again. We fall back into a tacking duel up Osaka Wan. By necessity rather than strategy we tack side by side, avoiding unlit seaweed farms, anchored barges, ships, tugs and lumps of reclaimed land.

The wind increases from the north. In 20 knots, we are tacking Fika like a dinghy, Sophie at the helm. With Fika’s huge overlapping headsail, in each tack the headsail threatens to entangle with the staysail before breaking free. I heave on the sheet with all my might. Fika is pointing high, slightly overpowered and we feather her up with the gusts.

Fika crosses the finish line. Photo: Kazuyoshi Yamano

There is light pollution and obstacles everywhere as Magellan and Fika blindly wrestle their way towards the finish. We are so amazed that after 5,500 miles we can be within metres of our competitors, a father and daughter team – this race really is a family affair. We cross the line in chaos, unsure where the virtual mark is. The VHF booms to life as the Japanese volunteers tell us we have finished. Magellan had snuck across nine minutes ahead having favoured the windward end. Regardless, we are blown away with excitement.

Sophie and I are in disbelief at what we have achieved. We spent 38 days at sea together and sailed over 5,500 miles racing our beloved cruising yacht. We sailed through equatorial heat, emotional highs and lows; beauty and joy. I am immensely proud of my daughter, her capability, empathy, resilience and strength, and honoured to be part of this great race.

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Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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The post The mother and daughter team who took on the longest longitudinal yacht race in the world appeared first on Yachting World.

I was a man obsessed. I longed to see the sea, to sail quietly across its surface driven only by a puff of wind, to smash through the night in a great tempest. I had become seduced by the books I read describing strange distant lands, postcard-esque shorelines, foreign cultures and a complete absence of bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic.

William Albert Robinson’s 10,000 Leagues Over the Sea was the first cruising book I read, and it made me want to run away – or rather sail away – from home immediately. Robinson circumnavigated between 1928-1932 on his 32ft ketch Svaap and wrote tales of exploring then-still-exotic Tahiti and spending time with headhunters in Papua New Guinea.

I went on to read Harry Pidgeon’s book Around the World Single Handed. Pidgeon built his modest 34ft yawl Islander in 1917 on the banks of the Los Angeles harbour, not far from where I refit my own boat, Triteia. Pidgeon was the second person to ever sail solo around the world, 23 years after Slocum. Reading Pidgeon’s stories from my own local waters, coupled with the mantra of iconic cruisers Lin and Larry Pardey – ‘Go Small, Go Simple, Go Now’ – was all the inspiration I needed to charge forward with my own dream.

The thought of going with someone else never even crossed my mind in the early days. On my 40th birthday I was recovering from double pneumonia that nearly took my life, and it was on that day I decided I wanted to circumnavigate. Life is simply too short to wait on dreams.

When his rudder failed Frederick improvised and sailed 1,000 miles to Hawaii steering using a towed drogue. Photo: James Frederick

Self reliance

August 20th, 2021
28° 52.019N 131° 20.984W

0200: The winds had vanished, and the boat was being tossed around in a ruckus that made the cabin sound like a box of dishes in the back of a pickup truck. I climbed out on deck and steered us back on course. The wind is so light it seems hopeless because the windvane can’t steer with no wind.

Our course should be 240° on the compass. I steer her to 270° to try and get her moving and suddenly Triteia is screaming through the water like a Nantucket sleigh ride, but when I bring her back to 240°… not a breath of air.

I started to wonder if I actually didn’t know how to sail, before I remembered we were 700 miles offshore so at some point in the last eight days I must’ve known how…

This cycle went on for 30 minutes, with me mostly sitting in my underwear in the cockpit. I would get Triteia moving, climb back into my nest, then she’d wallow again.

Finally I’d had enough, put on my foulies to climb out into the cockpit – only to find that we were sailing perfectly on 240° making fine speed.

The solo sailor, to a certain degree, is always on watch, even when you’re off watch. There are no other hands to quiet the boat, to keep her moving efficiently and on course. The best we can do is be patient, keep the boat balanced and trimmed and hope the squalls are kind to you when they arrive. The trade off is you don’t have anyone else to complain when the wind and seas are not co-operating.

I departed Los Angeles and sailed for the Hawaiian Islands on my 1965 Alberg 30 sloop Triteia in August 2021. The passage ended up taking me 32 days due to total steering loss some 1,000 miles from the Hawaiian Islands. I resorted to steering by drogue for 18 days then proudly dropped the hook off the world-famous Waikiki Beach on O’ahu.

Frederick sailed from Fiji to New Zealand and cruised the Bay of Islands without engine. Photo: James Frederick

Solo ocean sailing means you must face all the challenges alone, but it also means you don’t have to worry about a mate or crew member when all seems lost. I lay adrift for two days during that ordeal, attempting to dive on the rudder to lash a line, to no avail. A task I assumed would be an easy fix proved completely impossible. I was faced with only two options; call for help and scuttle my beloved boat that I had spent the last four years preparing; or find a way to steer her to safety.

I have a chilling memory off imagining her filling with water as I scuttled her and climbed up a rope ladder on the side of a cargo ship. I recall saying “Hell No!” out loud and realised for me, there was only one option; to find a way. And that’s exactly what I did.

If I’d not been alone, I’d have had to consider the well-being of the crew, who would have likely been pushing for rescue when all seemed lost. Being able to see it through alone allowed me the time to figure out a solution.

Was it easy? Absolutely not, all the stresses of that situation laid solely on my shoulders, the weight was heavy and the consequences great. But I prevailed. Hopefully I won’t face future challenges of that magnitude, but if I do I know I’ll find a way. To sail around the world alone, you must be mentally fit and able to control your emotions and anxiety.

Squalls on passage from Los Angeles to Hawaii. Photo: James Frederick

August 30th 2021
24° 56.821N 142° 54.323W

2030: We have already done 23.5miles since noon, that was yesterday’s entire noon to noon run. The sun is golden and threatening to set and I have a 360° view of clouds that look like they were painted as a scenic backdrop for a western set in Monument Valley. But in the place of dusty plains and mountains is the steady rolling sea much further than I can see.

We have had amazing and constant winds all day long and have been charging along or surfing down waves since sunrise. I had a wonderful visitor today – a White-tailed Tropicbird! He was majestic and beautiful and attempted to land atop my mast, but its motion was too unruly.

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Anxious passage

After eight months cruising the Hawaiian Islands and making repairs to my rudder, I pointed my bow towards the Southern Cross and beat into the tradewinds to make enough easting to visit the ‘Dangerous Isles’, the legendary Tuamotu archipelago in French Polynesia.

The distance between Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii and Rangiroa in the Tuamotus was almost the exact same distance I’d sailed between Los Angeles and the Hawaiian Islands; 2,300 miles.

I was fairly anxious leading up to this passage, after what I’d experienced sailing to Hawaii. I carried enough water and provisions for more than 40 days at sea, had equipped the boat with new sails, larger solar panels, lithium batteries and an all-electric galley while in Honolulu. I loaded up every spare I could manage, stowage on a 30ft boat being minimal at best. I made one last trip to the grocery store the night before departure and hoped that I’d remembered everything.

‘To sail around the world alone you must be mentally fit’. Photo: James Frederick

June 30th, 2022
14° 51.373N 152° 14.201W

1800: A sailor who chooses to wander the world’s watery surfaces in a small boat must have two characteristics; 1. The inability to distinguish between feelings of misery and comfort and 2. A very poor memory, for if they could accurately recall the misery of their past voyages they should never set to sea again.

The first eight days of the passage were the worst I have experienced before or since. To visit the Tuamotus, I had to beat my way east into the tradewinds before reaching the Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) to make my easting. It was abusive and exhausting, even in my full-keel boat which takes the seas well.

Once I reached the ITCZ and crossed the equator I was able to ease the sheets and had glorious sailing all the way down to French Polynesia.

The Tuamotus ended up being worth the beat. From exploring uncharted motus in the Lagoon of Rangiroa to swimming alone with manta rays at an abandoned pearl farm on Tikehau, these sparsely populated atolls were the highlight of my time in French Polynesia.

I went on to visit the legendary island of Tahiti, dropped my hook at Mo’orea, surrounded by its otherworldly landscapes. I sailed on to Hauhine and visited its sacred blue-eyed eels and visited Polynesia’s most significant religious site, Taputapuatea on Raiatea.

I ended my time in French Polynesia with two weeks at Bora Bora where my 30ft yacht was exempt from the anchoring restrictions (any boat under 10m is allowed to anchor and is not restricted to moorings) – a wonderful surprise benefit to seeing the world on a small boat.

Triteia anchored off the uninhabited islet of Motu Faama in the Rangiroa atoll, French Polynesia. Photo: James Frederick

As I prepared to sail for American Samoa I found I was really looking forward to the ‘short’ 1,100-mile distance. I realised I had none of the anxiety that had weighed on me on the previous big ocean passages. I was far more comfortable now with so many miles in my wake. I knew the boat and what she was capable of, and the moment I cleared the pass at Bora Bora I set the sails wing-and-wing and enjoyed a lively but fast 10 day passage.

I wasn’t free of problems, but I found myself being far more confident and relaxed, even when things broke or got crazy.

July 25th, 2022
14° 58.156S 147° 38.293W

0700: I awoke as the sun was making his entrance. I popped my head out of the hatch and was greeted by a gorgeous sunrise in the making.

Climbing out of my berth into the cabin, the story book clouds over the lagoon slowly began to glow pink and then orange. A $75million superyacht sat anchored astern of Triteia in deeper water. I realized we both had the same view. I also realised no one was on the deck of the superyacht watching the sunrise.

Life on an angle – meal prep in Triteia’s compact galley. Photo: James Frederick

Heading east

Departing French Polynesia I ran before the strong tradewinds to Pago Pago on American Samoa and on to Fiji. When I departed Los Angeles for this circumnavigation I made myself a promise to say ‘Yes’ to any experience that wouldn’t land me in a foreign prison.

For most of my life I have carefully chosen what I would and wouldn’t do, to avoid being in a situation I didn’t want to be in. Now I find myself in places I would have never agreed to visit with my old mindset. Sometimes they lead to me being uncomfortable or are simply not fun, but more times than not I find myself having amazing experiences that I will cherish the rest of my life, all because I opened myself up to saying ‘Yes’ and just going with the flow.

When you’re solo this is easier to manage and, if you find yourself stranded in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain, there is no one else there to be mad at you. It’s known as ‘Type 2 Fun’.

While in Fiji my engine began to fail, and though I got it running long enough to get Triteia outside the barrier reefs of Fiji, it never started again. Sailing south to New Zealand, out of the reliable tradewinds and into the variables I found myself battling low pressure systems with sustained winds of 40-plus knots regularly followed by days of light winds.

I sailed into the Bay of Islands of Aotearoa in a building gale and accepted a good samaritan’s offer for a tow the last mile to the quarantine dock. I spent the next three months cruising the Bay of Islands engineless, riding out four tropical storms and one cyclone under anchor.

Reefing down ready for stronger conditions in the Tasman Sea. Photo: James Frederick

Circumnavigating on a small boat forces us to keep up a quicker pace, due to our slower speeds. Larger yachts with big sails and bigger motors can linger in places longer and make quicker work of the ocean passages. While in the tradewinds, Triteia averages about 110 miles a day on ocean passages with 138 miles being her record best.

This means I need to set realistic goals when it comes to passage planning for the year. In the South Pacific, all sailing yachts need to be out of the cyclone danger zone by the first of December. The distance between Tahiti and the next cyclone-free safe harbour is 3,000 miles on the shortest line. I chose to sail south to New Zealand, while some boats continued west through the Torres Straits for Indonesia or the Indian Ocean.

A year in Aotearoa

I had originally thought I would only be in New Zealand for four months but was amazed at what a vast cruising ground it was, so decided to spend more than a year exploring both the North and South Islands. I visited 77 different anchorages in that time, the highlight being Marlborough Sounds, an elaborate network of coves and inlets whose deep waters are populated with well-maintained mooring balls. (I joined Pelorus Boating Club and received a printed guide showing the locations of more than 100 balls to choose from).

Most of the anchorages provide 360° protection and, even with the intense williwaws that blow down from the surrounding mountains, the sea state never packs much of a punch. But to get here you must cross the infamous Cook Strait.

Triteia anchored in Kāne’ohe Bay, O’hau in the Hawaiian islands. Photo: James Frederick

December 7th 2023,
40° 47.810S 173° 52.086E

0300: I am resting and licking my wounds. Yesterday’s crossing across the notorious Cook Strait was spicy to say the least. Neptune gave me a wink and a nod as I crossed into the Roaring Forties just to remind me what he can serve up.
Yesterday’s forecast called for 17-knot winds sustained.

What I saw was closer to 25 sustained with gusts of 35 and some longer sustained gusts of 40-plus around midnight. Seas were in proportion to the wind, so I am guessing 2m most of the time with some 3m-plus thrown in from time to time, and all very short period, which is what makes them mean.

Cook Strait is a supersonic acceleration zone. The Strait goes from being 60-miles wide to just 11-miles wide at its most narrow point. Combine that with the mountains, and hills on either side and the wind and seas are squeezed into a narrow slot. The depths also go from 3,000ft to 300ft in less than 100 miles. This is like putting your thumb over the end of a garden hose; the wind accelerates in speed, as do the currents, and the waves stand up as the seas drive into the shallows.

We had two low level knockdowns yesterday. The first one was a very large wave that hit with great force and threw Triteia on her side. Everything from the port side flew at high speeds to the starboard side. I was sitting up in the normal spot when the hit happened.

Every piece – and I mean EVERY piece of silverware – flew across the cabin, somehow didn’t hit me. I looked down and saw all five of my large filleting knives, in sheaths thankfully, laying in my lap.

The second knockdown was slow and quiet, basically just a giant swell that rolled Triteia completely on her side. At that point there was nothing left on the port side to fall so nothing went flying. I know Triteia’s entire bottom was out of the water because I heard it make a great splash when the boat righted itself. I laughed at how absurd it was.

James Frederick is a solo sailor circumnavigating in his 1965 Alberg 30 sloop Triteia. Photo: James Frederick

I departed New Zealand from Nelson and made my way out into the Tasman Sea. I’d been nervous about this particular passage for more than six months as the Tasman has a reputation for being a deadly serious stretch of water. I’d spoken to half a dozen Kiwi sailors who had ‘crossed the ditch’ numerous times and all suggested I try and ride the top of high pressure systems all the way across to Sydney.

Following this advice, I ended up having the most pleasant ocean passage I have ever had, making my way north out of the Roaring Forties to complete the 1,200-mile passage in 13 days. I sailed through the Heads into the protection of Sydney Harbour at 2am smiling ear to ear knowing I had successfully crossed the entire Pacific Ocean solo on a 30ft boat.

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage,” wrote author Anais Nin. I find this sentiment to be very true when it comes to seeing the world by sail. We must live our lives to the fullest, and for me this means seeing as much of the world as I can from my modest 30ft sloop.

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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The post ‘What I’ve learned from sailing half way around the world alone’ appeared first on Yachting World.

There is a fierce and surprisingly passionate debate unfolding on the deck of Freeranger, our 50ft Beneteau. The question at hand is which weight to use: the big one or the small one?

All around us, other boats are not wasting their time. It’s the first day of coho salmon season in the glassy waters of British Columbia, and everyone else is bobbing joyfully in the midday sun, hauling fish out of the sea with jubilant ease. Cries of “Fish on!” echo across the sound. The salmon are biting. The FOMO is real.

But we’re not here for the fish, and this isn’t a conversation about fishing tackle. We’re here for science. Citizen science, to be precise. And the debate is about a Secchi Disk – a simple white disk on a measuring tape – and our comic inability to make it behave.

Unfortunately, the current isn’t cooperating. Our Secchi Disk is meant to sink smoothly until it vanishes from sight, thereby allowing us to log the clarity of the water and contribute a tiny pixel of information to a planetary picture of ocean health. But instead, it’s being carried sideways like a drunk jellyfish, and everyone has a theory about how to fix it.

Our son, Eden, has observed all this with the detached cynicism of a seven-year-old boy. “We could just start fishing instead,” he suggests, clutching his lucky lure. “Then tell them how big our fish was. That’s data too.”

He’s not wrong, and we’ll do that later. But right now we’re determined to get this right.

This Secchi Disk reading is the first of many small contributions we plan to make on our voyage around the world — a grand experiment in turning family travel into something scientifically meaningful.

Larissa Clark, Duncan Copeland and family are doing their bit for ocean science

Citizen science

Fast forward 10 months, and we’re in the UN biosphere reserve at Fakarava Atoll, French Polynesia, where the Secchi Disk project has by now become so routine that our primary-aged kids lower the disk with practiced flair and log data into the app without adult intervention. It’s one of over a dozen projects we’ve taken part in since leaving Victoria, Canada, in July 2024.

At the beginning, it was all about adventure. To sail off into the big blue yonder. And yes, we wanted our kids to learn from the world, rather than just about it. To swim with sharks and taste fresh mangos and get unreasonably excited about sea cucumbers. But over our decade of planning, another idea started to take shape.

We’ve spent our careers at the sharp end of environmental justice, marine resource management and conservation communications. It became increasingly clear that we couldn’t just sail past the many challenges the ocean faces.

A small microscope on board brings home-schooling science lessons to life

Plastic pollution, acidification, overfishing, loss of biodiversity, sea temperature rises… Yet it’s also a place filled with solutions – or at least, the potential for them. But what’s needed is data, lots of it. So an idea slowly took shape: what if, instead of just observing the world as we sailed through it, we could do a little bit more. We wanted to journey with purpose and, if we could, encourage others to do the same.

Enter citizen science – a phrase that sounds like something dreamed up by an underfunded government initiative but is, in fact, a rather beautiful idea. At its core, it means regular people contributing to real science. In our case, cruisers.

Measuring, sampling, logging, photographing, submitting and analysing data – all helping researchers build scientific knowledge which will, says UNESCO, illuminate the path to reversing the decline in ocean health, conserving marine life, addressing ocean aspects of climate change and using the ocean sustainably to improve lives.

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Keen to help

Bluewater sailors are regularly in locations scientists can’t easily get to. As cruisers we’re often, quite literally, in a position to assist, and regularly sail, fish, anchor, snorkel, paddleboard, and putter about in biodiverse or far-flung places that researchers only dream of visiting.

Lots of sailors, we’ve discovered, would love to help – if only they knew how. We quickly found out when we started looking for projects that our family could get involved with, that it can be surprisingly difficult to find information on citizen science projects relevant to your region, area of interest, or circumstances.

We decided to do something about that. With the help of some incredible volunteers, we started collecting details of as many ocean-focussed citizen science projects as we could find. We established a small not-for-profit called Free Range Ocean. We built a website and created the Ocean Citizen Science Directory: a one-stop shop for curious ocean lovers looking to pitch in. From whale sighting apps or microplastics sampling to seaweed beach surveys, there is something for everyone.

A Neuston Net survey aboard Freeranger resulted in a haul of fascinating marine

Over time, we’ve found that the easiest projects to get involved with are the ones that build on our interests and skillsets and what we’re already doing day to day. If you see a whale, fantastic: watch it, and then enter the data into one of the many projects that need it.

In British Columbia we logged sightings into the WhaleReport app, which adds to a database of over 330,000 observations that is used by universities, environmental organisations and conservation-research projects. The data is also used to alert commercial ships to whale locations to avoid collisions. We got an email thanking us for our ‘invaluable contribution’ which, frankly, made our week.

Marine life being carefully recorded to be shared with researchers

Netting data

On our Pacific crossing this March between Bahia Banderas in Mexico and Henderson Island in the Pitcairn Islands, we deployed a Neuston Net – a device used to sample surface biodiversity. The project is part of the Neuston Net Research Collective in collaboration with Dr Rebecca Helm and The International SeaKeepers Society.

This required more precise planning: receiving the net to an address in Mexico, storing it, waiting until we were far offshore in international waters, hoping for calm weather, slowing the boat to a crawl, and then towing the net for 30 minutes.

When hauled in it was teeming with strange and wondrous life: translucent shrimp, alien jellies, and even a Halobate, the only truly marine insects. The kids were beside themselves, and they weren’t the only ones. Science had never been so squishy or so thrilling. All the findings were carefully recorded to be shared with researchers.

Eden (8) and Skye-Elizabeth (6) help out too

We now participate in around half a dozen citizen science projects on a regular basis, depending on where we are and what’s feasible. In the Directory, there are dozens more. Some require internet access, others just a notepad. Some want photos, others want actual samples.

A few are so low-effort that it feels like cheating. One simply requires you to plug a dongle into your depth sounder and collect depth data as part of a global effort to better map the seabed.

The ocean we need for the future isn’t going to restore itself. It’s going to take data, commitment, and a little curiosity from a whole lot of people. Whether you’re recording manta rays, scanning for seagrass, or just watching a white disk vanish quietly beneath the waves, you’re helping.

6 citizen science projects to get you started

WhaleReport App

What – Help rescuers, researchers, and mariners reduce vessel strikes on whales.
How – Report sightings into a handy app
Where – Canada, US, Mexico,
Contact – freerangeocean.org/projects/whale-alert

Secchi Disk Study

What: Help researchers understand the impact of climate change on phytoplankton
How: Use a simple scientific tool to map the ocean’s phytoplankton and submit your findings via a free app. Order one online or build your own.
Where: Global, all seas
Contact: freerangeocean.org/projects/secchi-disk-study

iNaturalist

What: Help researchers grow a global dataset of biodiversity observations
How: Share your observations via the website with a network of naturalists, scientists and biologists.
Where: Global, all seas
Contact: freerangeocean.org/projects/inaturalist

Seabed 2030

What: A global Citizen Science initiative to map the world’s oceans by 2030
How: Privately-owned vessels can share depth measurements from navigation instruments while out at sea
Where: Global, all seas
Contact: freerangeocean.org/projects/seabed2030

Neuston Net Research Collective

What: A project to conduct plankton surveys
How: Conduct survey-style transects by trawling a fine mesh net
Where: North Atlantic Ocean, North Pacific Ocean, South Pacific Ocean
Contact: freerangeocean.org/projects/neuston-net-research-collective

Big Seaweed Search

What: Learn more about Britain’s sealife
How: Take a 5m transect of UK shoreline, identify living seaweeds using the field key, send in photos and a recording form.
Where: United Kingdom
Contact: freerangeocean.org/projects/the-big-seaweed-search

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

Build your knowledge with a subscription delivered to your door. See our latest offers and save at least 30% off the cover price.

Note: We may earn a commission when you buy through links on our site, at no extra cost to you. This doesn’t affect our editorial independence.

The post The ocean citizen science being carried out on yachts appeared first on Yachting World.

One of the biggest gifts you can give yourself is time. Time to do the things you love, time to set off on a world voyage on your own yacht. But where do you even start to plan a circumnavigation? There are many variables to consider – not least how much time you actually have.

In the end, every world voyage is a tailor-made unique cruising experience. But, to help you get started, there are roughly four basic itineraries or approaches. Here we guide you through them.

Key circumnavigation questions

The first step is the best of all. Grab a world map and start marking all your dream destinations that you NEED to go to. Next, mark all your ‘nice to go’ choices.

Then, before you start to connect the dots to build your itinerary, look at some of the practicalities. First of all: climate, seasons and weather conditions. How does your dream itinerary fit into the world’s wind patterns and ocean currents?

Second: your yacht. Is she ready to go for long distance cruising, with just the regular maintenance jobs to do underway? Or do you still have to make some big upgrades or major maintenance after you’ve cast off, so you need to stop over at places where you can get parts and help.

Photo: Tor Johnson

The third consideration is the available time you have: in two years, you can do a fast circumnavigation, but upwards of three years makes for more leisurely cruising and lots of exploring. And how big a deal is it for you to cross your wake, or is visiting only the dream destinations a better idea?

Other factors to consider are of course the crew – where do they want to go, what are they interested in? Are you planning crew changes, which will inevitably influence your itinerary? The age of who you’re sailing with will also impact plans – sailing with children is very rewarding, but requires time for homeschooling and meeting other ‘kid boats’. Career break cruisers may be on a tighter schedule. A retired couple may be able to take as much time as they want…

Then there is the budget: how many years can you afford to live aboard? Satellite communication has opened up so many opportunities for remote working, could you stretch your available time and budget over a longer period? Or you could take advantage of the growing availability of yacht storage services worldwide, which has made cruising part-time in combination with work or visiting family increasingly popular.

Four options for sailing around the world

There are four basic concepts for a cruising circumnavigation, and once you’ve answered the questions above you’ll have a good sense of which is right for you. If the voyage in itself is the destination, the route plan focus will be on sailing long distances and making short stops along the way. That makes for a quick, two-year circumnavigation – ideally on a sporty and fast boat.

A second approach is cherry picking: sailing to your desired destinations and taking time to explore. The yacht is shipped for the parts of the itinerary which are less appealing to the crew. Instead of crossing your wake, you spend time on your own yacht in the most fabulous places you can imagine. In two to five years, you can make this dream come true.

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The opposite is an option as well: taking it easy, and sailing around the world in three or more years in the lower, tropical latitudes. This world cruise is centred around long stopovers, with plenty of exploring while you’re slowly sailing back to where you started.

A fourth option for hardy cruisers who love to go off the beaten path would be to explore further – sailing into the higher latitudes and more remote areas where not many yachts go. This type of schedule requires three to 10 years, depending on the conditions and crew.

We take a look at what each of these four options might look like on the world map…

Route 1: Loving the miles

The pure joy of sailing, trimming and tweaking to get maximum performance out of your boat is the key ingredient of this bucket-list itinerary for a quick trip around the world.

Basic track and diversions

When your home port is in Europe, this track will take you across the Atlantic and into the Caribbean in autumn. You spend the winter sailing through the Caribbean and, after crossing through the Panama canal in February or March of the following year, then sail the long trek to French Polynesia.

Then you have a few options – either keep going, with short stops in Samoa, Fiji or Tonga and Australia, before you go north-east in the Indian Ocean to the Red Sea. In January, those who are up for it will start the tough voyage up the Red Sea and the Suez Canal. By spring of the second year after your departure, you’ll be in European waters again.

catamarans such as this Outremer 55 are popular with cruisers planning fast passages. Photo: Robin Christol/GLY

For those who don’t fancy Suez, another option is to sail through the Pacific at a slightly slower pace and end your season in New Zealand or Australia. The cyclone season gives you time to do maintenance, to work or to fly home to see friends and family. The following season, in May or June, you sail around South Africa to get back to the Atlantic (or through the Torres Strait to the Red Sea).

For the adventurous, there is another option: to skip the cyclone season and keep sailing – the Great Australian Bight offers just that option.

Most of this itinerary’s cruising is done in lower latitudes, which makes for warm and comfortable weather with mainly downwind sailing.

Who for?

This fast track is perfectly suited for those who love sailing fast and who want to achieve the once-in-a-lifetime goal of sailing around the world. It can be done in just under two years, or three years with some alternative options when underway. This itinerary is not for the fainthearted, because all sorts of weather systems can be encountered. Typically, a younger and more athletic crew with limited time available would opt for such a circumnavigation.

Idyllic stop for the Oyster World Rally at Cayos Holandeses in San Blas. Photo: Rick Tomlinson/Oyster World Rally

What do you need?

The budget for a voyage like this is mostly spent before the start: the boat needs to be quick and in mint condition. Spare sails and spare parts, ample space for food and water – this can be a puzzle in a weight-sensitive, performance-oriented boat.

You’ll need to spend pre-departure time planning and testing different set-ups and configurations. During the trip, the cost is relatively low: visits to destinations are limited and the use of fuel will be limited as well, though canal fees and clearance costs will be a factor to take into consideration.

Time-wise, you’re looking at two years, but if you opt for the long cyclone stop in New Zealand or Australia, another year needs to be added to the planning.

Route 2: Cherry picking

Your ‘need to see’ list of destinations is centred around warm, pleasant climates and you’re not fussy about crossing your own wake? Then there are lots of interesting options for you to choose from.

Basic track and diversions

Your voyage can start in Europe, but doesn’t have to. Assuming you sail across the Atlantic to the Caribbean then you can spend a season there enjoying the many beautiful islands, before sailing west to the Panama Canal. Or, if you like to explore more in the Caribbean, head north or south to store your yacht in a hurricane-safe spot and add another season of blissful island cruising to your itinerary.

After that, the Pacific Ocean awaits with splendid islands and authentic cultures. You could spend the six-month season cherry-picking your way across the Pacific and end your cruising in New Zealand or Australia, where your yacht will be sold or loaded onto a transport ship to go back home. Or pause, store the boat somewhere in Oceania and fly home.

Stunning Bora Bora in French Polynesia. Photo: Olivier Parent/Alamy

The following season, from May to October, sail back north to Fiji or Tonga for another six months of tropical sailing. Or, from northern Australian ports, you could sail for one incredible season exploring south-east Asia (typically June-December) before returning to Australia.

Apart from shipping your yacht back to Europe, there is an interesting alternative to consider: buy a good-to-go yacht at a convenient location at the start of your dream voyage, and sell it at the end. For instance: buying a boat in Florida or south-west USA and selling it in Australia or New Zealand. Another option is to buy a boat in Australia, sail one season in south-east Asia and sail back to Australia to sell.

If your wishlist includes more off the beaten track options, your route could lead north from the UK up to Iceland and Greenland, then to Canada, where you go inland via the Saint Lawrence Seaway. Sail as far west as you can then transport the boat across to Seattle or a port in British Columbia, where your Pacific adventure can start.

Who for?

This type of cruising is for those who have limited time and want to see the best cruising grounds on the planet. It’s suitable for any type of crew: families with children, couples or fully crewed yachts. This itinerary overlaps with several rallies, so ‘cruising in company’ is an option as well.

Making landfall in stunning Martinque. Photo: GLY Odyssey

What do you need?

Scenarios can be tailored to the time you have available and the destinations you want to visit. Have less than a year? You could opt for buying in south-west USA and selling in Australia for a perfect Pacific adventure. Have more time? In two years, you can easily sail from the UK to Australia and take in the best of the Caribbean as well as a southern hemisphere adventure.

These itineraries require a fairly ‘standard’ bluewater yacht, with the necessary spare parts and supplies – a high-maintenance boat is not the best choice.

But the budget needed for these itineraries is higher than normal. If you choose to ship your yacht at any point you’ll need to reserve a large chunk of budget to cover the cost. And if you choose to buy or sell underway, you run the risk of depreciation, broker’s fees and currency fluctuation. Apart from that, make sure that you factor in funds for lots of exploring on the islands and enjoying one or two drinks on a powder-white beach fringed with palm trees.

Route 3: Taking it easy

For yachtsmen whose primary motivation of sailing is to explore great places and live life at a slower pace, a myriad of itineraries is available. The famous ‘Coconut Milk Run’ around the world carries you to slices of paradise: beautiful islands, downwind sailing and several options to store the boat to go home or to linger a bit longer at anchor.

Basic track and diversions

The basic track is a well-travelled one: leaving Europe in summer and leisurely cruising south to the Canary Islands or Cape Verde Islands.

For those in no hurry to leave, a diversion to the Gambia or to Morocco adds an extra dimension to the trip early on. Then cross the Atlantic for a season in the Caribbean.

Another interesting diversion is the trip up the Intracoastal Waterway along the east coast of the USA. When all the exploring on the Atlantic side is done, heading through the Panama Canal unlocks the wealth of destinations in the Pacific. Straight to French Polynesia or a stop in the incredible Galapagos? Or a quick diversion north, to see more of Mexico before sailing west again.

Chances are that one season of six months in the Pacific is not enough for sailors on this itinerary. There are great places to store the boat on the Pacific islands, or to stay on the boat through the cyclone season. The other option is to wait for the cyclones to pass in New Zealand and do some maintenance, before heading north again to Tonga and Fiji.

Pacific cruising. Photo: Rick Tomlinson/Oyster World Rally

After an extensive exploration of the Pacific, the coasts of Australia are interesting to visit. From there, the track goes north to Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia and Thailand, all of which offer very interesting and at times challenging cruising opportunities.

From Thailand, the track can lead north-west to the Red Sea and ultimately to the Mediterranean, or west to Sri Lanka, Maldives, Madagascar or Seychelles.

After sailing along the beautiful African coast and rounding the iconic Cape of Good Hope you reach the home stretch: back north in the Atlantic.

You can add more miles yet by heading the long way back via more of the Caribbean. Or point straight north to the Azores, which are a cruising ground in themselves.

Unmistakable Thailand. Photo: David Bristow

Who for?

This itinerary is perfect for people who have time to take it easy and explore, perhaps a retired couple or a family which can work remotely. If you’re cruising part-time this itinerary can be done in anything from three to 10 years: whatever works best for you. The Coconut Milk Run is popular for all the right reasons, so cruising in company is easy.

What do you need?

A yacht taking on this type of route needs to be well suited for downwind sailing, because that’s the advantage of this track. The lower latitudes offer sunshine and warm water, so systems on board need to be adapted just for that: solar panels, batteries, watermaker, fridge and freezer capacity.

Your budget will be slightly higher, because it’s likely that you’ll be doing a lot of land travel. Besides that, you’ll be visiting a long list of countries which all have their associated clearance costs. The cost of major maintenance will also be higher, because after five years or more you’ll likely need to replace the dinghy, batteries and other expensive items.

Route 4: Expedition sailing

If you love solitude, prefer life off the beaten track and don’t mind a bit of cold weather, the higher latitudes offer cruising grounds beyond your imagination. North or south – or both? It’s all possible with a strong yacht and a determined crew.

Basic track and diversions

When the sky’s the limit, your itinerary is largely dependent on the weather. Summers in the north are short, so you need to plan well. Leaving the UK, you can opt to follow the path of the Vikings: Iceland, Greenland and on to Canada. You can turn south to the lower latitudes to get to the Pacific or to keep going towards Cape Horn.

Surfing from a yacht in Fiji. Photo: Tor Johnson

The other option is the Northwest Passage (right). In the short window of the northern summer, it’s a challenge to do in one season, but not impossible. Ice conditions vary. If you make it through the Northwest Passage, then you can go south to Hawaii, on to Japan and back up to the stunning north-west Pacific coast via the Aleutians.

If you choose to sail from Europe, after your Atlantic crossing keep sailing south – along the east coast of South America to Argentina. From Ushuaia, you can sail to Antarctica before heading north-west in Patagonia, one of the last wildernesses in the world.

After a few months in Patagonia and a pit stop for maintenance on the Chilean coast, there’s the option to head to Easter Island, Pitcairn and on to French Polynesia. And then, the world is literally your oyster. North to Hawaii and the north-west USA? Or across the Pacific to New Zealand or Australia?

From the Galapagos the Pacific options are vast. Photo: Rick Tomlinson/Oyster World Rally

Once across the Pacific, the remote track across the southern Indian Ocean becomes an option. Sailing along the south coasts of New Zealand and Australia, anchoring at the remote Kerguelen archipelago before heading to Mauritius and on to Cape Town: not many people venture this far south. Once in the Atlantic, you could plan to visit South Georgia, Tristan da Cunha or remote islands like Saint Helena or Ascension. A long beat north will eventually bring you home to Europe – unless, of course, the adventure is not yet over.

Who for?

These challenging itineraries with many options and diversions are not easy and require cruisers who love a challenge. Mentally and physically, it’s hard so the crew needs to be fit and able to sail the boat at all points of sail and in different circumstances.

Depending on routing choices for each part of the track, 4-10 years are needed. The boat can be stored when trips home are required or when the seasons dictate a stop for a few months.

An expedition yacht is dwarfed by a glacial iceberg drifting in Disko Bay near Ilulissat Icefjord, Greenland. Photo: Paul Souders/WorldFoto/Getty

What do you need?

A sturdy ‘go-everywhere’ yacht is vital, sailed by a crew that has the technical knowledge to fix things in remote places. Remote places require specific heavy duty gear, like long lines to tie the boat in small bays, heavier ground tackle, robust sails and a rugged dinghy.

A large part of the budget will be spent before taking off: the boat will need to be adapted for long distances without any outside help or options for provisioning. Cold climates require sufficient heating and battery storage.

Once underway, the options for land travel and exploration ashore will be limited, so an average budget will suffice. One element is more important in this scenario: communication. Getting weather information is vital, so the satellite communication and back ups need to be up to date.

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

Build your knowledge with a subscription delivered to your door. See our latest offers and save at least 30% off the cover price.

Note: We may earn a commission when you buy through links on our site, at no extra cost to you. This doesn’t affect our editorial independence.

The post 4 options for sailing around the world (from easy to adventurer) appeared first on Yachting World.

I came to traditional sailing by accident, but now I’m here, I’m a convert. And that’s because sailing traditional boats will make you a better all-round sailor. Don’t believe me? “I agree with the proposition 100% having spent my life voyaging, racing and teaching in traditional craft,” says Tom Cunliffe. He literally wrote the book on gaff sailing and pretty much all other sailing topics as well.

Today I skipper the 104-year-old, 100-tonne, former Lowestoft fishing smack Excelsior, which operates as a sail training vessel in the North Sea and is still rigged and sailed authentically. I began sailing less than a decade ago when I dropped out of my previous life working in the arts and moved to the Caribbean, teaching English and eventually living on a little yacht.

I was mostly self-taught aside from occasional hops through the RYA syllabus, and eventually became confident enough to cruise single-handed in the Lesser Antilles. Initially I wasn’t remotely interested in tall ships, nor carried away by the romance of an old wooden schooner; I just wanted to sail.

It’s all hands on deck when hoisting Swan’s big gaff rig. Photo: Swan Trust

But when a role came up on Excelsior as mate, just as I was fresh from achieving my Yachtmaster, the old hands promised me: “If you can sail Excelsior, you can sail anything.”

They also sagely pointed out that, while the Suffolk coast could be seen as flat and boring, I’d quickly learn one hell of a lot of seamanship from navigating its tides and sand banks. At 77ft Excelsior can be a heavy and ungainly beast at close quarters, and a headache to manoeuvre, which is exactly why I’ve learned more sailing her than I have on any modern-rigged yacht.

Seamanship skills

Andy Schell, founder of offshore sailing company 59° North, explains: “Seam’nship [Andy makes a point of taking the ‘man’ out of the equation] boils down to two simple fundamentals – the ability to anticipate; and the ability to adapt.

“[It] requires an understanding of the bigger picture and all the elements that come together during any kind of sailing trip, short or long – weather, ship, crew, nav, maintenance timelines etc. The most technical sailor will fail if they’re not paying attention to the chart, for example, and this happens all the time.”

Turning a 77ft vessel in tight spaces with a fat, full keel and a powerful prop walk is nothing short of an education! Photo: Matthew Perring

There’s a lot that can feel unnecessarily challenging about sailing traditional boats. They were built with more limited materials than we have now, and usually designed with a particular region or purpose in mind (for example, Brixham trawlers vs Bristol pilot cutters). They might not be able to do something you’d take for granted with a modern rig, like point to windward or move in winds lighter than a Force 4!

Handling such a vessel requires more than simply the ability to sail a boat. You also need to know your environment. Off the coast of East Anglia, tides are critical to any passage Excelsior undertakes. There have been times when I’ve sat at the chart table while trying (foolishly) to beat to windward, looking at our ground track, and being quite satisfied that the plotter says we’re doing 1 knot.

Until I realise it’s 1 knot backwards, and if the crew are already sick, disheartened and miserable, and nobody has it in them to cook a meal, it’s only going to get a lot worse. Passage planning for where we need to be by certain times, based on predicted changes in the weather and tide, is crucial seamanship that could make or break a voyage.

Knowing that closer to the shore the tidal current will be weaker can impact your tactics significantly. On a swifter, more forgiving modern boat you may get away with less fastidious planning, but not on a traditional vessel.

The same goes for keeping an eye on changes in the weather well in advance. On a lightweight contemporary rig you can execute a swift tack or sail drop in minutes, but on a ship like Excelsior these manoeuvres take time and in strong winds a gybe might need two watches’ worth of crew.

Preparing to hoist a large canvas sail with a traditional block purchase. Photo: Ed Compson

Can you afford to wait until the watch change, or do you want to wake them up early? And if you’ve woken them up early, is there enough time for them to go back to bed afterwards before they’re due to take over?

Richard Titchener runs the Sea Change Sailing Trust, which sails a replica Thames Sailing Barge in Essex. He says. “Under sail, especially if you are relying on wind and tide to reach your destination, you are always trying to make the best of the conditions.

Effectively, you are always racing. Always looking to use the last of the fair tide that runs in the centre of the river with short tacks rather than the more relaxing young slack or ebb at the sides. Always picking up on the seaweed that may indicate a tide edge seemingly in the middle of the channel. And these days it’s studying with a forensic eye the speed and direction of turn in a distant wind turbine for signs of the sea breeze.”

But the trade-off is that one of the most thrilling seam’nship muscles I’ve begun to flex thanks to sailing Excelsior has been my ability to use the natural environment to my advantage.

With a vessel like ours, sometimes there is no other choice. For example, when leaving tidal berths, if the wind is blowing us on, no amount of springing will free us. But we can use the tidal stream to push the bow (or the stern) away from the pontoon. It’s the same for coming alongside.

Traditional sailing ships taking part in the Fest Ar Mor maritime heritage event in Brest Harbour in Brittany. Photo: Mathieu Rivrin/GlazPictures/Getty

Ferry gliding is extremely elegant in a heavy long-keeler and makes you look like a manoeuvring deity. When your passage involves turning in a tidal river, plan your turn for a moment you know the current is going to help you, not dangerously hinder you (and drive you sideways downstream as you battle against the opposing forces).

Maggie Adamson, who skippered the 125-year-old sail training vessel Swan of Lerwick, is double-handed offshore world champion as well as International Sail Trainer of the Year. She’s at home in both arenas, and has learned a great deal from each. “Everything is at a different pace on board traditional boats. There’s still the adrenaline rush and excitement of manoeuvres but you have to give things a bit more time and planning,” she says.

“I started offshore racing about the same time as I started skippering Swan so there are a lot of aspects that complement each discipline. In sail training it could be anything from managing your crew expectations, seasickness levels, to time management on schedule for port visits and weather. In both disciplines, sail choices and forward planning are extremely important, and so is food!’

Article continues below…

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Using your sails

“What you learn from different rigs is creativity and learning to get the most out of the boat,” says Andy Schell. A gaff rig comes with a unique set of challenges, and when sailing an ex-fishing trawler, you really need a lot of drive to get going, meaning you need to understand what your arsenal of sails can do for you, and how to work your rig.

“Every sail on Swan is hoisted in a different way,” explains Maggie Adamson. “The main sail is gaff rigged, mizzen a standing lug, the jib is hoisted on a wire traveller system after hauling out the retractable bowsprit, the topsail is hoisted on her own yard and the foresail being the most straightforward, is permanently bent on the forestay. This gives you a great understanding of the different systems and running rigging that goes with it.”

A Swedish traditional boat enthusiast once told me that in Baltic regattas, if you’re the one racing on the British fishing trawler, you’ve got no excuses when you don’t win. I had definitely been doing something wrong, then.

Charlotte Hathaway is an Ocean Yachtmaster, she is skipper of Excelsior, taking teenagers and young adults on adventurous sail training voyages around Europe.

Dinghy sailors would hop around the deck saying words like ‘slot’ and I used to roll my eyes, quipping that on Excelsior we don’t ‘trim’ our sails, more ‘arrange’ them. They’re either in or out, and there’s either two or five or eight of them up.

But I was so wrong. It’s really exciting when we have dyed-in-the wool gaff sailors on board, passing on their wisdom.

“Do you understand when the topsail needs to be flat and when it needs a bit of belly? We’re going downwind, so peak the gaff up a little higher and make the topsail more baggy, and we’ll speed up,” they tell me.

“And have you noticed there’s massive weather helm right now because we’re going upwind but the main is over-sheeted? There’s too much force to the aft of the boat and it’s pushing the stern around. You need to ease the main far more than you think because of the way the sail is shaped.

The Excelsior Trust offers sail training experiences for young and old. Photo: Excelsior Trust

“Also, when you reef don’t reef the mainsail first, because you might not even need to. Adjusting the sails on the extremities will have a dramatic effect on the overall balance. Lose the topsail, reef the mizzen, house the bowsprit and use a smaller jib. Your centre of effort is now far lower and she’s sitting much more comfortably in this miserable gale.

“And when you’re tacking? Back the mizzen, to guide the stern round, then back the headsails just long enough to get the nose through the wind, and don’t use too much rudder or she’ll stall.” There is so much to learn.

Close quarters

I’ll confess that I’d never really used springs before docking Excelsior. On a large, heavy boat springs are everything. Using lines to warp yourself round tight spaces and control your movements around the dock is also extremely satisfying, and I recommend everyone experiments with it.

The Excelsior Trust offers sail training aboard the traditional Lowestoft fishing smack Excelsior. Photo: Graham Cross

Did I mention that Excelsior has a 9ft tiller? My favourite turning trick is a well-deployed staysail, or even a quickly peaked mizzen. Our pirouette in Hartlepool marina using mainly staysail and a lot of forward and reverse has become legendary.

Always make sure you have a Plan B, because you carry a lot of momentum and there are usually more fragile boats everywhere. As Tom Cunliffe notes: “If you can come alongside with a 15ft bowsprit without murdering the harbourmaster, docking any modern yacht with a bow-thruster and spade rudder will be a breeze.”

Try Traditional

“I’ve always wanted to go even more traditional and have an open invite to sail on board Pride of Baltimore II, a gaff-rigged topsail schooner, just to see how they handle it all,” says Andy Schell. “There is always something to learn.”

Traditional sailing makes your life more difficult but teaches you so much: why a specific hull shape makes your yacht lie at anchor in such a way, or how to handle heavy loads without winches (a crash course in the use of purchases, but so useful if you have a gear breakdown on board).

Conning the Thames Barge Blue Mermaid into an anchorage – the wheel in one hand, mainsheet in the other while the mate is forward preparing the anchor. The head of the topsail has been dropped, but the sheet not yet run in. The vessel can be slowed or speeded up as needed while choosing the spot to let go the anchor – all by a crew of two. Photo: Blue Mermaid

There is a plethora of opportunities to try traditional sailing. My bias would be towards supporting a sail training charity like Excelsior Trust, who often subsidise their life-changing youth trips by offering adventures for adults, too. You can also find charter companies operating historic vessels, and National Historic Ships franchises a traditional seafaring course. Whichever you try, you’ll come back a better sailor.

Organisations offering traditional sailing opportunities

■ Excelsior Trust: theexcelsiortrust.co.uk
■ Swan Trust: swantrust.com
■ Sea Change Sailing Trust: seachangesailingtrust.org.uk
■ National Historic Ships: www.nationalhistoricships.org.uk/page/traditional-seafarer-introductory-certificate
■ Coastal Exploration Company: coastalexplorationcompany.co.uk
■ Classic Sailing: classic-sailing.com

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Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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A European sailing holiday is where many of us first developed a love of discovering unfamiliar anchorages. There’s something about nosing your way into a new bay on a balmy summer evening that never loses its appeal. A cooling dip, an explore ashore, dinner alfresco, and do it all again tomorrow: is there a more perfect way of whiling away a week or more?

There’s no getting away from the fact that parts of Europe are busy. Some of the huge sales numbers manufacturers have reported in recent years often reflect significant charter fleet and base investment. Meanwhile many European marinas have up-spec’d to handle larger yachts, and are often operating at full capacity. These hotspots bring improved marine services and more – but is there anywhere you can still get away from the crowds?

We asked cruisers who have sailed, lived and worked around Europe for their recommendations. Some are within touching distance of major sailing hubs, but with careful timing can be enjoyed at their quietest. Others are truly off the beaten track and require a more expedition-style sailing approach.

There is also a temptation to think of Europe as ‘easy’, and paperwork-free. Any non-EU sailors will by now be very familiar with Schengen requirements and the extra admin that has brought (see right), not least that if sailing from Great Britain you need to notify Border Force and HMRC. Check-in procedures for British boats arriving into France have also evolved, with a new ‘Protocol’ for designated ports of entry in 2025.

But there are other curiosities to cruising in Europe. For example, you must check in to Greece, where you will be issued a transit log and have to pay a cruising tax, and must have stamps for both arrival and departure. For 2025 Norway has introduced specific rules for yachts over 50ft.

To stay up to date, visit noonsite.com, theca.org.uk and our sister title yachtingmonthly.com

Photo: Wietze van der Laan

Northern Europe – Helgeland archipelago

The Helgeland archipelago, just south of the Arctic circle, is one of the lesser known gems on the spectacular Norwegian coast. “Most people focus on Lofoten, but Norwegians know that Helgeland, just south of Lofoten, is the real pearl in the crown,” says Norwegian skipper Steinar Willassen, who grew up in the area.

“The steep, rocky islands and the crystal clear water are impressive. Do you fancy sailing to a glacier? Then Svartisen is the place to go. You can sail right up to a jetty and view the glacier from your cockpit.”

For those who like to hike on shore, the Sherpa-steps on Rødøy will bring you to the top of the Rødøyløva, where you can marvel at the view across the archipelago. “Each island has a story to tell: the famous whiskey island Myken, or the puffin island Lovund.

“In the south of Helgeland, you’ll find Torghatten: a steep rock wall on an island, with a large hole in it. This mythical place is close to the island with the Arctic circle monument; another highlight in this archipelago.”

There are plenty of anchorages or small harbours to moor. Steinar says: “Whatever the weather, you can always sail here. In strong or adverse winds, you take the inner route, in sheltered water protected by a string of islands. But if the weather is good for sailing offshore, you can sail between the outer islands.”

The islands have plenty of summer residents, often using the old fishermen’s houses of their forefathers as their summer homes. Availability of shops and services on the islands is limited, apart from the summer season, but in the past 40 years Helgeland has seen big investments in infrastructure and services, fuelled by salmon farming. Keep an eye out for the circular salmon farms as you explore this beautiful archipelago.

Photo: Seil Bifros

Northern Europe – Harstad, Norway

“After many great adventures in the southern latitudes, we have settled in the middle of the world’s most beautiful archipelago: Harstad,” says Norwegian cruiser Halvard Eneberg, who runs Seil Bifrost from their Beneteau 50.

“From our homeport, we sail our yacht Bifrost to the beautiful, rugged coast of this relatively unknown archipelago in Norway. Spring and summer are the best. In spring, there is still lots of snow. So we take our guests to the foot of the slopes and drop anchor. By dinghy the skiing gear is brought on the islands and the long ascent can start. Sailing at night, with the northern light above us is something to remember for a lifetime.”

Besides taking guests, Halvard Eneberg and his wife Ann-Helen Elstad go sailing as often as they can in this wonderful cruising area. “In summer, the crystal clear water reveals the sandy patches where our anchor will hold perfectly. There are so many places to sail to, you’ll always find a sheltered spot,” Ann-Helen adds.

The Harstad archipelago is just north of Lofoten and south of Tromsø. Harstad is a good place to provision before you set off to explore the archipelago. Weather can be capricious this far north, so it pays to keep an eye on the Norwegian weather forecast (www.yr.no).

There are many places to seek shelter around the islands. Phone signal is, as everywhere in Norway, very good. While cruising keep an eye out for the mighty Anna Rogde, one of Norway’s five large historic sailing vessels still out on the water.

Photo: Anders Lindblom/SY Ingrid-Marie

Northern Europe – Lake Vättern, Sweden

We’ve sailed along rugged coastlines and through narrow canals – but one place we always come back to is Lake Vättern, writes Anders Lindblom, who has captured amazing images of his Hallberg-Rassy 45 Ingrid-Marie tucked into secret spots.

Found right in the middle of Sweden, it feels like a forgotten sea. Crystal-clear water, steep granite shores and calm anchorages where you often spend the night completely alone. The magic? It’s fully accessible from both the Baltic and the North Sea via the Göta Canal, which runs straight through the country.

There are endless magical places to discover along both Sweden’s east and west coasts, but our two largest lakes, Vänern and Vättern, are true hidden treasures, especially in spring and autumn when the waters are quiet and the light is pure. Sweden has excellent and trustworthy nautical charts, and we often use them to search out potential anchorages. But the real art is in feeling your way in.

We always approach slowly – often under power – and use both our eyes and the depth sounder to read the bay. If it feels right, we secure Ingrid-Marie with a stern anchor and moor bow-in directly against the rock.

The absence of tides allows for easy and direct mooring to the shore, even in tight, wild spaces. Some of our most memorable nights have been spent in these unmarked places – with nothing but trees, water, and silence around us. It takes a little courage and curiosity, but that’s where the real magic begins.

Photo: Wietze van der Laan

Northern Europe – Marker Wadden

Cruisers who have ventured across the North Sea may be familiar with the large freshwater lake in the middle of the Netherlands. It offers lovely cruising opportunities: within a 3-5 hour sail you can moor at quaint historic fishing villages like Stavoren, Volendam or Marken or visit impressive towns like Hoorn and Enkhuizen.

The western part of the lake is Markermeer and the eastern part IJsselmeer, separated by a dam and locks. At the eastern part of the Markermeer there is a spectacular development called Marker Wadden which begs to be discovered if you’re seeking nature, peace and quiet.

This group of islands was built to upgrade the water quality in the Markermeer by filtering it. A little over 10 years ago, the first low-lying islands were formed and the result is stunning: a mini-archipelago with walking trails, bird watching hides and a very convenient natural harbour.

Cruising yachts can stay overnight in the harbour or anchor off the beach. No power, no water: just you and the sounds of thousands of birds. Dutch cruiser Wietze van der Laan, who has sailed his Bruce Roberts 44 Anna Caroline all over the world and is now cruising northern Europe, says: “This is one of my favourite places to sail to. Sometimes we go into the small port, but on a hot summer’s day you can anchor off the beach and go for a swim.”

There is a little café and information centre on the main island and guided tours are offered, but come prepared, because there are no shops and phone signal is sketchy. Provisioning can be done in Lelystad, less than 10 miles away.

Photo: Roberto Nistri/Alamy

Eastern Mediterranean – Pelagie islands

The Pelagie islands remain my favourite corner of the Mediterranean, writes Viveka Herzum, who spent two seasons cruising the region as a charter skipper. Seventy miles from both Pantelleria and coastal Tunisia – and twice as far from the closest major Sicilian port – they’re too out of the way for most leisure cruisers.

The result? Uncrowded waters, a uniquely close-knit marine community, and only a handful of local yacht charters.

The Pelagie’s main islands are as beautiful as they are unalike. Just 25 miles apart, Linosa is an exquisite moon to Lampedusa’s bright and boisterous sun.

Lampedusa’s elongated shape and east-west orientation make for an unexpected sailing haven, allowing for an ideal range of anchorages for either of the area’s prevailing winds, the north-westerly Mistral and south-easterly Scirocco.

It’s easily circumnavigable in less than a day. South, you’ll find glowing white sands and turquoise waters under cream-and-meringue limestone bluffs. North, striated cliffs pocked with emerald green. Just be careful when planning nighttime anchorages: many of the most sheltered bays have recently been ruled off-limits for overnight stays.

Try to avoid the middle weeks of August outright – it’s the peak of the summer season, and also when the Scirocco usually comes in hot, humid, and heavy, for weeks at a time.

Just 25 miles away, Linosa promises quieter waters and colourful, cactus-lined streets. Though its sharp coastline offers few friendly anchorages, the black lavic bedrock turns the sea a stunning cobalt blue. The Pozzolana, its safest and most striking anchorage, sits under an active crater, before a black beach and painterly walls of red and ochre sediment.

But careful not to get caught unawares: Linosa’s rounded shape and small surface area leaves vessels exposed to quick, unpredictable weather changes, rough seas, and rebounding waves. Its quay only has a few moorings available – and none at all if your vessel draws over 2.3m. Be prepared to make for Lampedusa at a moment’s notice.

I’d be remiss not to mention the rocky, uninhabited islet of Lampione. It’s a renowned dive spot, and makes for an ideal day-time circumnavigation.

Photo: Manfred Bortoli/Alamy

Eastern Mediterranean – Lastovo, Croatia

Croatia is firmly on the charter yacht destination list, but there are still hidden spots to enjoy if you time it right. “We love sailing to Lastovo in Croatia. It is a beautiful and very quiet island just south of Korčula, roughly eight miles due south,” explains Dutch cruiser Martin Vooijs who has explored Croatia on his Beneteau First 47.7 Blue Skies.

“Lastovo is a protected natural area. On the north side is Zaklopatica, a spectacular bay which can be reached through a narrow entrance. My children love it when we go there: it’s a great place to go for a swim in the afternoon.

“Deep in the bay are some restaurants; the owners are very hospitable and offer free mooring; we can even stay overnight if we like. And what’s not to like about an alfresco dinner of fresh lobster while looking at your own boat as the sun is setting in the most spectacular way?

“The island can be explored via the many hiking paths or bicycle tracks. The forest and the wineries are beautiful and make you linger longer. There is a trail to the highest summit on the island, at 416m, and the view from the top is outstanding: on a clear day you can see the surrounding islands of the archipelago and the coastline. The typical chimneys are a feature of this region.

“Lastovo is such a gem because there are other lovely islands in the area: Korčula at 21 miles, Mljet at 20 miles, Vis at 35 miles and of course Hvar at 30 miles. For us as a family, that area makes for delightful cruising and a great time ashore as well.”

The island has multiple anchorages, but Porto Rosso also has a floating dock attached to a seafood restaurant, with power hook-up, freshwater, shower block and laundry facilities – rates are reported to be around half the price of nearby marinas.

Croatia is growing in popularity, so pick your dates carefully around the charter handover schedule. But Martin notes: “Even in high season, there are quieter days. Fridays and Saturdays are good, because Lastovo is further away from the charter bases.”

Photo: Valter Jacinto/Getty

Western Europe – Rio Guadiana

The Guadiana river forms part of the natural border between Spain and Portugal and offers the novel option of taking your yacht 30 miles upstream (and sitting between two time zones!). The bucolic spot is a great respite spot for cruisers working their way around the Iberian Peninsula, though be wary of debris in the water and, of course, a strong flowing current.

There is Ayamonte marina near the river mouth, but the real Guadiana experience comes to those who can head under the International cable bridge (clearance height 18-23m depending on state of tide). Some 20 miles upriver the anchorage between Alcoutim on the Portuguese side and Spanish San Lúcar de Guadiana is popular with liveaboards but peaceful, surrounded by lush hills dotted with wild-growing fruit trees that make a haven for wild birds.

Photo: Geography Photos/Getty

Western Europe – La Graciosa

Just north of Lanzarote in the Canary islands is a beautiful little island. La Graciosa is a great stop after sailing south from mainland Spain or Portugal, but it’s a destination in its own right as well. The island, just under 30km2 in area, has the most stunning beaches against a volcanic backdrop.

The island is part of the Chinijo National Park, so visitors by yacht must obtain a permit before anchoring in the turquoise water of Playa Francesca bay or mooring in the small port of the only settlement on the island, Caleta de Sebo. In this fishing village you feel as if time has stood still.

La Graciosa is quiet and peaceful. There are no tarmac roads, just sandy streets and whitewashed houses. In Caleta de Sebo you’ll find a little shop for some necessities and information about the options to explore the island. But there is a catch: after 10 days your permit expires and you have to make room for other yachts to enjoy this magical island.

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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Note: We may earn a commission when you buy through links on our site, at no extra cost to you. This doesn’t affect our editorial independence.

The post Sailors share their favourite European secret cruising spots appeared first on Yachting World.

I’ve always found local winds fascinating. One year in France, while racing a Q Class in a classics regatta, a whole fleet of spinnakers blew up ahead of me as a waterspout ripped through the course with the Mistral – a wind so infuriating that it was written into old French law that if it blows for over nine days a cold-blooded murder simply becomes a ‘crime of passion’.

Cruisers hoping to enjoy a calm summer in the Greek Islands are often shocked by the Meltemi, a wind that jumps from 12 to 40 knots with little prior warning. And in a remote atoll in French Polynesia we found ourselves in boat lockdown whilst the Maramu raged through – a strong persistent sou’wester that can often last over a week.

The winds and storms that dominate the summer skyline in Panama and Columbia have been named the ‘Caleo de Pollo’, or in other words winds so powerful that they make the branches of a palm tree slick straight back to resemble ‘Feathers of the Chicken’.

The treacherous concoction of Atlantic weather accumulating into this hot melting pot has earned the sail from the north coast of Columbia to Panama a place on the top five most dangerous passages in the world – and, in order to make our Panama Canal slot, we had to do it at the worst possible time of year.

We – my partner JP and I – met four years ago working on the prestigious 55m modern classic ketch Marie and the racing maxi Leopard 3. Soon after, our combined dream of circumnavigating became a reality when we bought a yacht to call our own.

The author Charlotte DC and partner JP Baudains aboard their yacht Jacqeau. Photo: Niklas Sandstrom courtesy of PWS

Since then, we’ve split our time between running and racing yachts professionally and sailing our yacht Jacqeau around the world. After an intense refit in Newport, Rhode Island, we sailed Jacqeau down to the Caribbean, where we ran an Oyster 575 for the season, before sailing (the wrong way) home to explore the stunning cruising grounds of the UK.

The following year, we recrossed the Atlantic, then picked up an Oyster 72 in Antigua to run for the season.

So, having delivered the Oyster to the US, it was early June by the time we flew back to Jacqeau’s shipyard in Antigua. The travel lift, which had been put to bed for the summer, gave a hydraulic sigh as it was powered back up.

Jacqeau was lifted and carefully manoeuvred through the maze of boats which had been strapped down for the hurricane season. If there was ever a sign that we shouldn’t be sailing, this was it. However, it was the earliest opportunity we had and before we knew it, we were on passage towards Colombia.

Strong and consistent trade winds combined with current had us off to a flying start and spirits were high as we were completing 200-mile days at a time. Those spirits were quickly dampened, however, as we reached the northern coast of Colombia from Antigua.

Sailing the Caribbean Sea between Santa Marta and Cartagena presents sailors with such a myriad of difficulties that the favoured route is to keep well offshore and stay clear of this danger zone. For us, this would have meant two days of beating upwind, into three knots of current, to get into the city of Cartagena, so we decided to go coastal.

Reefed for the upwind passage on the approach to Cartagena. Photo: Project World Sail

River’s mouth

Forty-eight hours into our passage and the day had become blisteringly hot. And while the evening offered a refuge from the heat, the smattering of flashes that appeared with the night sky were worrying. What started as distant sparks became more and more prevalent with every mile that we drew closer to our destination.

The final 24-hour approach to Cartagena proved challenging. We were sailing past Barranquilla which, for tourists, is famous for its flamboyant carnival and local culture. But for sailors it’s known for the mouth of the Magdalena River. The largest river in the Northern Andes, this river flows at a rate of up to 420 cubic feet a second, making its local effect on the surrounding sea unpredictable and extremely hazardous.

To make things even more intense, June marks the time of year when the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) causes the predominant easterly trade winds and currents to battle it out with a south-westerly coming up from Panama. And of course, this mêlée of weather hit us at 0400 – a time which, although not statistically proven, many sailors will tell you with absolute conviction is when the worst things happen.

The joy and relief of a golden sunset and a clear night sky. Photo: Project World Sail

Just before sunset the previous evening the easterly wind had dropped significantly, making the apparent too low for sailing. Dripping with sweat we dropped and flaked our main sail, then turned the engine on. This turned out to be our saviour in the night that followed.

As darkness fell, the gently rolling Caribbean swell turned into short, sharp waves coming from every direction. The surging river mouth creates a significant change to the density of the water forming complex currents, oceanic eddies and a steep increase in velocity.

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We’d be surfing down a wave at the same time as getting soaked by another hitting us beam on. The wind dial pranced from four to 40 knots and sleep became out of the question. Nature’s firework display commenced for the night as bright yellow patches popped up on the radar, so opaque that, if you didn’t have charts, you could be mistaken for thinking they were land.

Unsurprisingly, our log entries were limited that night, although a 0600 comment read: ‘Avoid all lightning – CHECK’. We’d spent a tireless night weaving our way through the maze of foreboding blobs on our radar so the slim line of orange appearing on the horizon brought us hope for a new day.

The Caribbean current that had worked so well in our favour at the start of the trip continued flowing east as we turned to port and headed down the coast. We were now working against both wind and current. Suddenly, something caught my eye in the water ahead: something big. On closer inspection it was a huge floating log, at least half the length of our boat and about a metre across.

Jacqeau’s elegant Germán Frers-designed lines were built in Brazil. Photo: Elevate Drone Media courtesy of PWS

With the strong current pushing it towards us this could easily have broken a hole in our hull. I scanned across to see an army of similar tree trunks heading in our direction – Jacqeau was under attack.

We weaved through the obstacle course, straining our already tired eyes to ensure we avoided them all. Apparently it’s commonplace for debris to be swept out of the river here, we even heard reports of a whole house flowing downstream, so felt lucky not to have encountered any worse.

It’s pretty much impossible not to have an upwind sail to Cartagena at that time of year so we spent the day slowly but surely pushing our way closer to the city. Despite a small boat entrance with a chart depth of 2.6m we were told by the Coastguard there was absolutely no possibility we could make it through with our draught of 2.3m. The longer route round added another arduous eight miles to the journey and we eventually crept into the city anchorage at twilight.

The route

Colombian colour

Arriving in Cartagena was a shock to the system. We’d spent the summer before exploring deserted anchorages in Scotland and the winter in sleepy Caribbean bays. Now, after six days at sea, we were met with towering skyscrapers, speedboats blasting out music and the redolent smell of a city.

When we set off on our circumnavigation from New England in 2022 we’d imagined uninhabited islands and white sand beaches. But the novelty of anchoring in the middle of a thriving city has to be up there with our best moments.

Jacqeau was designed by the legendary Germán Frers in his home country of Argentina and then built in South America’s most prestigious shipyard at the time in Brazil. She was part of a small fleet of ‘Fast Yachts’ (one of which Frers designed for himself) and has been the only one since to have left the country.

Bringing her back to Latin America felt like bringing her home and she sat in the middle of the murky brown city anchorage looking just as impressive as the metropolis that surrounded her.

As for the city itself, we fell in love. We spent our time in port exploring the vibrant alleyways of the old town that teemed with delicious food, drink and culture. We’d sit in rooftop bars at sunset and watch the lightning roll in over the ocean, blissfully ignoring the fact that it was exactly what we would have to face at sea in a couple of days.

Then, with bellies and hearts full, we pulled away from what had been one of our favourite stops so far and set off again into the night. Our next intended destination was the Guna Yala Islands, San Blas – a mere 200-mile passage that ended up being one of our worst yet.

Electrical storms are an ever present danger in South American waters in June. Photo: Holger Leue/Getty

A game of luck

There’s absolutely no avoiding lightning at this time of year. The reality is, if you’re sailing at night, there will be lightning around and sure enough, like turning on a switch at sunset, forks of electricity began to crackle around us as soon as darkness fell.

In the dead of the night two small dots popped up on either side of us on the radar. Within 20 minutes they had become colossal thunderstorms. We checked our speed and heading against theirs and it looked like we were going to get ahead of them.

But then we experienced something neither of us had ever seen before; the thunderstorms on either side started to move towards each other as if they were homing in on a target and that target was us. Before we knew it they had merged and we were directly in the heart of the tempest.

Everything was pitch black, 30-plus knots of wind and heavy rain pounded us as we leapt to control the sails.

Deafening roars of thunder coincided simultaneously with mammoth bolts of lightning hitting the sea all around. Nothing can prepare you for how loud the thunder and how blinding the lightning is when you’re that close to it. Jacqeau crashed up and down against the steep surface waves making excruciatingly slow progress. We were getting nowhere and whenever we looked at the radar the storm was only getting larger.

JP keeping an eye on the ever-changing conditions. Photo: Andreas Müllner courtesy of PWS

We spent the following hour battling through severe conditions. With each lightning bolt we couldn’t help but think ‘this is it’. Sailing with a 20m aluminium pole in the sky amid such a storm makes you feel exceedingly vulnerable.

If we were hit, at best we’d lose our electrics, while at worst it could breach our hull. Ever so gradually, however, the lightning moved behind us and we watched in relief as it ripped mayhem through the empty waters in our wake.

Exhausted, soaked through, and with our nervous systems wrecked, we made the decision to take a detour and seek refuge for the following night. The sun brought a literal light at the end of the tunnel as it appeared on the horizon and weaved its way through the dark, dense squall lines. Under its warmth, we couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. We had never found ourselves so much in the hands of nature than we had in that storm and it was sheer luck that we didn’t get hit.

We found an appropriate port of refuge due south and anchored off Isla Fuerte for the night where we dried out, caught up on sleep and prepared for the next stage.

A cracking start to the passage doing 200-mile days out of Antigua. Photo: Project World Sail

Before we set off again, we spent some time de-briefing the night before. We knew we’d experience more lightning for the next couple of weeks at sea, so we wanted to learn as much as possible to minimise the risk. These are our main takeaways:

• Prediction – While forecast tools like ‘thunderstorms’ on Windy can give a rough indication, exact locations and durations are rarely accurate. We looked closely at CAPE Index (connective available potential energy, ie the amount of potential fuel available for a developing thunderstorm) and made ourselves aware of what was considered high or low for the part of the world we were in. We also used live satellite imagery to give us a better indication of what is happening at that moment.
• Avoidance – The wind shear and downdrafts produced by thunderstorms cause them to move in various unpredictable directions. Thunderstorms can extend up to 15km vertically, and therefore some are being pushed along in the upper atmosphere and moving in a completely different wind direction to the lower atmosphere. We made sure that we were looking at wind predictions for much higher altitudes to see if there were any trends we needed to be aware of.
• Preparation – If lighting came close to us, we prepared by ensuring we had a non-electronic communication source (handheld radio or sat phone), unplugging any electrics, wearing rubber soled shoes, keeping the engine running (starter battery wouldn’t work if struck), ensuring the boat was properly grounded, and shortening sail to anticipate high winds.

Perfect reward for a demanding passage: a private anchorage in paradise. Photo: Project World Sail

Guna Yala

Thankfully our second attempt at the same passage was much more successful. Despite watching cumulonimbus clouds grow twice the size of Everest during the day, the worst of it passed behind us for the night and we observed the lightning from a safe distance as we glided eastwards in the dark. Just over 24 hours later we caught our first glimpse of the highly anticipated Guna Yala.

This 365-strong island archipelago has long since been part of the ‘Milk Run’, with many considering it a true paradise. But for us, it felt like a whole new world. After contending with the perilous Magdalena river mouth and nerve-racking lightning-filled nights, to see a perfect copse of palm trees spring from an azure blue sea felt like a mirage.

We meandered our way through the web of reefs to a spot between three perfect miniature islands. As the anchor dropped, two friendly nurse sharks swam up to our stern as if to welcome us to this much-needed safe haven (they ended up staying with us for the duration of our time there, and we fondly nick-named them Simon and Garfunkel). We spent the next few days living an idyllic life of catching fish, exploring reefs and meeting the few passing locals as they gracefully sailed from island to island in their wooden boats.

Charlotte and JP’s Jacqeau in the crystal clear waters of San Blas. Photo: Andreas Müllner courtesy of PWS

Crowd avoidance

Our final spot was Bug Island, usually a crowded anchorage frequented by the various world rally fleets. Being so late, however, we were left with ample room to pick a spot in the flawless turquoise water.

That night we visited Ibin from the self-named ‘Ibin’s Beach Restaurant’. Weeks had gone by since his last visitor and he greeted us open-armed like old friends. His wooden platformed bar is delicately perched over the water’s edge, clad in hundreds of yachts’ flags, each frayed edge telling a different tale of a life lived at sea.

He offered us a tot of his finest Panamanian rum and cheerily told us how this time last year someone got so badly struck by lightning in the anchorage that it blew a hole in their hull and started to sink. Chuckling away to himself he filled us up with pizzas and beers and sent us away with the largest homemade focaccia I have ever seen.

We could have spent many more weeks exploring the countless islands of this archipelago but sadly our Panama Canal slot was only a few days away.

As we joined the traffic jam of towering cargo ships heading towards Colón I reflected on the past two weeks at sea. Would I recommend sailing though Colombia and Panama in June? Absolutely not. The reward, however, was quite remarkable.

We left grateful for our chance to share this indigenous land with only the locals and a couple of friendly nurse sharks. Experiencing the contrasting energies of the vibrant, dynamic streets of Cartagena with the spectacularly beautiful, deserted islands of the Guana Yala was worth its weight in gold.

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The wind was dying with the light after a lively passage down the western Peloponnese, but a lumpy sea remained. As we sloshed around in the swell, my wife Maxi and I easily made the decision to fire up the Volvo Penta for the last handful of miles into Pylos.

Fifteen minutes later the engine note suddenly wandered, before the motor groaned in protest and promptly died. I dashed inside to investigate. Our engine bay is vast and lies under the saloon floor of Namika, our Angus Primrose-designed 1983 Trident Marine Voyager 38.

I secured the trapdoors, then climbed in. The engine is just two years old, the seawater filter was clear, the shaft still spinning with our momentum. Nothing looked untoward, but fuel seemed the most likely culprit.

An attempt to depress and release the manual priming pump confirmed this so, as we wallowed around, I set about changing the pre-filter then tried to prime again. Nothing: the rubber boot remained depressed. Maxi hailed a yacht heading our way, doubtless bound for Pylos. They kindly agreed to shadow us, but were afraid to tow us into Pylos in the swell and were insistent we should call the coastguard.

We hoisted more sail to try to get some way on Namika but the zephyrs had completely gone and the sails banged furiously as we rolled. We tinkered some more. With just two miles of sea room and the waves gradually sweeping us ever-closer to the rocky shore of the Peloponnese, our usually very patient dog Minca growing restless, and our own nerves somewhat fraught, we decided to heed that advice and called the coastguard. They arrived about 40 minutes later and helped us into port.

Crystal clear waters in the Sartonic Gulf before heading out into the wider Aegean. Photo: Richard Thomson

The next morning I discovered a gluey slime clogging the hose, fuel cock and connections. A full day of picking, prodding, pulling and using a dinghy pump to force air through the system eventually cleared the lines. I then pumped the entire contents of the tank through a makeshift polisher.

We connected everything back up, primed and successfully started the engine, and over the next two days completed the necessary paperwork with the coastguard. We also managed to acquire an outboard fuel tank and some extra fuel hose, just in case the problem recurred. We had been lucky to be unlucky so close to Pylos. But, just weeks into our season we couldn’t help wondering: did this bode ill for the months to come?

Middle Cyclades

The famed meltemi had been fitful at best for several weeks in the Northern Cyclades, but as midsummer approached the winds seemed to have finally arrived once we were into the Middle Cyclades, and we streamed eastwards at seven knots. While not the quickest in light airs, Namika is superbly balanced at the helm and goes like a train as the breeze freshens.

After some slow miles in the preceding weeks we were all delighted to be making such good progress – none more than Namika it seemed, as she swept across the rolling southbound waves on a close reach. Our good friends Sarah and Luka were cruising in tandem with us on their own yacht, and the islands of Serifos, Paros, Ios, Schinousa and Koufonisi passed in our wakes.

The author Richard his wife, Maxi, up at the bow of their 1983 Trident Marine Voyager 38 Namika. Photo: Richard Thomson

For those who relish lively conditions, the Middle Cyclades are a perfect cruising ground, with plenty of anchorages to choose from and islands in every direction to suit whichever wind direction prevails – though in the summer it’s typically a variation on a northerly.

The island chain is mostly bare and barren compared to western Greece, with the white houses of the choras glistening atop their island perches. These classic hilltop Cycladic towns were typically built at altitude, with good views to give warning in the event of approaching pirates.

We paired perfect day sailing conditions with colourful evenings spent up in the choras with our friends, where we enjoyed marvellous dinners in the tavernas, against the backdrop of the Euros tournament playing out on large, open-air screens. We enjoyed the atmosphere and the football – though certainly not as much as our island hosts, whose passion for the game dwarfed our own.

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From Koufonisi we took advantage of a gentler few days to visit a small, poorly protected anchorage on the island of Irakleia, drawn by tales of the well-preserved remains of a German seaplane that had been shot down in 1943.

Legend has it that it was caught in much deeper water by local fishermen in the 1980s, who towed it to the bay so they could free their nets. The result is a wreck lying in just over 10m of water, accessible to freedivers. Though the crew are reported to have escaped the plane in parachutes, the wreck was still eerie as we circled the skeletal fuselage in the relative gloom.

On the island of Amorgos we bade our companions a heartfelt farewell before they continued south-east, while we planned to return west through the Southern Cyclades. But not before trying an outlandish experiment – extending two spare halyards down into the shimmering blue-green sea and taking turns to be hoisted high into the air as the two yachts edged away from each other.

The famed – and at times fearsome – meltemi was slow to develop early in the season in the Aegean. Photo: Richard Thomson

The halyards were extended by bending a dock line onto each and tying a stopper knot at the end. A person in the water then held one rope in each hand, just above the stopper knot, and as the boats motored apart the lines tightened and the person could be lifted out of the water by simply hanging on.

We were surprised to find we could get up to around spreader height quite easily before we chickened out, let go of both ropes and fell back into the water, all to much laughter, whooping and hollering. This silliness was followed with a celebratory dinner as the sun set.

Slightly melancholic after their departure the following morning, we found ourselves sitting in Namika’s cockpit with a large format passage chart of the Aegean. For no good reason, our eyes were drawn eastward and onto the Dodecanese, that chain of Greek islands lying just off the Turkish coast. And thus, we changed our plans, which is of course the beginning of many an adventure.

When the meltemi did arrive, fast sailing conditions followed. Photo: Richard Thomson

The Dodecanese

Completely free of expectation, we set off having not yet chosen a landfall. The breeze was fresh and just aft the beam and we were making close to seven knots. Namika excels in these conditions and we were able to leave her to sail herself. By lunchtime we’d passed the small island of Levitha and were on a comfortable course for larger Leros in the Dodecanese.

With the prevailing summer northerlies sailing south would be our general direction of travel. Nevertheless, we gave the northing a brief go and bashed up to Lipsi and even Patmos, before calling time and returning south.

One day, after four hours of thrashing to windward, never doing less than four knots over the ground during that time, we discovered we had clawed just five miles upwind. I scoured the internet for mentions of a south-going current in the vicinity, but couldn’t find anything and it remains an unsolved mystery of our season.

After collecting visiting friends on Leros, we continued south to Kalimnos, dropping anchor in a tiny bay all to ourselves. Open to the north-east, this small fjord-like anchorage only really had space for a yacht or two, with limited room to swing.

Wreck of a World War II German seaplane off the island of Irakleia. Photo: Richard Thomson

With a beach at the head of the bay, we ran shore lines across the bay to keep our bow pointing at the entrance. This proved well worth that little extra effort, because while a small amount of swell crept in we had a very comfortable night – Namika’s bow rising gently with the waves. But the real prize for getting in here was the unspoilt, mountainous backdrop, complete with feral goats and a vast sinkhole. We hiked up, peered down into the abyss, then wandered back to sea level again to enjoy an evening spent watching the stars.

With almost no wind the following day, we decided to potter a few miles down the coast. Surrounded by jagged peaks all around, Palionissos is a climber’s paradise, and the village alternately lives from yachting tourism in the summer or climbing tourism in the cooler winter. Here we met the remarkable Nicholas. Together with his equally remarkable wife, they run a quiet, traditional little taverna inland, which we’d only found while walking our dog, Minca.

We got chatting and indicated we’d come back for dinner. An hour or two later we were greeted like old friends, and enjoyed a long evening with them. As the wine flowed (plenty of it ‘on the house’), Nicholas told tales of sponge-diving and a career as a ship’s pilot, before pulling out a battered copy of Yachting World from the 1990s! In it, they and their taverna were described in glowing terms. The years have certainly not diminished the couple’s hospitality.

Tied ashore in Fiskardo where we dined right by the water’s edge, looking out at Namika and the other yachts. Photo: Richard Thomson

We sailed onward to neighbouring Kos (with its international airport), where we said goodbye to our friends and plotted our next move. It was by now late into the summer, and though we had generally enjoyed excellent sailing conditions for months we were well aware of the powerful storms wracking the western and central Med, reaching as far as the southern Peloponnese.

I’d kept a constant eye on PredictWind small-scale models of the wider Mediterranean for some time, which indicated near-continuous violent westerlies threatening to boil round into the Aegean. We were scheduled to return to the Ionian for the winter, and so it was time to start some westing.

Changing Conditions

As we made sail for westward Astipalea, it felt as if we were quite literally sailing towards the deteriorating weather we had spotted. By the time we approached the butterfly-shaped island, the waves were several metres high and we were luffing to take the larger ones on the bow before bearing away as the green water subsided. The fetch here is over 250 miles, and the sea reflected this.

We hoped to anchor in a large, landlocked bay with a tiny narrow entrance on the northern side of the island, but as the sea built we were growing slightly nervous at the prospect.

After a day’s sail we set off for Anafi’s peak, summitting just before the sun began to set on a darkening sea. Photo: Richard Thomson

While the bay promised complete shelter from wind and waves, the entrance was an almost dead-end with just a narrow inlet from which to reach the bay itself. We were particularly apprehensive about running down into that entrance with those seas behind us; broaching seemed a real risk.

Before committing, we therefore decided to test it while we still had plenty of sea room. After dropping the main, we eased the genoa tentatively and bore away with some apprehension to take the seas on our stern. Remarkably, the forward motion of the waves now seemed to be interrupted by the island to leeward. We rose and fell on the – still significant – waves but were not pushed around by them, so decided to make for the inlet.

As we approached both waves and wind continually eased and we gybed in benign conditions before finally motoring through the narrow inlet, which suddenly opened into the huge, promised bay.

We anchored alone in 7m on mud with just a few ripples belying the howling wind and waves outside. There’s little to compare with that feeling of being safely anchored after an exhilarating sail, and we celebrated with an aperitif in the cockpit before going ashore to walk the ever-patient Minca.

Two days later and the wind had vanished. As we crept out of our secret haven and rounded the northern cape of the island of Astipalea, we were greeted by a pod of dolphins in water so still and clear that it could have been from a swimming pool.

Exploring the colourful fishing village of Klima as the waves roll in. Photo: Richard Thomson

When the breeze did return it was a brisk north-westerly as winds from the western Med started to boil beyond the Peloponnese and affect the normal weather patterns of the Aegean.

In such conditions, the Southern Cyclades can present a challenge because, other than southerly Crete, there is nowhere to run off to before you reach North Africa. However, the forecasts suggested we had a window where we should be able to close-reach or close-haul along the southern extremity of the Cyclades.

The pressure to use this window ultimately gave us one of the most memorable days of the season. We rounded neighbouring Anafi in the early evening after an eight-hour sail, passing a monastery perched high on a vertical cliff towering above the shallow bight that was to be our anchorage.

On a whim, we took torches and warm layers and set off for the peak, summitting the 1,500ft just before the sun began to set on an endless, darkening sea. To be all alone witnessing the colours of golden hour from a birds’ eye view atop a sheer drop into the Aegean was magical. Unexpected, perfect days like these are, for us, what cruising is all about.

Santorini at sunrise, looking back towards neighbouring Anafi. Santorini is short of good anchorages, so you need to chose your timing carefully. Photo: Richard Thomson

A Final surprise

The westerlies ultimately forced us north again and we abandoned our plan to return via the Peloponnese in favour of the Corinth Canal, opting to keep land between us and the Ionian for as long as possible. The westing was nevertheless gruelling, even in the comparatively sheltered Gulfs of Corinth and Patras.

Back in the busier Ionian and with the weather forecast to deteriorate again, we made for a well-protected bay on eastern Ithaca, which was unsurprisingly full to bursting point. Though we squeaked in for the night, we decided to leave this dodgem fair first thing in the morning before the thunderstorms arrived and run north to Vlikho on neighbouring Lefkada – a hurricane hole we know well which offers excellent shelter.

All smiles and delightful sailing conditions. Photo: Richard Thomson

That evening, thunder and blinding rain duly rolled in and we were on anchor watch much of the night, though our oversized, 33kg Rocna anchor held without issue.

The next morning we took the dinghy ashore, savouring the lush green of the Ionian after the storm. There, opposite the town of Nydri, we met a sad, scared little dog with a scruffy collar, who looked in a bad way. Though the events that followed are a long story best left for another time, the brief version is we contacted the local animal rescue shelter and discovered she’d been known on the streets of Nydri for several months, unclaimed and presumed abandoned.

The result is that, somehow, we now have a second rescue dog on board. Her name is Nydri.

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The post ‘We paired perfect sailing with colourful evenings ashore’: Exploring unexpected Greece by boat appeared first on Yachting World.

Friday evening, 21 February, 2025, and we are anchored inside a reef lagoon in a remote part of Raja Ampat, West Papua, Indonesia. The entrance to the lagoon is narrow, and uncharted. It’s the type of approach that needs daylight and two people to navigate: one on the bow directing the course, the other steering.

This isn’t new to us. Elliot and I have been living aboard our 1985 Mason 48, Fortaleza, for four years and in that time we’ve wiggled our way in and out of some tight spots. Through trial, and a couple of unmentionable errors that have left us grateful Fortaleza is steel hulled, we’ve developed our own reef navigation signals to communicate from the bow to the cockpit, as well as a capacity to forgive each other’s swearing.

Elliot’s Kiwi/Aussie. I am British/Kiwi. We met in New Zealand, and Covid lockdown had us move in together on our third date. Quite quickly we bought Fortaleza before spending nine long, filthy months living aboard in a boatyard, refitting her with the capacity to be self-reliant for long periods of time. We rewired, replumbed, re-rigged. We added solar, a watermaker and a sail plan for almost every eventuality.

The ambition was to spend 5-10 years exploring the world in a westerly direction until we ran out of money. We had no real plan, except to live off-grid, avoid marinas, find remote beauty and do a lot of diving. We left New Zealand in June 2023 and, sailed through Niue, Tonga, Fiji, New Caledonia, Australia, Tasmania and up into Indonesia, clocking up over 14,500 life-changing miles and hooking our home into hundreds of anchorages. This one, in Raja Ampat, like many we’ve spent time in, is extremely isolated.

Fortaleza is a steel hulled 48ft Mason built in Auckland in 1985, and had a nine-month refit for remote cruising. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

Unexpected events

We are about 125km from the nearest town, Sorong, and the nearest boats showing on our instruments are around 70km away. Weeim, the nearby island, is essentially just thick jungle with a small longboat fishing village at the furthest end.

We are only here for a night, a stopover on our way south, back to the towering karst rock formations and magic of Misool, after three months exploring northern Raja Ampat. We left our previous anchorage early so we could arrive with good daylight and intend to leave again as soon as there’s enough light to be able to navigate our way through the reef.

We anchor. We snorkel. We eat dinner. We play Uno. We go to bed. It’s hot in Indonesia, and muggy – even at night it can be 30°C inside the boat, so Elliot decides to sleep in the saloon. Life is good, normal – for us.

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Until, at around 1230, Elliot wakes up and can’t move his right side. His leg and his arm are unresponsive. It crosses his mind he may be having a stroke. Because he’s an idiot, he doesn’t wake me up. But after a while, when he regains some movement, he makes his way to the bathroom to find aspirin – you know, for the secret stroke he thinks he’s having.

At around 0130 I wake up, annoyed by his rummaging around. But it quickly becomes clear that things are not good. What follows is a blur of suppressed panic and a mad fumbled search of the boat for aspirin.

We have an extensive medical kit, everything from OxyContin to injectable morphine and antibiotics. But it’s aspirin that saves stroke victim’s lives and the only medicine we are not carrying is aspirin. Accepting this, surrounded by cartons of every other drug we could carry, is, to put it mildly, devastating.

Seeking empty anchorages, here in Northland, New Zealand. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

Calm in a crisis

Knowing nothing medical can be done, we turn our attention to finding help. Eventually we find an email address for our insurance company but then Elliot begins to have a second episode. This one is worse. His mouth falls slanted sideways and he looks utterly confused and terrified as he tries to speak but can’t form words.

Elliot is my rock. He is the calm one of the two of us, sensible, unflappable. The only person I need in any crisis is Elliot. But it is Elliot who is in crisis. There’s a horrific dawning that from this moment what I do matters and I need to hold it together.

Elliot and I have sailed thousands of miles. Like most cruisers we’ve moved pretty slowly, picking our moments to avoid the worst of predictable weather, but we’ve still hit our share of drama and made our share of bad decisions. My first proper multi-day passage along New Zealand’s north island gave us an unforecasted 40 knots on the nose for 12 hours of washing machine hell that had me Googling the price of llama farms as an alternative life plan.

Arriving at Deal Island, Bass Strait, Tasmania. The couple sail two-handed. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

Elliot, who had previously crewed a boat from Hobart to Picton through the Roaring Forties without a bimini or autopilot, was only bothered by our slowed SOG. Despite the sea state, he could still eat, and sing along badly to Tracy Chapman. He almost seemed happy. I just wondered if I was really cut out for this life.

Earlier in the same trip, under leaden skies on a fast broad reach, we’d T-boned a massive, submerged tree at 8 knots. We thought we’d hit a whale. Elliot was typically unfazed. At that evening’s anchorage he jumped in the water to swim on the hull and, grinning, reported back that he was glad we were steel, we’d only lost a little paint.

Elliot grew up in Sydney around water, messing around on Hobie Cats, but was late to yachting, completing his Offshore Yachtmaster in his late 40s and crewing on other people’s boats all around the world. There is nothing he can’t turn his hand to. Fortaleza is the first boat he’s owned and he knows every inch of her. Every wire, nut, bolt, splice, spare part, valve and hose clip.

I can be anxious. Twice, sleep deprived, I’ve woken Elliot up, mid-ocean, convinced we are about to sail into another boat, only to be gently reassured that what I imagined to be a looming mast light is in fact a star.

But despite this we are a good team. We’ve managed to successfully sail our tiny home across oceans. Being out of sight of land, flying our enormous turquoise gennaker, with just a good breeze and each other for company, is a supremely happy experience for us. But in this remote lagoon in the dead of night, half the team is in serious trouble, and I need to focus.

Off Ribbon Reef No10 in Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. Diving and snorkelling is a favourite activity. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

Out of range

We are out of range of mobile coverage so I can’t call anyone, but Starlink connects us to the internet. I begin messaging our insurance company’s emergency team on Whatsapp. A medic helps me assess Elliot, and we agree he is having a stroke.

I give them our co-ordinates. They say they are organising a helicopter and reassure me I’m not on my own, but neither thing feels true, and it occurs to me that the person I am texting at their desk probably doesn’t grasp the remoteness of where we are. It also occurs to me that in the three months we’ve been in Raja Ampat I haven’t seen a single helicopter. The situation feels like a whirling, terrifying fairground ride I can’t get off.

Anchored beside Josh and Kat on SV Phoenix at Wofoh Island, Raja Ampat. Josh was one of two volunteers who saved Fortaleza. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

I realise that if help does arrive we’d need to be ready, so I start packing up the boat. I bring valuable things in from the cockpit, grab fishing gear from on deck. Outside the darkness feels suffocating. The air is still and oppressively hot, thick and gluey. There is not a single light, anywhere. I whisper quiet prayers to the sky.

I take a deep breath and go back downstairs. Elliot seems horribly broken. He looks up and his new face mouths ‘Sorry’ at me repeatedly. I wonder if he might die. Bizarrely, he is trying to do admin, moving money between accounts on his phone, jabbing at the screen with his left hand. I wonder if he thinks he might die too. He is clearly desperate for me to be OK if things get worse.

Reaching out

At 0345 the insurance company texts to tell me there is no helicopter. Despite already knowing this, I feel my stomach lurch with nausea. The advisor tells me to Mayday for help. I grab the radio, take a deep breath and say as calmly and clearly as I can “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is sailing vessel Fortaleza, sailing vessel Fortaleza”. My words seem to echo into a void.

Elliot and I wait, eyes locked on each other, but there’s no response. I try again, willing the silence to be broken. But there’s nothing. No one is listening. And this is the moment that almost breaks me. I have a sensation of freefalling through a weightless, airless space. There is no one out there.

Refuelled and shipshape in Vuda, Fiji before their passage to New Caledonia. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

At around 0400 Elliot begins to regain some sensation in his limbs and his face begins to morph slowly back to normal. His right side is weakened but very slowly he is able to move. He shifts from the sofa to bed and tries to rest. Alarmingly, I am told by text to wake him every 30 minutes to make sure he is breathing and coherent. Instead, for the next few hours, I check every 10 minutes, sitting on the bed beside him, holding my breath, desperate to hear his.

The insurance company texts to say they are trying hard to raise the local search and rescue in Sorong. Perhaps as a response to feeling so utterly alone, I start talking aloud to myself “Shut the hatches”. “Pack a bag”. “Toothbrushes”.

“Padlock the lockers”. “Passports”. “Make sure the gas is off.” “It’ll be OK, it’ll be OK, it’ll be OK.” I’m not sure it will be.

I send a panicked text message to the only local person I know in the region, Wick, the owner of the marina in Sorong, 125km away. I briefly hesitate before I press send, concerned it might be rude to wake him up at such an hour, then actually laugh out loud at my Britishness. My text says: “Wick. Miranda here. I’m sorry. I don’t know who else to reach out to. Elliot seems to have had a stroke. I am alone and I don’t know what to do. Please help.” and I attach our location.

Preparing for night watch, in the Coral Sea on the way from New Caledonia to Australia. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

Securing the boat

The day starts to dawn at 0600 and the light brings comfort. The blackness of night had been intensifying the feeling of isolation. I’m told contact has been made with search and rescue. They are going to come by boat from Sorong. They will be with us… in nine hours. They need a few hours to get their team together and then they estimate that the journey will take six more.

Crying with relief, I wake Elliot to tell him help is coming. It’s nine hours away but it’s something. It’s hope. Elliot gets up and starts trying to get the boat organised, and I find myself shouting angrily at him to lie down.

Without speaking we both know we have several serious problems. There’s Elliot’s health, obviously. But there’s also our home, Fortaleza. Our entire life’s possessions are here with us on this boat. She has safely carried us across oceans to some of the most beautiful places on earth.

She is more than a boat to us, she is the third member of our little team. Even if we get rescued, the idea of leaving Fortaleza inside this reef without any idea of how, or when, we can get back to her, or whether she’ll still be floating or functional when we do, is a massive source of additional anxiety. So many scenarios run through our heads, none of them good.

Miranda has gone from total novice to sailing 14,500 miles. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

At 0700 Wick calls. He’s woken to see my text message . “Miranda, I am going to try and help you. What do you need?” I bite my cheek and try not to blub.

I’ve had an idea. I ask Wick if he could go to the marina and see if anyone there would be prepared to join the search and rescue boat out to where we are, and then sail Fortaleza back to Sorong.

What seems like moments later Wick calls me again and says he has two volunteers, Josh (already a good friend from another boat) and Albert (who we had met just once in passing). Without a moment’s second thought, they are coming to save Fortaleza for us.

When I tell Elliot this we both, finally, allow ourselves to burst into sobbing, ugly tears of relief. It changes everything. Our precious home, and everything we own, is going to be safe. Now we can just focus on Elliot.

Two nights in hospital in Sorong. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

Help on scene

The SAR team leaves Sorong with Josh and Albert at 0900. Help is actually coming. I silently thank the deities I pleaded with during the night.

Elliot starts Googling his symptoms and we diagnose him with a TIA. By now he is pretty much back to physical normality but there is a serious possibility an actual stroke could follow. He needs aspirin urgently. I get a text from Josh telling me the SAR boat isn’t carrying any.

I start recording short operational videos for Josh and Albert who will be taking care of our home. Every boat is unique, Fortaleza has her secrets and quirks. I guide them through how to start the engine, the switchboard, composting loo, bilge pumps, Starlink, fuel, power.

Around 1100 I see two guys approaching in a dugout fishing boat. One is wearing what looks like a hastily homemade police shirt. Initially – tired, overwhelmed, and frankly just a little bit busy – I am suspicious. They start to board Fortaleza uninvited and I wonder if, on top of everything else, I am now dealing with pirates.

After two nights in hospital in Sorong, the couple were medivac’d by Lear Jet to a Singapore ICU. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

The policeman’s teeth are beetlejuice red, he speaks no English but smiles a lot. Eventually, we establish that they are from the nearest village and have been sent by the regional chief of police to wait with us until the SAR arrives. It is incredibly touching. I thank them but send them away – there’s really nothing that they can do.

At 1500 I get a text from Josh saying the rescue crew is 20 minutes away. I feel myself starting to shake. Half an hour later the SAR boat is in sight. It can’t come through the reef into the lagoon but sets down a red inflatable and we watch people clamber into it. Soon afterwards we are being boarded by a team of medics and SAR staff as well as Josh and Albert. Never in my life have I been happier to see other humans. I can’t stop hugging them. I am no longer the only person responsible for it all.

The medics assess Elliot while I give Josh and Albert a whistlestop tour of Fortaleza. They are positive and confident and calm and kind and wonderful. I know what they are doing for us is enormous. They have a 20-hour overnight sail ahead of them on a boat they don’t know. It is a moment of generosity we can never repay.

Within 10 minutes we are waving goodbye from the inflatable, on our way out of the reef to the SAR boat and a six-hour voyage to Sorong. We have been rescued.

On board, Elliot is laid on a gurney and put on oxygen.

I make my way to the back of the boat as the engines start roaring, and watch Fortaleza behind us, anchor already up, making her way slowly out of the reef.

Stern to an empty Wofoh Island. Raja Ampat enthralled for three months’ cruising. Photo: Miranda Baker & Elliot Russo

Post script

Weeks later, Elliot is miraculously well; physically fully restored. He was diagnosed as having had a stroke from a previously undiagnosed hole in his heart. Specialists are baffled by his recovery, given he didn’t get any aspirin for almost 36 hours. Ultimately it was the sailing community in Sorong who dug through their medical kits to find us some – delivered to the hospital, with hugs, by Wick.

Fortaleza is still in Indonesia’s tropical deluges, being brilliantly well cared for in Tampa Garam, Wick’s marina. We aim to regroup soon; get our little team back together, and continue on with our adventure.

Lessons learned

There are many lessons from our experience. Some for us but also, I hope, that the wider sailing community might benefit from.

• Starlink – Without it I would have had to set off our EPIRB. Being able to communicate with humans by text was vital. We are also going to invest in a Garmin inReach.
• Aspirin – Since hearing our story many cruisers have messaged telling us they have bought aspirin to have on board. But aspirin should NEVER be administered to a person suffering a suspected stroke without medical advice. If the stroke is actually not a blood clot but a brain bleed, with very similar symptoms, aspirin can make things much worse and could even kill your patient (I only learned this after our incident).
• Insurance – Get it: no excuse. Not only are we covered for an eye-watering bill upwards of AU$140,000, the emergency response was immediate and outstanding.
• Mayday – In a lot of people’s minds a Mayday is a cure-all, a certainty of help. It isn’t. Have ways of alerting your emergency to land.
• Channel 16 – Even if we had other boats anchored around us, I likely wouldn’t have been able to raise them on VHF. Cruisers, as a rule, don’t sleep with their radios on. In Indonesia Ch16 is often a rowdy channel – we’ve even heard karaoke over it. We want to work with other cruisers to open unused channels in different regions, which we can all leave on overnight. I’d love to hear from anyone keen to help us develop this idea.
• Contact numbers – Have emergency contact numbers noted somewhere obvious. I had to scroll through endless emails to find our insurance company’s contact details and it was incredibly stressful.
• Medical kit – We have a thorough medical kit, based on NZ’s Cat 1 Offshore requirements. There is a lot in there, with a lot of unpronounceable labels. One day, bored in the middle of the Pacific, I wrote the uses of each medication on the visible facing edge of each box. While I didn’t find what I needed, I did save a massive amount of time by not having to work out what each medicine was for.
• Humans are awesome – Kindness seems to come as an equal and opposite force to terrible events. The sailing community in particular is extraordinary. The love, support and help we received from total strangers, as well as friends, has been truly humbling.

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A shirtless sailor in a roughed up inflatable dinghy approached as we sat in the cockpit at anchor. Along with two friends, my wife Roxy and I had just arrived in Marsala, a working fishing port known for its fortified wine, on the western point of Sicily. “I just came to warn you to be extra careful! Some people tried to steal my dinghy outboard twice today,” the man said as he held onto our teak toerail. “I was onshore for some groceries and fishermen told me they’d scared them off the first time, but when I returned they were in the dinghy again trying to cut the chain off my outboard!”

It was past 5pm and we were ready to spend the evening relaxing. But news of determined thieves in the anchorage had thrown a wrench in those plans. We’ve had our trusty RIB and its 15hp outboard since we first bought Sonder, our 1986 Cheoy Lee Pedrick 47, in 2018.

The thought of a sleepless night worrying about losing it was reason enough to hoist anchor and head west in the waning daylight for the nearest of the five Egadi islands, Favignana, some 10 miles away.

Roxy and I have spent the last four seasons cruising the Med. Ever since sailing across the North Atlantic we’ve been venturing east, as far as the Greek Islands in the Aegean Sea. Now, we’re retracing our wake and, having left the vast archipelagos of the eastern Med behind, returned to the western Med and its predominantly larger islands such as Sardinia and Corsica.

However, with the addition of the Mistral winds, finding shelter here during severe weather can be much more challenging because of the distance often required to get into the lee on a large island. As we were cruising during late summer, a period infamous for sudden weather changes, we decided to seek out some of the small, lesser-known archipelagos of the Tyrrhenian Sea, between Sardinia and mainland Italy.

A lovely flat-water sail from Marsala, Sicily, to Favignana. Photo: Roxy Johnson

Egadi Islands

The northerly wind, which had topped out at 18 knots in the middle of the afternoon, was weakening to a relaxed 10-12 knots. We hoisted Sonder’s fully-battened mainsail and unfurled our 130% genoa. With her full suit of sails in light airs Sonder can tack upwind at her best angles, gracefully gathering inertia with her 22-ton displacement.

Even so, the stars had long been visible by the time we threaded our way into the anchorage past two rocky shoals on the south side of Favignana. Our new surroundings were relatively secluded, a welcome relief after the warning we’d received in Marsala. The four of us regrouped in the cockpit to toast our first sail together – we’d made it to the Egadi islands, albeit a day sooner than planned.

Protruding off the western tip of Sicily, where the Mediterranean is squeezed through a narrow gap with Tunisia, the Egadi islands hold a strategic position –the famous naval battle between Rome and Carthage that ended the first Punic war happened here. There’s reliable thermal wind, blowing most afternoons from either the south or north. With a forecast shift to the south, we left Favignana sailing for Marettimo, the westernmost island.

Sonder’s gunwale kissed passing waves on a tight starboard tack, trying to reach Marettimo’s eastern headland. Roxy and I are so accustomed to double-handing Sonder it was a rare luxury to have our friends, both professional sailors, hoisting, trimming and helming without hesitation.

Cala Marino on the island of Marettimo. Photo: Roxy Johnson

As we made the southern point of Marettimo the island’s mountainous spine broke the thermal wind with its wind shadow so we reluctantly motored the final stretch up to Cala Manione. This small, nubbin-like rocky peninsula juts out with a dozen or so moorings on a white, sandy bottom.

The moorings, taken on a first-come-first-served basis, are maintained by the island’s marine park for a nightly fee. Roxy stood on the bow directing me with hand signals as I slowly drove Sonder up to an open mooring. In over 50ft of depth Roxy could see clearly down through the cobalt water to the bottom.

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It had just ticked over to August, and we badly needed a swim after being on deck under the midday sun. We snorkelled a long circuitous route along the steep rocky walls of the shoreline. The sea temperature registered a sweltering 31°C, 5°C warmer than it had been in Marsala, where the much colder Ionian sea comes rushing around Sicily. Later we rode SUPs ashore to explore the ruins of a picturesque Ottoman-era watchtower perched above the anchorage. The route was steep and without shade, but worth the effort for the vantage to enjoy the last glimmer of sun to touch all of Sicily that day.

Marettimo is a collection of whitewashed houses clinging to the bottom of the island’s steep slope. With its small quay that barely protects the fishing village, or the rambling streets lit by a handful of canary-yellow lamps, you can’t escape the feeling that you’re out on the edge of something – in this case, the farthest tip of the boot of Italy.

The four us meandered around until the quiet was broken by the sound of live music. Following it we found a lively outdoor cafe on the harbour front. A guitarist and trumpet duo were playing jazz under a large olive tree, some of the audience already on their feet dancing. We leant on the stone wall lining the promenade and soon wine and some cichetti came out from the kitchen for us to sink into.

Sonder is a Cheoy Lee Pedrick 47 from 1986. Photo: Roxy Johnson

The next day we returned to Favignana, this time anchoring in its historic fishing port on the north coast. Built around a half-moon harbour, with crystal blue water, the limestone houses are an appendage to the huge tuna cannery, which has now become a stylish museum. For centuries, bluefin tuna seasonally migrated past the Egadi islands to spawn. The invention of industrial canned-tuna was started here in the 19th century, and up until the 1970s Favignana fishermen would row out in open boats to spear the giant tuna trapped in a labyrinth of hand-tied sunken nets.

After provisioning some Sicilian staples, we decided to take advantage of a weather window for a passage across the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Pontine archipelago west of Naples early the next morning.

The sun was still behind the mountains as we lifted anchor. All was still, except for the faint hum of a fishing boat picking up pots in the distance. Reluctantly I broke the peace by turning over Sonder’s Yanmar engine, and as we motored away a giant bluefin tuna leapt clear out of the water, before making a tremendous splash, a fitting send off from the Egadi islands.

Across the Tyrrhenian Sea 175 miles lay before us. The last time Roxy and I had sailed across it on our eastward journey it had been mid-October and we’d had swift broad reaching north-westerlies. This time around, in the height of summer, the wind was fickle. The thermal south-easterlies quickly dissipated, though had been forecast to blow all day.

We all had our guards up for a potential squall but, instead, for the next 12 hours found ourselves chasing puffs of wind – a cat and mouse game that repeated itself until we were counting sail changes in the double-digits. Using Starlink internet, we could view Italian weather radar for the whole Tyrrhenian.

It was clear that severe thunderstorms passing to the north of us kept pulling the energy out of the south-easterlies. By late afternoon we’d finally had enough and motor-sailed to Ponza, our first landfall in the Pontine Islands.

Pontine Islands

The island of Ponza appeared as a thin rectangular mirage 20 miles offshore, white and grey volcanic cliffs spanning its length. From the din of power boats alone we could tell we were closer to metropolitan Italy. We anchored in one of a series of partial bays that run the southern coastline of Ponza. There were hundreds of other yachts on this side of the island, but with several square miles of white sandy bottom with good holding at 20-50ft, there was plenty of room.

Nearby Ponza town was a hive of activity. Ferries from Naples were docking and undocking, while party boats jockeyed for space. The town centre was packed.

The following morning we said a heartfelt goodbye to our friends who boarded a fast ferry to Naples and a flight to return to their own boat. As we continued to explore Ponza town, we noticed we only heard Italian everywhere.

Departing the anchorage under the white cliffs of Ponza’s Chiaia di Luna beach (Pontine islands). Photo: Roxy Johnson

Ponza is a place Italians from Rome and Naples escape to as their own cities are flooded with international tourists each summer. Roxy and I were also ready to find a quieter place to catch up on work and boat jobs. To the north of Ponza is the small, uninhabited sister island of Palmarola, which looked like the perfect spot to escape the crowds so we set off on a lazy genoa-only sail around the northern tip.

The day was cloudless, around 35°C, even hotter than it had been in the Egadi islands, and humid on top. We couldn’t even make the short distance to Palmarola without stopping for a swim. The water felt like a warm bath, and did little to cool you. I tried to reply to emails, stringing up our hammock under our bimini to lie in the shade with my laptop. Just as the heat started to feel intolerable, we heard a whistle from a small boat motoring around the corner like a mirage. A sign on its hard top advertised a miracle: gelato!

Tuscan Archipelago

Later in the afternoon, we arrived in Palmarola. On its southern end a massive cliff of chalk creates a large, sandy-bottomed anchorage with little protection except from the north. With the forecast calm continuing, it was perfect for an overnight away from the crowds.

We spent the late afternoon paddle boarding on SUPs in and out of a maze of limestone cave formations on the west side. A thin pebble beach provided slight protection from the open sea and, with the sun setting, Roxy and I took wine and cheese to watch the sunset from the beach. Compared to the throbbing crowds of Ponza, it was heaven to have only a few other boats in the anchorage.

Alone beneath the picturesque village of Vernazza. Photo: Roxy Johnson

Ponza is only 60 miles from the mouth of the Tiber river and the port of Rome, a convenient place to berth your yacht if you need an international airport close by – as we did when we left Sonder while we flew to the US to visit family. The Marina Di Porto Di Roma is a 15-minute taxi ride to the airport and a 45-minute train into Rome’s centre.

The marina is also adjacent to the often overlooked archeological site of Ostia Antica, Rome’s historical port city. The site is massive, with ancient Roman baths, an amphitheatre, and many merchant storefronts with mosaic signs still intact advertising wares such as tuna, wine, and olive oil.

When we returned to Sonder to continue cruising north it was the start of September. We were relieved the summer heat and August crowds had mostly passed, but worried about unsettled weather in the forecast. It had only been a week since a violent squall sank the 184ft superyacht Bayesian off Sicily.

North of Rome is about 75 miles of straight, exposed coastline before you reach the impressive Monte Argentario, a former island now joined to the mainland by spits of sand that make up a lagoon. Here, there are several bays that offer protection from swell and potential weather.

The vibrant fishing port in Ponza. Photo: Roxy Johnson

Our first anchorage, Cala Grande, was a beautiful sandy bay with a mix of rock and sand dotting the uninhabited shore. The anchorage was completely empty except for an eerie 40ft yacht up on the rocks. It seemed to have been wrecked recently as the boat was still moving in small waves, the sails still carefully flaked and furled – a reminder of how quickly things can change.

Porto Stefano is a classic Italian fort town and offers the best protection from the south-westerly swell that frequently occurs during Mistral winds. The entire shoreline of the anchorage, however, is a rock jetty which caused us some trepidation in case wind direction changed rapidly overnight.

The Italian marine forecast issued a yellow warning for moderate thunderstorms for the coming evening, but a couple models on PredictWind showed south-westerly winds, building in the evening, followed by a strong cold front blowing through bringing a rapid wind shift to the north.

Exploring the limestone caves of the Palmarola coast by stand-up paddleboard. Photo: Roxy Johnson

Porto Stefano would be a good anchorage to ride out the south-westerlies, but in northerlies we’d be trapped with the unforgiving rock jetty as a lee shore. After weighing the pros and cons, we decided to make our way to the Tuscan village of Talamone in the last light of the day. Only seven miles north, it’s quite exposed to the south, but we decided we’d rather tolerate uncomfortable swell conditions early in the evening in favour of being protected after a possible wind shift.

Talamone is an archetypal Tuscan walled village, built onto a rocky finger that juts out just enough to provide a little protection for a small, shallow harbour. More recently the village built a jetty further out to provide shelter to a larger part of the bay in south-westerly winds. Unfortunately for us, a mooring field for local boats prevented us from anchoring fully in the lee of the jetty, but after a few attempts we dropped anchor in a sandy patch in 15ft which provided some degree of protection.

As the clouds thickened, Sonder bucked up and down on her anchor bridle. There were flashes of lightning to the distant west.

Curious carved grottos near Ponza were once a Roman emperor’s eel farm. Photo: Roxy Johnson

Changing conditions

At around 2300 the wind, which had steadily risen to 18 knots, suddenly dropped to a whisper. A few minutes later a gust accompanied by a rumbling sound like a freight train hit the rigging. We leapt out into the cockpit, I went to the helm and started our engine. The instruments read 25 knots of wind, then 30.

I gave the throttle some forward thrust to counter the windage and relieve the pressure on our anchor. From 30, the wind rose to 40, still strengthening. Sonder groaned and heeled deeply to starboard. Sideways rain pelted our faces. Roxy crept her way up to the bow to watch for any boats that could have broken loose and come bearing down on us.

Rowing into Riomaggiore (no engines allowed). Photo: Roxy Johnson

The roar of the wind was now deafening. We were still pinned over in the squall and I floored the throttle trying to push the bow back into the wind, hoping our oversized 45kg anchor would continue to hold. After what seemed like forever, the squall subsided, and Sonder righted herself.

Roxy and I, shaken by the sudden, extreme violence of the weather, caught our breaths. Several boats had had jibs ripped out or biminis torn that were now flogging uncontrollably. I later checked our navigation instruments in the cabin to see it had logged at least a 58-knot gust.

Vernazza, Cinque Terre. Photo: Roxy Johnson

Cinque Terre

Sailing north again, and sitting at a cafe ashore at Portoferraio on the island of Elba, the bougainvillea flowers had faded to a pale pink and the September scene was serene. We knew there are many more places to explore like this in beautiful Elba, but were now on a tight timeline. We’d already committed to hauling Sonder out west of Marseille in France, so with over 300 miles of coastline still to cover, and challenging weather likely, it was time to move on.

Near the top of our Italian cruising bucket list was Cinque Terre, a string of five villages perched in small, steep indents on the coastal mountains on the eastern edge of the Italian Riviera. The villages are easy to access by yacht, each having a well-maintained set of official moorings but they’re completely exposed to the Tyrrhenian Sea, though there is good protection in nearby Porto Venere. We were lucky with three gloriously calm days that allowed us to moor off the villages – the only boat doing so this late in the season.

One night, we picked up a mooring off Vernazza, arguably the most popular with the Instagram influencer crowds that frequent Cinque Terre. In September, though, we hardly saw them, and around sunset we went ashore. Meandering up a terraced hillside path we found a popular fish restaurant with just a few balcony tables.

We dined overlooking Vernazza’s hidden harbour with the vast expanse of sea beyond and, right in the middle of the frame, was Sonder, bobbing all on her own just outside the breakwater. There’s nothing quite like seeing your floating home take centre stage at one of the most iconic sites in Italy.

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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The post Exploring the Tyrrhenian Sea and the hidden islands of Italy appeared first on Yachting World.

The Inside Passage is one of North America’s great cruising grounds – an intricate, fjord-lined waterway stretching from Vancouver Island to Alaska. It’s a route known for its remote anchorages, powerful tides and extraordinary wildlife yet it remains rarely explored by superyachts beyond the occasional high-latitude explorer design.

That’s precisely why the owner of Athos, the world’s largest privately owned two-masted schooner, chose it for an extended expedition. Athos spent three months cruising from Victoria on Vancouver Island to Juneau, Alaska – some 900 miles as the crow flies, but with extensive detours exploring fjords, anchorages, and wildlife hotspots, the total distance covered was closer to 1,400 miles.

Whether on a 40ft cruiser or a 200ft superyacht, sailing British Columbia is both demanding and rewarding. Careful planning is essential, but a truly successful voyage requires adaptability. Strong tides dictate daily schedules, deep fjords test anchoring skills, and avoiding floating logs requires constant vigilance. These conditions create the kind of raw adventure that gets you truly back to nature; something that’s increasingly rare for superyacht owners to experience.

“A big part of the decision was wanting to get off the beaten track,” Athos’s owner explains. “British Columbia isn’t a typical superyacht destination, and that’s exactly why I wanted to go. The wildlife was a huge part of it; you’re sailing alongside orcas, spotting grizzlies on the shoreline, and watching eagles dive for fish. That’s not something you get in the Med.

“But the trip wasn’t about proving Athos could handle it: we already knew that,” he adds. “It was about taking advantage of her full capability. She’s built for proper passagemaking, whether that’s threading through fjords in BC or cruising between anchorages in the Caribbean. This trip just reinforced that she’s as much at home on an adventure as she is in the Med.”

The 64m (210ft) Athos is the world’s largest privately-owned two-masted schooner. Photo: Oli Riley

The Hoek-designed Athos was built by Holland Jachtbouw and launched in 2010. She underwent a 14-month refit at Huisfit, relaunching in 2023 with an additional 4ft in length on her remodelled stern, and an additional crew deckhouse.

With a length overall of 210ft and a maximum draught of 8m (which can be reduced to 3.7m by lifting its centreboard-style swing keel), the schooner is well-suited to exploring the region’s deep fjords but still required careful anchoring strategies. The addition of a second tender garage in her recent refit proved invaluable for launching two onboard RIBs (a 7.2m and a 5.8m) allowing guests and crew to explore deep into the region’s narrow inlets.

Yet for captain Tony Brookes, the scale of the challenge wasn’t primarily about the boat’s size, it was about the planning and navigation required for the remote Canadian waters. With over 40 years’ of superyacht experience and six circumnavigations behind him, Brookes is no stranger to challenging cruising grounds. British Columbia presented its own unique tests.

“The Inside Passage is not a particularly extreme cruising ground,” he says. “But it’s intricate. The real challenge is managing tides, finding the right anchorages, and being aware of the shifting conditions – not just from a weather perspective but also from a navigational one. It’s all very deep water, but you still need to know where you can comfortably stop.”

Spectacular anchorage in British Columbia. Photo: Oli Riley

Planning & adapting

The preparation was as demanding as the voyage itself. The crew followed the fundamental principles of passage planning – what the International Maritime Organisation refers to as APEM: Appraise, Plan, Execute, and Monitor. This structured approach was essential for navigating the complexities of the Inside Passage.

Athos’s route took her from Victoria through Puget Sound before entering Desolation Sound (despite its name, a famously spectacular cruising ground) then north via Malcolm Island, Bella Bella, Rivers Inlet, Fjordland, and Prince Rupert. From there, she cleared into Alaska at Ketchikan before continuing to Juneau and Glacier Bay.

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Wind conditions allowed good sailing about 60% of the time, but once inside the fjords, the steep topography made for fickle breezes. Passages between anchorages were typically just two to three hours for Athos to cover, but often stretched longer as bear encounters, seal colonies or thermal springs became impromptu highlights. The team utilised a combination of traditional resources, digital tools, and the unbeatable – yet sometimes quirky – knowledge of local mariners to plan the itinerary.

“Planning a route through the Inside Passage required a mix of preparation and real-time adaptation,” Brookes explains. “I relied on tide tables, tidal atlases, and local cruising guides, along with the great crowdsourced information on Noonsite for additional insights.

Having been to the region before I had a good foundation, but I also made a point of speaking with other cruising boats in the area to get up-to-date information. For the guest-on sections, we brought in two local guides – Greg Shea and James Fisher – who were absolutely invaluable.”

Stand-up paddleboarding for an up-close view of Canadian wildlife. Photo: Oli Riley

Chatting to local cruisers refined anchorage choices and avoided hazards. “You might have a plan, but the conditions will always dictate your choices,” Brookes says. “That’s why talking to locals and adapting to what you see on the water is just as important as what’s on the chart.”

“You can’t beat the knowledge of local fishermen – wherever you are in the world,” he explains.

“Even if their advice goes against every theoretical convention, they’re usually spot on. A chart can only tell you so much. When a local fisherman tells you, ‘Anchor here, not there,’ they’re usually right.”

Whale encounters and floating hazards required on-the-fly decisions. Encounters with large pods of humpback whales meant slowing down or even altering the planned route entirely.“You don’t chase whales – they find you,” Brookes recalls. “Humpbacks surfaced metres from the bow, and we cut engines to avoid disturbance.

“You don’t want to rush past a spectacle like that. It’s part of the experience, and there were plenty of times when we chose to stay put for a few extra hours just to take it all in.”

A breaching humpback whale – sightings were not unsual, and often they’d be seen in large pods. Photo: Oli Riley

Deadheads – submerged logs drifting unpredictably –were a constant concern. Athos never moved at night, and a constant lookout watch scanned for hazards. “Even in a well-planned passage, you have to be flexible. There’s no point in sticking to a rigid schedule if it puts the boat at risk. The best sailors in these waters are the ones who know when to change their minds.”

Weather & wildlife

One of the defining aspects of sailing in British Columbia was its unpredictability. Fog banks could roll in within minutes, while sudden wind shifts made passage planning an ongoing process. “PassageWeather.com was invaluable, but nothing replaced local knowledge,” Brookes notes.

“The Canadian and US VHF weather services provided real-time updates, and when dealing with an environment this changeable, that kind of information was critical.”

Predictions guided the planning, but live observations dictated execution. Long-range forecasts helped shape the route, but conditions often evolved faster than models could account for. Monitoring local changes – through visual cues, barometer trends, and VHF updates – was fundamental to adapting the plan in real-time.

Alone in the wilderness… but despite it’s name, Desolation Sound is a spectacular cruising ground. Photo: Oli Riley

Photographer Oli Riley joined the expedition to capture Athos’s journey through this wild, ever-shifting landscape. The constantly changing conditions made his work as demanding as the sailing itself. “British Columbia’s light changed in minutes – perfect one moment, misty the next,” he says. “It made capturing the grandeur of the place a real challenge, but also what made it so special.”

The wildlife created some memorable encounters. On one occasion, guests out kayaking found themselves in the path of a pod of humpbacks, watching as the massive creatures rolled onto their sides, their gaze fixed curiously on the human visitors. Another time, a mother grizzly and her two cubs swam across a channel, their route passing directly in front of the anchored schooner.

“That was the kind of thing you couldn’t plan for,” Riley reflects. “You’d just be going about your day, and suddenly nature would take centre stage.”

The sheer abundance of marine life shaped the experience. “We saw more whales than boats,” Riley says. “Some days, we saw no one. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, an orca pod or a group of sea lions would appear. The scale and drama of the place were unreal.”

A moment for contemplation in one of British Columbia’s strikingly beautiful fjords. Photo: Oli Riley

Self-sufficiency

On board Athos, provisioning meant living off the land and sea where possible. The crew caught fresh salmon, rockfish, and crab daily, making each meal an extension of the journey. “We never worried about seafood; the ocean provided more than we could eat,” Brookes says. The ease of fishing played perfectly into the owner’s vision for the trip: a true expedition, where the landscape and the crew’s skill determined the day’s provisions.

With 10 crew on board and 8-10 guests per trip, resupplying required careful planning. While Athos was almost always at anchor, seaplanes played a key role in logistics, flying in fresh produce and managing guest changes from Vancouver. To most, the idea of flying in supplies might sound like a luxury: in these waters it’s simply a necessity – about as common as ordering a bike courier food delivery in a city.

“It’s quite something to see a plane touchdown next to your yacht with crates of fruit and vegetables,” Brookes says. “They’re not just practical, they’re part of life up here. Whether you’re in a fishing camp, a remote lodge, or a yacht, if you need something, chances are it’s coming in by air.”

Inflatable canoe proves a great way to experience nature at close quarter. Photo: Oli Riley

Ready for anything

With no immediate access to medical facilities or rescue services, Athos had to be fully self-reliant. The crew underwent additional medical training before departure, ensuring they were prepared to respond to injuries, illness, and worst-case scenarios.

The yacht carried a well-equipped medical kit far beyond the usual first-aid supplies, including a real-time diagnostic machine linked to shore-based doctors. This allows the crew to transmit vital signs, conduct remote assessments, and receive immediate professional guidance. “Having a direct line to a doctor is a game changer,” Brookes says. “It means you don’t have to make emergency decisions in isolation.”

Athos is just as much at home in high latitudes as she is in the Med. Photo: Oli Riley

Beyond medical concerns, Athos had contingency plans in place for mechanical failures, fire, and man-overboard scenarios. The crew conducted regular drills, ensuring that in an emergency, everyone knew their role.
For evacuation, seaplanes provided a crucial backup. These aircraft weren’t just for bringing in supplies – they were a potential lifeline. “In an emergency, a seaplane could reach a hospital far faster than a boat or helicopter,” Brookes says. “It’s the reality of operating in these waters.”

The crew’s preparation wasn’t solely about expecting the worst – it was about ensuring that Athos could continue her expedition without incident. “Self-sufficiency isn’t just a mindset here,” the captain explains. “It’s a necessity.”

The off-the-beaten-track trip was a unique superyacht cruising experience for owner, guests and crew. Photo: Oli Riley

Finding magic

Reflecting on the expedition, Brookes is clear on what worked – and what they improved as they went along. “Planning is key, but so is flexibility,” he says. “You need a route, but you also need to be ready to abandon it in favour of something better.”

That lesson was put to the test when a planned afternoon stop was thrown out entirely after a pod of whales appeared unexpectedly. “We were meant to be moving on, but instead, we spent three or four hours just watching them,” Riley recalls. “That moment defined the expedition for me. If we’d stuck rigidly to the schedule, we’d have missed something unforgettable.”

For those considering a similar trip, Brookes’ main advice is to simply take your time. “The stretch between Campbell River and Ketchikan is truly special. The real magic is in the places where nobody else is.”
One of the most striking sections was the 500-mile stretch between Desolation Sound and Prince Rupert – untouched, remote, and largely ignored by passing yachts. “Desolation Sound to Prince Rupert is a forgotten wilderness coast,” he says. “Most boats skip it and go straight to Alaska. BIG mistake!”

British Columbia has some of the world’s largest gatherings of Steller sea lions. Left: grizzly bear checks out the visitors. Photo: Oli Riley

And for those looking to escape the crowds? “Forget the usual spots like Glacier Bay. It’s beautiful, but it’s busy. Go somewhere nobody else is looking.”

The Inside Passage delivered exactly what Athos’s owner had sought: a true adventure, away from the usual yachting routes. For her captain and the crew, it was an experience that reinforced why they sail. “It’s about finding the places where you’re truly alone with the wilderness,” he says. “British Columbia still has that. Not many places do.”

Unlike polar destinations, where the environment can feel harsh and unrelenting, British Columbia’s wilderness is vibrant, its forests alive with wildlife, its waters teeming with marine life. “There’s nowhere else quite like it,” Brookes adds. “It’s remote, but it’s also rich. You’re alone, but never without something extraordinary happening around you.”

Next up for Athos will be a voyage to Greenland in 2025, a high-latitude expedition slotting between the Caribbean and Mediterranean seasons. After weaving through BC’s forests and fjords, Greenland offers a stark contrast: an empty, glacial wilderness where ice dominates and the sailing is even more demanding. Whether on an expedition sail or a more traditional cruise, Athos is a superyacht built for adventure.

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At the end of a long transatlantic crossing, the island of Saint Lucia is a dreamlike landfall. Its hills and Atlantic-facing cliffs emerge slowly over the horizon, taking shape in lush, tropical greens, while on the sheltered west coast, the twin conical peaks of the Pitons plunge into the sea to form one of the most breathtaking anchorages in the world.

As the destination of the ARC rally for most of its 40-year history, Rodney Bay in Saint Lucia is widely considered the gateway to the Grenadines, and is a key base for crew changes and bareboat charters. The IGY Marina situated in Rodney Bay lagoon is the principal port of entry. It’s a world class facility with a full range of marine services including a boatyard with a 75t travel hoist.

This all makes Saint Lucia a great place to recover and replenish after an Atlantic crossing or to prepare for voyaging through the Caribbean islands or onwards to Panama Canal and the Pacific.

The island is well connected with regular direct flights to the US and the UK, albeit the international airport, Hewanorra, is at the south of the island, 90 minutes’ drive from Rodney Bay. Its convenience as a transit island for crews intending to sail south to Bequia and the Tobago Cays means that many quickly leave the hustle of Rodney Bay without exploring Saint Lucia in depth. Yet the island has plenty to see, especially if you are prepared to venture inland.

The yachting haven of Marigot Bay. Photo: David Tomlinson/Getty

Recover and prepare

Rodney Bay has rapidly developed during the last decade. Supermarkets, shopping malls, restaurants, hotels for every budget, mega villas that spread ever higher up the hills have all proliferated — the area is almost unrecognisable if you’ve not been back for a few years.

Everything you would need to re-provision or repair is right at hand. “You have a real wealth of facilities around the marina and boatyard. Crews really enjoy it after the ARC and before departure for the World ARC; it’s convenient for preparations and recovery in one place and there’s plenty for crews to enjoy in the evenings,” says Paul Tetlow, managing director of World Cruising, organisers of the ARC.

Kenny Abernathy has been a sailmaker and a rigger since the early days of chartering in Saint Lucia back in the 1970s. He has pretty much seen it all – he’s certainly mended it all. His loft at Rodney Bay Marina is usually full of sails piled up for repair, predominately spinnakers and code sails. He is always a man worth listening to when it comes to preparing for a tradewinds passage.

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Egbert Charles, a marine engineer, owns MarineTek and likewise has decades of experience with engine repairs. Jon White runs Regis Electronics and is the go-to man for electrical and electronic repairs. The nearby chandlery, Island Water World, has an impressive breadth of equipment and a network that means it can source almost anything you could need.

Most work can be undertaken here, though owners of French-manufactured yachts often choose to sail north to Martinique, where there is an established dealer network.

As it has developed as its own economic hub, Rodney Bay has become very busy and is often choked with traffic to and from the capital, Castries. However, it still has its own local colour and places to see. The weekly Friday night ‘jump-up’ at Gros Islet, famed for its music and street food, is a must – generally safe, but go in a crowd, don’t stay late and don’t walk home alone.

Through The Cut – the entrance to Rodney Bay lagoon. Photo: World Cruising Club

Spinnakers Beach Bar on Reduit Beach is a must-visit for lunch and a swim with wonderful views across the white sand bay and a chilled vibe that post-ARC crews love. To escape the crowds, Pigeon Island national park is the closest place for a hike, or lunch at the delightfully unpretentious Jambe de Bois restaurant. Perhaps less well known by sailors are the beaches and cliff walks along the Atlantic coast from Cas en Bas beach, a short bike or taxi ride from the marina. Walk north from the beach, or go to try kite foiling and horse riding.

Between the Pitons

Few sailors know the island better than Ulrich Meixner. Meixner, originally from Austria, came here to work in the yacht charter business 35 years ago, loved it and stayed. Today he owns and runs DSL Yachting, a bareboat charter and yacht services business based at Rodney Bay.

What are the best things to do on the island, in his view? “To wake up between the Pitons is spectacular, and shouldn’t be missed,” he says. “And there are many other things you can do down [in the south of the island]. You can book a course to make your own chocolate. That’s great fun; I really recommend it as a group experience. Cocoa Sainte Lucie in the town of Canaries runs good workshops.”

View from The Pitons to Jalousie Bay. Photo: Elaine Bunting

If you like to go hiking, he recommends getting a local guide to explore some of the gorges near the village of Choiseul. “One of them is hundreds of feet deep and very narrow,” he says. Or, closer to the marina, climb the Mount Pimard trail, to the top of the 200m peak on the south side of Rodney Bay. Pilot book author Chris Doyle adds: “This is a great hike to do from your boat, it takes about two hours from the JQ mall dinghy dock to go up and return.”

Meixner recommends, when sailing south, stops at Anse La Raye and Soufrière, as well as the village of Laborie, although that can only accommodate three or four mid-sized boats. To the south, Vieux Fort is a popular stop the night before the passage south to St Vincent Channel, and convenient for a crew changeover.

From here, most will continue south to Bequia, and the varied islands of the Grenadines: the Canouan, Mayreau, the Tobago Cays, Union Island and Petit St Vincent.

On the way back northwards, a popular final stop in Saint Lucia is the anchorage in the shelter of Marigot Bay before returning to Rodney Bay.

The marina here is a good, secure place to leave a boat to return home, though during the hurricane-prone months between June and September, most cruisers leave the Caribbean altogether or lay-up outside the usual hurricane belt at yards in Grenada or Trinidad.

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Fleeting acquaintance has always been part of sailing, particularly for bluewater cruisers. A friendship struck up over a rum cocktail or a kids’ playdate in one anchorage might be rekindled weeks or even months later when your paths cross again. But while yachties once exchanged visiting cards to stay in touch, they are now turning to dedicated apps.

Two in particular – NoForeignLand (NFL) and SeaPeople – aim to provide a social media platform tailored specifically to sailors. As is the way of the digital world, these services offer far more than their analogue equivalents.

As well as managing contacts, they allow you to identify boats near and far, find crew, go on a date, log your track and get timely local information from people who know which side of the bay offers the best holding, or when the bus into town runs.

Online sailing communities

There’s plenty of good user-generated content online, from Navily to Noonsite, but dedicated social apps for sailors have emerged more recently. Riley Whitelum and Eleyna Carausu are the famously photogenic cruising couple from Australia whose successful YouTube channel ‘Sailing La Vagabonde’ boasts 1.9m subscribers.

Moored up in Cane Garden Bay on Tortola, British Virgin Islands: latest apps can tell you if cruising friends are nearby – or give tips on the best places to eat ashore. Photo: Jon Arnold Images/Alamy

Working with Logan and Caroline Rowell and Brian Currier, founders of the Young Cruisers Association, they helped create the newest app, SeaPeople, which launched in autumn 2024. They say the concept grew out of frustration with existing means of communicating at sea.

“Before SeaPeople, we mostly used WhatsApp, which was really annoying,” says Carausu. “And before that it was nothing! Eventually my dad bought me a satphone, so I was sending SMS with that, which was a nightmare. We used Instagram just for posting.”

“It was really obvious that we needed something, but I don’t think it was a particularly original idea,” adds Whitelum. “Like most sailors at some point, we thought it would be nifty to have something like this to communicate.”

It’s a similar story for NoForeignLand, developed by liveaboard sailor Steve Neal and his wife Helena. “We set it up while staying at the Marina di Ragusa in Sicily in 2017,” Neal tells me.

“It was a very sociable marina with 70 liveaboard boats in contact. To begin with, it was pins moving around a map and showing you where people had got to. It was a really niche thing originally, but it became apparent that it was a good idea and more people wanted in.”

A social medium

Along with the Cruising Association’s (CA) Captain’s Mate, these apps allow you to see and connect with other users via a scrollable map. While the CA draws from a smaller pool of around 6,400 members, NoForeignLand and SeaPeople have active users of several tens of thousands and are free to use.

Photo: Hervé Schelcher

From the Falklands to the Philippines, you can find boats online, see when their owners last posted and contact them directly.

Where the SeaPeople platform excels is in its detailed understanding of its users’ profiles, which allows it to include dating and a crew exchange.

“We differ from other apps people are using because it’s really about sailors and communication,” says Whitelum. “People can find each other, communicate and create little communities together as they come and go.”

When users sign up, they choose from a list of interests: playdates with kids, running or surfing, for instance. You can quickly and easily filter to find others with common ground, and follow those you like. Tina Roach explains how SeaPeople was useful from the start of her cruise down the New England coast in a Tartan 34.

“I decided to follow as many folks that had the same boat as us, in case we had any issues,” she says. “We got in touch with Chris, another Tartan owner 45 minutes from us, and he sold us his dinghy and outboard a few days before our trip. He’s been a huge help as well!”

NoForeignLand founders Steve and Helena Neal live aboard their Hallberg-Rassy 43 Amalia. Photo: Steve and Helena Neal

You can also list specific boat skills or services and, because SeaPeople attracts those who simply admire boats, there’s a category for ‘shoreside support’. “You can sign up and offer to drive sailors to the shops, or let them stay at your house, use your washing machine,” says Whitelum.

“Things like that are very easy for someone on land but make a world of difference to a sailor. It could be out of the kindness of their heart – or there could be a monetary aspect.”

On NoForeignLand, users join groups of people who share their interests, and then see which members are nearby. There’s a very active group for families with children on board and another for pets. You can join groups like Women Who Sail, Scuba Divers, Lagoon Owners or Starlink on Boats.

In this way, both apps streamline the process of finding and meeting like-minded people, eliminating the haphazardness of yacht club bar or marina encounters.

Plenty of cruisers also use older apps like Facebook for staying in touch, although it’s slower and less well equipped for the casual mobility of sailors. Some Facebook sailing groups have been in existence for many years now, and act more like an online forum – a repository of knowledge and experience.

“I use Facebook groups because they’re so well established,” says Jeanneau 54DS sailor Jack Andrys. “There’s a Jeanneau 54DS dedicated group with lots of useful history over the years. And if you put something up on it, you will get a response. A closed group is pretty good because they’re oriented towards the topic.”

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Navigation aid

Besides social connections, NoForeignLand has a whole extra dimension of location information. Viewing options include a night mode as well as NASA and satellite photography that gives an incredibly useful view of the seabed.

The SeaPeople app allows you to ‘hail’ other users within a set radius

“We discourage people from using NoForeignLand to navigate, but we know they do,” says Neal with a wince. This is confirmed by all the users I speak to.

The app goes a step further, by showing short posts from other users on anchorages, moorings and harbours, often giving details of the best line of approach or holding.

“We use NoForeignLand every time we go to a place we don’t know – a new anchorage, island or country – that’s how we find out about customs and immigration,” says French sailor Hervé Schelcher, currently in the Caribbean with his family.

NoForeignLand also helps cruisers decide where to visit, with a raft of user generated pins about what to do ashore. They range from hiking routes and dog walking spots to bus timetables and chandlers, often with a short comment highlighting friendly service or a special capability. Any user can drop in a scrap of information which appears with an appropriate icon on the chart.

Other apps also do this – Captain’s Mate from the CA is the pick of the bunch, blending thousands of recent reports from members with factual information about approaches and landing.

Hervé Schelcher uses NoForeignLand. Photo: Hervé Schelcher

Author of the UK & Ireland Circumnavigator’s Guide, Sam Steele, recounts a lucky escape courtesy of the app during a passage from the island of Bornholm to Ystadt in southern Sweden. The wind backed, allowing her to make landfall further west in Smygehamn, closer to the ultimate destination of Malmö.

“If you read the pilot, it sounded fine, but the intro on Captain’s Mate said the stench of rotting seaweed was unbearable. It has also turned to silt and made the inner harbour unusable. We went elsewhere.”

Real-time help with online sailing communities

Where both SeaPeople and NoForeignLand outperform other navigation apps is in soliciting rapid advice, such as how to approach a new anchorage or whether a little-used harbour is viable.

“Not everyone sits with the VHF on at anchor, but if you send a message via NoForeignLand, it pings up on the phone,” says Neal.

“When we arrived in Honduras last year, we had quite a tight reef to pass through. You can’t always trust the charts over here, so we messaged forward to other boats in the anchorage and got a message telling us how to get in. We feel like we’re allowing people to communicate more readily.”

Sophie Curran. Photo: Sophie Curran

SeaPeople has taken a slightly different route that allows its users to put out a virtual VHF ‘hail’ using the app. You drop your message onto the map and a notification pops up on the phones of users within a set radius.

“This app didn’t exist 10 years ago because there was no point in being able to hail people nearby when none of them had connectivity,” says Whitelum. “It’s local knowledge at your fingertips.”

NoForeignLand has just introduced a similar feature, which allows you to pin a question to the map. It pops up only to those within a given radius and disappears after a certain amount of time. You can also post warnings – about an obstruction or poor holding, for instance. And you can even post an event, from a barbecue to a beach clean-up, in the same way.

Changing tech

Experienced cruisers will have noticed a flaw in discussing the benefits of apps and instant notifications: they require a mobile phone connection. Even in busy parts of the world, don’t expect much network unless you’re within a few miles of a cell tower, but if you’re off grid or at the bottom of a steep cliff, the chances are slim.

But the growing array of low earth orbit satellites is transforming the role of the mobile phone. More than any other service, Starlink has brought ultrafast satellite broadband to bluewater sailing, meaning you can now stream, post and surf your way across most of the world’s oceans for £247/month with a £2,470 equipment cost.

The developers of both apps have Starlink on board, as do many thousands of bluewater cruisers. It enables you to browse for information ahead of landfall and identify friends or contacts who might have made it before you. Live position logging will also work in real time, keeping friends and family in the loop.

Sam Steele found the CA’s Captain’s Mate ideal for cruising the Baltic in her Rustler 42 Carra. Photo: Sam Steele

But short-range VHF radio nets still seem to be thriving in the Caribbean, no matter how much social apps look to supersede them. “Every morning, every island has a different channel for a VHF net between 0730 and 0830,” says Schelcher.

“They have an agenda that includes safety and security, new arrivals, local business ads, kit for sale and activities. It’s pretty cool, because it’s just the people around you.”

Sophie Curran crews on a 56ft custom catamaran in Malaysia and owes her job to SeaPeople. With no sailing background at all, she downloaded the app during a backpacking trip in Sri Lanka because she realised she was interested in exploring the coast by boat.

“We flew to Thailand, where we replied to a few hails – hoping people were looking for crew,” she says.

“It was a few weeks later when everything fell into place. We were sitting on the beach in the small island of Koh Yao Noi looking at yachts pass in the distance and trying to find them on the map on SeaPeople. A few days later, a couple who had just bought a catamaran saw our profile and sent us a message seeking crew in Malaysia. The timing seemed too good to be true as we were beginning to make our way south through the islands in Thailand.”

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Far ahead on the horizon we saw the sweep of a lighthouse and the pin pricks of street lamps along the coast. We did some quick maths – the number of miles remaining in our journey divided by the number of hours until sunrise. The answer was that we were arriving at Ishigaki, the most southerly port of clearance in Japan, earlier than planned.

“We need to slow down the boat,” my partner and crew Fiona said with a tinge of anxiousness in her voice. “They said we should arrive at 0900, and exactly at 0900.”

We furled the genoa and slowly approached the island, marvelling at the pristine beaches and lush mountain landscape revealed by the dawn. But we still carried a knot of worry in our stomachs, because we were about to clear into Japan, and we’d heard all of the well-worn warnings and complaints.

Anchored in the Kerama Islands, 20 miles to the east of Okinawa and roughly half way between the main islands of Japan and Taiwan. Photo: Cameron Dueck

We’d left our home in Hong Kong six months earlier to live the cruising around Japan dream. Instead of taking the most popular route into Southeast Asia via the Philippines, we sailed north-east, spending a winter in Taiwan before carrying on to Japan.

I was met with surprise when I told sailors in Hong Kong that we were foregoing the known delights of the Philippines for the unknown challenges of cruising around Japan.

They reminded me that Japan was very bureaucratic, and clearing a boat into the country without speaking Japanese would be a huge hassle.

Cruising around Japan. Photo: Cameron Dueck

There’d be obscure rules and pedantic officials, and once we were in the country, the lack of a cruising culture and infrastructure meant our time would be consumed with paperwork every time we exited or entered a port. Where would we moor? And wasn’t Japan very expensive?

I steered Teng Hoi, our Hallberg-Rassy 42F, past Ishigaki’s formidable sea wall and towards the pier we’d been instructed to arrive at. It was five minutes before nine as we secured our lines, but there were no officials in sight.

Teng Hoi is a Hallberg-Rassy 42F. Photo: Cameron Dueck

“That’s odd. They said they’d be here to meet us at nine o’clock,” Fiona observed as we scanned the port.

Then, just as our ship’s clock struck 0900, more than a dozen officers stepped out of their vehicles and strode down the pier towards us. They wore a variety of crisp uniforms – Coast Guard, Quarantine, Immigration, Customs – complimented by white hard hats on their heads and clipboards under their arms.

One by one they boarded the boat, each equally polite, organised, and efficient. They used a small digital translation device to ask a few questions, then carry out their task before thanking us, giving us a small bow, and climbing back up on the pier.

One officer asked to see our heads, rubbish bin, and food storage, apparently to ease their hygiene concerns. Another swabbed countertops and cabinets for drugs, and another made us dispose of all our grains and vegetables, while one was tasked with spraying the soles of all the shoes he could find.

Traditional tub boats on Sado – they’re easily manoeuvrable in Sado’s many narrow, winding coves. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Two hours later my hand was cramped from signing papers, but the last official was stepping off the boat, bowing and welcoming us to Japan. “That wasn’t too bad,” I said, feeling a wave of relief.

It was the first of what would be many revelations as we explored Japan by sail. Instead of a bureaucratic hassle we found friendly officials, a myriad of mooring options, and a level of safety and ease that few other cruising destinations can offer. And on top of that, the weak Yen made Japan more affordable than ever.

Cruising around Japan

It is true that Japan was once a difficult place to visit aboard a foreign vessel. From 1633 to 1868, during the Sakoku or ‘chained country’ era, Japan had only minimal, strained relations with other nations, and few foreigners were allowed into the country.

The author with a fish caught in the Sea of Japan. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Despite the eventual opening up of the country, particularly after World War II, Japan continued to be a difficult port of call.

Even though it has more than 3,000 ports, only about 130 were open to foreign vessels, creating challenges for yachts that wanted to cruise the country’s 14,125 islands stretching more than 1,600 miles from the East China Sea in the south-west to the Sea of Okhotsk in the north-east.

Those difficulties ended in 2018 when Japan introduced a new system that allows foreigners to apply for a closed-port permit, which provides unfettered access to all the previously closed ports, at any time, without booking or, in most cases, payment.

Suddenly the many small fishing ports on far flung islands became potential cruising destinations, and voyages up and down the coast could easily be broken into day sails with nights in a harbour.

Foreign boats can also apply for a Naiko Senpaku, which exempts them from having to report to the Coast Guard and customs each time they enter or leave a large open, or clearance port. And, there are no limits on how long a foreign vessel can stay in Japan.

Hiking in Daisetsuzan National Park. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Yet few cruisers are aware how this has opened up one the most spectacular cruising grounds in the world. Most foreign yachts that do visit Japan use it as a transit point on their way to Alaska and breeze through in one or two months. We decided to take it slow.

On the fringe

Our Japanese cruise began at the southern end of the Ryukyu (Okinawan) Islands, which offer tropical weather, white sand beaches and warm, crystal clear water.

This is the most far flung hinterland of Japan, geographically, historically and culturally. The Ryukyu Kingdom was a tributary state of Ming China, ruling the string of islands from Southern Japan to Taiwan for about 450 years before annexation by the Meiji government of Japan in 1879.

Teng Hoi moored in Amami. The island is popular for snorkelling and scuba diving. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Okinawa Island is the largest island in the chain, and Yonabaru Marina on its south-east shores is a popular place for visiting yachts to clear into Japan and enjoy an affordable lift out.

The unique Ryukyu culture is still present in local dialects and cuisine, such as the indigenous liquor Awamori, distilled from long-grain rice, and cuisine that leans heavily on indigenous culture as well as Chinese influences. This nuanced identity also includes a strong South Pacific aspect, with colourful Hawaiian shirts a common sight on local streets.

The islands were only returned to Japanese rule in 1972, while the Americans still keep 30,000 active military personnel on the island – a sensitive point with local residents. Today, the southern half of Okinawa is a largely charmless suburbia while the northern half sports lush parks and dream-like traditional villages.

From Okinawa we sailed to the Kerama Islands, a small archipelago just 20 miles east of Okinawa Island. We made the trip in pouring rain. First we were beset by 35-knot squalls, and then had to motor through windless grey seas.

We were caught in the start of the spring rainy season, known as the Baiu, which starts in Okinawa in early May and lasts about a month.

The flower fields of Furano on Hokkaido Island. Photo: Cameron Dueck

The Kerama’s were tranquil and empty, with few other yachts. We dropped anchor in a sandy bay and spent several days exploring the colourful reefs, accompanied by sea turtles.

We spent the next several weeks sailing north through the Ryukyu Island chain, where the swell of the Pacific Ocean was our constant companion. We kept our passages to 24 or 36 hours, stopping in quiet anchorages with vivid reefs and sea life, or in small fishing harbours shielded by massive concrete seawalls.

The spring migratory cyclones and anticyclones, which drift eastward, brought constantly changing conditions, from strong breezes to calms.

We sailed on to Kyushu Island, the first of the main five islands of the archipelago. Hirado and Nagasaki, two neighbouring ports on the west coast of Kyushu, were Japan’s main trading ports for centuries.

We arrived in Hirado on a brisk wind, sped along by a flood tide just as the sun was setting. It is a snug little port guarded by an island that turns the strong tidal currents into tangles of waves and whirlpools just outside the entrance. The surrounding hills are dotted with centuries-old Japanese and European homes, temples, shrines and churches.

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Ming dynasty

Hirado is the birthplace of Zheng Chenggong, also known as Koxinga, the Ming general and pirate who drove the Dutch out of Taiwan in the 17th Century.

The port was used for trade with Korea and China for centuries before the first Portuguese ship arrived in 1550, marking the first interactions between Japan and the West. Then the Dutch sailed into port in 1609, building Hirado into one of the major international shipping ports of its day.

Traditional Japanese breakfast. Photo: Cameron Dueck

We moored on Hirado’s free public pier in front of the museum, a replica of the warehouse the Dutch built on the same site in 1639, making it the first western-style building in Japan.

But Japan’s Tokugawa Shogunate grew nervous at the growing might of the maritime traders, demolished the trading house and forced the Dutch to move their operations to Dejima Island, a man-made island in the heart of the port of Nagasaki.

By the time we sailed into Nagasaki nearly four centuries later, land reclamation had swallowed Dejima island. However, careful reconstruction and refurbishment of several historical buildings had turned the trading fort into a lively museum telling the story of Japan’s love-hate relationship with maritime trade.

The warehouses smelled of tarred hemp rope, and ornate parlours and dining rooms told the story of how bored Dutch traders were kept isolated from the rest
of Japanese society. Through the bleary leaded glass windowpane I could see our yacht tied up on a nearby pontoon.

Japanese officials aboard Teng Hoi to clear the boat into the country. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Wild sea of Japan

As we left Kyushu we had to make a choice. We could turn east into the Seto Naikai, a well protected inland sea with major cities such as Hiroshima and Osaka on its shores and arguably Japan’s most popular cruising ground, or we could continue north along the Japan Sea coast.

If Okinawa is Japan’s frontier, the Sea of Japan’s coast is its rural boondocks. Agriculture, mining and forestry have helped shape the landscape, but large expanses of wilderness remain. The shores and its sprinkling of outlying islands were the last to be developed.

Hiking in Daisetsuzan National Park; Daisetsuzan is the largest national park in Japan and is a paradise for hikers and lovers of the outdoors. Photo: Cameron Dueck

We were seeking wild nature and adventure, so we chose the Sea of Japan. It meant we’d be more exposed to the weather, which was beginning to transition from prevailing north-westerlies to the summer monsoon winds from the east, and we were also beginning to keep a sharp watch for the summer typhoons that sweep in from the Pacific Ocean.

We enjoyed a gentle reach up the coast to Yunotsu, a hot springs town dating back to the feudal ages with several traditional guest houses. Public baths exist in nearly every Japanese port, but some are more famous than others based on their mineral mix – the precise details of which are commonly displayed at the entrance.

While we soaked in Yunotsu’s mineral-rich waters, our boat waited alongside the free fishing pier in the town’s harbour, a narrow cleft in the rocky coast. Cruisers have four mooring options in Japan.

There are many excellent and affordable marinas, and in every one we visited we found their staff to be exceedingly helpful in offering advice, contacts, and assistance.

You can also anchor, as we did in the bays of the southern islands, but this is not a common practice around the main islands. Anchoring should only be done in remote bays, with extra caution and lights at night.

A Japanese homestay in Okinawa. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Local fishermen are unaccustomed to seeing anchored yachts when they go out fishing at night, and many bays are set with nets.

Japan also has a network of sea stations, modest docks catering to visiting pleasure boats. These are much cheaper than marinas, but offer fewer services, may require pre-booking, and are often geared towards boats under 40ft.

We spent much of our time in the fourth option, Japan’s ubiquitous fishing ports, to which we had free access thanks to our closed port permit.

Fishing ports are basic, and the smell of fish can become bothersome, but coastal towns and villages are built around their ports, putting most services within walking or biking distance. And, because these are working ports with an active fleet of fishing boats, you can always find fuel and mechanics.

The downside of fishing ports is they require yachts to tie to a concrete sea wall or pier. With considerable tides and a possible swell, we quickly learned to use oversized fenders and fender boards to keep the barnacle-encrusted concrete at bay.

Teng Hoi at anchor in Amami, part of the Ryuku Islands. Photo: Cameron Dueck

We were also adapting to local custom in terms of navigation, using the New Pec smartphone app to guide us along the coast. The Japanese navigation app provides higher detail charts of small fishing ports than Navionics, and it shows where fishermen have been permitted to lay nets.

It also includes granular weather forecasts, excellent tide data, and AIS tracking of traffic – though we were repeatedly caught off guard by the many yachts, fishing boats and even large commercial vessels that did not transmit via AIS.

Northern frontier

Summer was upon us. We continued up the Sea of Japan to Hokkaido to escape the heat, arriving in Hakodate, on the island’s south coast. Our arrival, running ahead of 30 knots of wind on a sunny day, put us in a giddy mood, as we’d now completed the sail from Japan’s southern frontier to its northern outpost.

Traditional buildings in historic Hirado. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Our far north was Otaru, a herring boomtown in the 1860s, nestled in Ishikari Bay. The picturesque Otaru Canal and its warehouses were restored in the 1980s, with their patina of the Old Meiji Era stone creating a perfect backdrop for their new life as shops and restaurants.

We left the boat in Otaru as we explored inland, going on high treks in the remote Daisetsuzan National Park, car camping in rich agricultural valleys, and getting our fill of icy cold Sapporo beer, named after the island’s capital.

In September, when the prevailing north-westerly wind gave us a good push south, we began our return voyage down the Sea of Japan. We made 36-hour hops down the coast, visiting majestic old shrines and mooring in island fishing ports so clean we ate sea urchin, or uni, plucked right off the harbour walls.

Sailing along the coast of Hokkaiodo. Photo: Cameron Dueck

In many ports the Japanese Coast Guard visited with their clipboards, keen to know where we’d been and where we were going. They were quick to offer information on where the best restaurants were located, and in one port they even took away our rubbish for us – a uniquely welcomed relief as Japan has an elaborate and strictly enforced disposal system that often makes it difficult for cruisers to get rid of waste from the boat.

The hospitality we experienced as cruisers surprised and humbled us. Mooring on public piers invited curious onlookers who were keen to say hello and welcome us to Japan. Often they returned with gifts of vegetables from their garden, a bottle of sake, or a box of fancy cakes. Countless people offered help, secretly paid for our meals in restaurants, or offered us rides.

Helping a farmer harvest rice in Sado. Photo: Cameron Dueck

The warmest welcome came in Sado, an island off the coast of Niigata. Formerly an island of exile, and then the site of a wartime forced labour gold mine, it now attracts creative urbanites seeking a quiet rural life. They’ve built a vibrant community of organic farms, sake breweries, chic restaurants and bakeries.

We pitched in to help with the apple and rice harvest, joined a noodle making gathering, and enjoyed a ‘moon rising party’ while sitting on tatami mats in a century-old wooden house – with Google Translate bridging the language gap. When we finally left harbour our new friends came to the pier and beat a giant drum in farewell.

A late season typhoon was threatening us from the south, so we pushed hard for the protection of the Seto Naikai, 450 miles to the south-west. The winds were just starting to build as we slipped into Kanmon Kaikyo, or Straits of Shimonoseki, the narrow winding channel that led us to safety.

Here the winds were diminished, and there was no swell, but we still had to deal with 3-4m tides, powerful currents and some of the biggest whirlpools in the world, requiring careful passage planning and timing.

Trucks deliver fuel to the piers in many fishing ports. Photo: Cameron Dueck

After months of exploring Japan’s most far-flung islands there was an unmistakable sense of entering the heart of the nation as we sailed into these protected waters, where we saw more activity and better infrastructure than anywhere else we’d been. Here, each island and village was a cultural and historical jewel, and we caught ourselves thinking about how much more of Japan there was yet to see.

Distances were also shorter, allowing easy day sails of 30 to 40 miles so we island hopped towards a small marina on Shikoku, the last of Japan’s four main islands. The seas were flat, with steady 10 to 15 knot winds carrying Teng Hoi to her winter port.

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There’s a saying among sailors that plans are only ever made in the sand at low tide. Sailing the world requires meticulous planning and preparation – but also the ability to go with the flow. In 2024 this was brought into sharp relief when events in the Middle East forced many world cruisers, myself and my husband Ross included, to evaluate our plans for the year ahead.

We ended our 2023 cruising year in the yacht haven of Phuket, Thailand – the premier boat parts and service centre of Asia – with our eyes set on transiting the Suez Canal and entering the Mediterranean. But with the growing conflict in Yemen choking off access to the Red Sea, we made the difficult decision to instead point Acushnet’s bow south, towards the Cape of Good hope via the Maldives and Chagos.

As a result we spent days assessing a new swirl of weather maps, cruising guides and government websites. These countries are an established route for world cruisers, but perhaps not the most common, as many boats attempting to pass South Africa will take advantage of the tradewinds and go via southern Indonesia and Mauritius/Réunion, much further south.

Our new route, a detour of grand proportions, would take more miles and be more upwind than other alternatives. Our Maldives agent estimated that just 60 or so private sailing yachts had checked in through the Maldives during our season, with nearly half of them only touching the northernmost island on their way up to the Red Sea. We don’t know how accurate that number is, but either way we knew we were experiencing something that very few sailors get to see, and for that reason every day felt like a gift.

Light winds meant progress was sometimes slow, even under Code O or spinnaker. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

Threading the needle

As the Maldives and Chagos straddle the Equator, and therefore two opposing tradewinds and monsoon seasons, sailing this route required meticulous planning to thread the weather needle. We left Thailand in March, just before the end of the north-easterly monsoon season, allowing for favourable winds over to the Maldives. Our plan was to then transition south across the equator as the monsoon season switched, and find safe harbour in Chagos while we waited for the south-easterly trades to get established.

To add some extra pressure, Chagos, the best place to wait for the weather switch, only grants fixed date permits of no more than one month to sailors, which in turn must be applied for 6-8 weeks in advance of your arrival date, and usually cannot be changed. So, if we wanted to see Chagos, we’d have to sail to a schedule.

Finding good anchorages in The Maldives was challenging; this one was a gem. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

Our start to this journey could not have gone better; the sail from Thailand to the north of the Maldives was perhaps the best passage we have ever made; very few waves and a steady 15 knots on the beam had us flying along at about 7 knots with our Code 0 and full main up. We barely had to change the sail set over six days, making for some very efficient Velocity Made Good miles towards our destination (our best VMG day in our Lagoon 46 was 175 miles!).

Magical experience

After near perfect wind and sea state conditions between Thailand and Sri Lanka we then had absolutely no wind during our last two days of passage.

It was not sailing, per se, but the experience itself was utterly magical. We found ourselves motoring over a sea that was as flat as glass. In those conditions spotting wildlife was easy and we saw it all from the bow, including an incredible number of turtles.

Still, crystal clear waters meant diving on the boat for routine checks was easy. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

It was suffocatingly hot, so we regularly took the opportunity to kill the diesels and jump off the boat hundreds of miles offshore. I will never forget the feeling of looking down into the abyss, how small and yet how connected to the ocean I felt.

The calm conditions even allowed us to creep into our first Maldives harbour at night (something we usually try to avoid); I stood on the bow with a flashlight looking for hazards while we followed coordinates that some friends who’d arrived a day beforehand had sent us.

Maldives contrasts

We checked in at Uligan, the northernmost port of entry. The Maldives is a very conservative Islamic country and as a result, local islands are wildly different from anything tourists experience within the resorts. Uligan was a wonderful example of this; the call to prayer segmented our days there and governed life on the island.

Anchoring by protected reefs was possible when the wind died for days at a time. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

The tidy sand streets and coral stone houses were so unlike anything we’d expected to see and charmed us instantly. In fact, this island proved to be one of our favourite stops as the anchorage was perfect; 20ft of crystal-clear water with an ideal sandy bottom surrounded by reefs teeming with life. It was cruising heaven.

As we turned south, we didn’t realise how rare a find that would be. There are over 200 resorts in the Maldives and many of these now occupy the best islands with ideal anchorages for sailboats. Most of these resorts either don’t allow cruisers to stop at their islands or charge prohibitive rates.

The remaining anchorages were often very deep or unprotected from wind or swell. Local islands had man-made harbours with concrete walls to tie up to, but these were often full, and sailors needed to apply for express permission from the government to stop in these places. Instead, we frequently had no choice but to drop the anchor in over 30m of water, often in very rolly circumstances. The best we could do at these depths was a 3:1 scope, so we were often on anchor watch as squalls rolled past us.

Abandoned holiday resort on the island of Dholhiyadhoo. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

Sailing conditions as we turned south were also very changeable. I’m not sure I’ve ever worked so hard to sail as frequently varying wind strengths and directions had us switching constantly between our Code 0, parasail and conventional jib and main set up. We were passing through in April, right before the monsoon season was setting in, so squalls were at least a daily occurrence, and became more frequent the further south we went.

One of our most memorable stops was the island of Dholhiyadhoo which housed an abandoned luxury resort, complete with crumbling cabanas over the water. Exploring the ruins of that hotel felt like we’d stepped into a post-apocalyptic future and gave us a real sense of adventure.

We also visited the only marina in the country and tried a taste of the resort life, as there were two on Dholhiyadhoo island. It was deliciously stimulating to bounce between sleepy Islamic villages, lonely atolls with perfect snorkelling, and luxurious resorts all in the space of a few days. This breadth of experiences was why I found the Maldives to be one of the most exciting countries we have ever sailed, as every stop was entirely different.

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Mixed reviews

Sadly, this view of the Maldives was not something echoed by all our fellow cruisers. During our time travelling this country there were several fierce spats on cruisers’ Facebook groups where a few people expressed how much they disliked sailing these waters.

The complaints were often valid: it proved to be expensive; the sailing and anchoring were challenging; fresh provisions were hard to come by, and help and materials for repairs were even harder… the list goes on. To top it all off the government insisted that every boat carry a tracker (which we had to pay for on a per day basis) to allow them to monitor our movements. This didn’t bother us as we’re always broadcasting our position on AIS, but it made many of our travel companions irate with rage.

So cruising the Maldives is not for everyone.

An unexpected aspect of moving through these waters was the fact that the Maldives are building new islands everywhere. In remote waters we’re used to our electronic charts being merely indicative of what might be out there, but we never expected entire new land masses to be uncharted.

Sea turtle sculpture at a Maldives beach resort. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

One night we pulled into a lonely anchorage marked on a map only to find that there was an entirely new piece of land rising right where we would have dropped the anchor. Satellite maps were needed, as Navionics charts proved to be unreliable, and even then sometimes these maps would show ocean where islands now flourished. We saw several strange sights related to this construction, including a 1,000ft-long dredging ship and a barge packed with fully-grown palm trees.

Once we passed the Maldives’ densely populated capital of Malé, roughly halfway down the country, the breeze started to pick up. Normally, the winds should have blown from the north-east but clocked around to south-west as we neared the equator, which inconveniently was the direction we wished to travel.

The more populated and interesting islands lay to the west, but as we couldn’t sail directly into the wind with 20-30 knots of true wind opposing us, and could not afford the wait for a gap in the weather, we skipped many highlights to instead island hop down the less popular and more remote eastern atolls.

Stunning reefs teeming with life. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

Risky strategy

This strategy proved risky. For example, one evening we decided to try and break for a push south with an overnight stay inside an uninhabited reef atoll as the winds were building to a predicted 30 knots. The anchorages we’d found on the cruising apps did not have a wind break, but they did have a wave break, and we thought this would be a good option for waiting out the predicted weather.

We arrived with several hours of daylight to spare and went looking for our planned spot. The anchorages were deep (18m-plus), but we were lucky enough to have a 3D scanner on board and could see the bottom in detail. As the light slowly leaked from the storm-strewn sky we desperately spent over two hours motoring around, but could not find the promised sand, only a field of bommies. This is not the first time this has happened to us.

In remote anchorages I think sailors sometimes take a chance and drop on less than ideal bottom types, then write them up as sand if they are lucky enough to hold with no issues. The general lack of traffic means that there’s rarely another boat to corroborate or challenge the assumption.

Exploring local islands in the Maldives revealed an engaging culture that was very different to the resorts. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

But we could not find a spot we were happy to stop in and so, as the sun set, we turned reluctantly back out to sea. The wind blew a steady 30 knots apparent at a wind angle of about 45° and we spent most of the night beating upwind towards our next destination, heavily reefed.

At about this latitude the equatorial current had started to make itself apparent, flowing at about 3 knots to the east. This meant we needed to head even higher into the wind to reach our destination and also made the ride down extremely uncomfortable. It was a pattern that we’d repeat for the next 400 miles all the way down to Chagos.

We reached the southernmost Maldives island of Gan just in time to make use of the last two weeks of our month-long Chagos permit, assuming we could find a suitable weather window to hop south. We spent our time in Gan diving (there is a wonderful shark dive, and the reef passes were stunning) and provisioning.

Finding fresh food was a challenge and I spent a full day on a hired scooter visiting six different food markets up and down the island. It was a necessary task: we needed enough food for at least four weeks away from civilisation.

Drifting squalls provided a dramatic backdrop to an isolated beach at the approach to sunset. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

Mysterious Chagos

The sail to Chagos took three days and was dominated by the equatorial current once again pushing us off course. We’d hired a weather router who told us it should have died out a day or so from Chagos but in practice we only saw it lessen and never switch entirely. We crossed the doldrums where the wind disappeared and was replaced by small squall cells, lightning, a big southern swell and our old friend the east-setting equatorial current.

It was quite a mélange of conditions and we burned a lot of fuel punching through this zone – nerve wracking as we needed to conserve fuel with the following passage to the Seychelles firmly in our minds. On our final day we thankfully found 10-15 knots of favourable south-easterly which we could harness using our Code 0.

Chagos offers the opportunity to explore stunning beaches, and as one of the largest wildlife sanctuaries on the planet there’s abundant wildlife that’s seemingly unafraid of people. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

Until it hit the news headlines recently, the archipelago of Chagos was little-known, but there is a complicated history behind this huge, isolated Indian island group. Chagos is made up of seven atolls, covering an area larger than France. The first inhabitants were brought as slaves by the French in the 1700s to farm coconuts.

Over the years control passed to the British who continued to import people to work the farms as employees. As slaves, and then employees, the local people never owned any of the land, and this ownership nuance allowed the UK to expel the local population between 1967 and 1973 after Chagos was sold to the UK for £3m by Mauritius, as a condition to gaining their independence in 1968.

The USA subsequently built a naval base in Chagos, and this is the reason, alongside the closure of the farms that supported them, the local population was forced to leave their homes. Since that time Mauritius has sought sovereignty of Chagos and as of October 2024 this bid was successful: the UK Government has confirmed that the islands will be returned to Mauritius.

Unexpected south-west winds forced Acushnet to take a less popular route down the eastern atolls of
the Maldives. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

Politically charged

It is a deeply politically charged area. Chagos was a beautiful place, but very lonely. The atoll we visited harboured an abandoned town and it was indescribably moving to walk the ruins. The graveyard was especially tough; can you imagine having to leave your loved ones behind? The shipwrecks and ruins spoke of a deep pain. Travelling the world you learn to appreciate the value of ‘home’, and it was clear this was once someone’s home. And still is, even if they’re not there.

Snorkelling in the remote paradise of Chagos. Photo: Saskia Stainer-Hutchins

Only a tiny number of people are permitted to enter Chagos waters; military personnel, a few scientists and some very lucky sailors. The right to visit as a sailor was heavily restricted and the permit dates were ruthlessly managed. Many of our fellow cruisers were not granted permits and changing or extending permits was mostly denied. While we were in the country two boats’ permits expired right at the time that a revolving tropical storm was forming to the west.

They asked to stay but were told they must leave or face a massive fine. Both made it to the Seychelles safely, but their passage was not an easy one. We learned our lesson and did not push our luck. We only stayed for 10 days and left as soon as a good weather window opened, well before our permit dates expired.

Remote paradise

Putting all the administrative difficulties and geopolitical injustices aside, Chagos was one of the most magical experiences of my life. We were incredibly isolated and spent our days fishing, snorkelling and strolling deserted beaches. We were hundreds of miles from the nearest town and a thousand miles from the nearest mainland country.

Chagos is currently one of the largest wildlife sanctuaries on the planet; 545,000 square miles. The amount of flora and fauna we saw was breathtaking. Birds choked the sky. It was so remote that we found the animals were not afraid of us.

One evening we took the dinghy out to an isolated beach to watch the sunset where the drifting squalls provided a dramatic backdrop. Four months prior we never would have expected to be where we were, but I was extremely grateful to have found myself washed up on that beach. Sailing teaches me many things every day, but the ability to ‘go with the flow’ was a gift this region has blessed me with forever.

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For a month, the boys had been hidden in the mountains with their uncles. They had their noses pierced with bamboo and stayed in the ceremonial hut for three nights, while their mothers and aunties conducted a singing vigil. They started the process as boys, but now it was time for them to be released and presented as men.

Their fathers took great care to dress their sons in their most treasured family possessions. They were adorned with huge, century-old hornbill beaks. Priceless pearl shell necklaces, collected from the coastal tribes over centuries, were wrapped around their necks. Necklaces made of parrot feathers completed the look, together with head dresses from possum fur topped with the incredibly rare feathers of the Bird of Paradise.

Finally it was time. The young men were released from the hut and led around by their fathers and mothers with the entire village out to watch. The procession was one of the most dramatic scenes I will ever witness.

Start of adventure

Simbai, in the highlands of Papua New Guinea, is the most remote and inaccessible place I have ever been to. Planning to get here has taken years. I’ve been somewhat obsessed with Papua New Guinea (or PNG) since I was 12 and read a feature in the National Geographic. Ever since then I’ve been desperate to visit. PNG is one of the three key places that gave me the motivation to try to sail around the world.

In the UK I lived with my three best friends and every year we went sailing together. One summer, I said: “Why don’t we do this for a year?” They agreed that if I got a boat, they’d join me. A year and a half later I saw Uhuru, a brokerage Oyster 62, for sale and bought her.

We all quit our jobs. I was running a business and told the shareholders we were off; one of my friends is a doctor, the other is in the film industry. We’d each lost our parents when we were young and knew all too well the fragility of life and the importance of living for the present.

The incredibly remote Tanga Islands, New Ireland, PNG. Photo: James Ashwell

Although we’d sailed together on a lot of charters we had never even crossed the Channel when we set off round the world. We took guidance from an experienced solo sailor for the first few months, who taught us everything we needed to be safe and competent cruisers.

After crossing the Atlantic we spent a year in the Caribbean, then decided to go to the South Pacific via Easter Island and Pitcairn. It was fantastic – the places that other people don’t want to go are the most amazing.

We got as far as New Zealand when Covid struck in 2020, and I got stranded for almost two years, unable to leave because the weather window in April for returning to the Pacific didn’t align with lockdowns. So I decided to completely refit Uhuru. I took apart floors and ceilings, removed every deck fitting, ripped her apart and rebuilt her.

I met my partner, Jin, and it became both our full-time jobs during the strict New Zealand lockdowns.

Departing from New Zealand’s Hauraki Gulf, bound for New Caledonia in perfect condition. Photo: James Ashwell

In June 2023 we left New Zealand with a crew of five: me, Jin and three friends we’d met in New Zealand. We progressed from New Caledonia to Vanuatu and by the time we’d sailed onwards to the Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea, it was just me and Jin, and our friends Dan and Gareth.

A sacred dance

We had a turbulent crossing from New Caledonia to the island of Tanna in Vanuatu. Our first stop in Vanuatu was the anchorage of Port Resolution, where we cleared in. The bay was sheltered and it felt like a garden of Eden.

Tanna is famous for its active volcano, Mt Yasur. The journey from Port Resolution, crammed into the back of a truck, was memorable in itself. I’ve had only a handful of experiences that are truly breathtaking, but this was definitely one. Nothing had really prepared us for the scene that greeted us at the crater rim.

Gazing into the volcanic abyss of Mt Yasur on Vanuatu’s Tanna Island. Photo: James Ashwell

I can only describe it as peering into hell, with a steep cliff of black earth leading to a deep cauldron of boiling, glowing magma.

When the first explosion went off, so loud that you could feel your body vibrate, the magma shot high into the air and then fell back to earth in what appeared to be slow motion. I was mesmerised.

From here we sailed to Ranon on Ambrym Island, and then to Pentecost Island. In Vanuatu it is believed that the more volcanic an island the more potent is the black magic, and there are few islands more volcanic than the black sand, double crater island of Ambrym.

Sharing kava with locals in Lamen Bay, Epi, Vanuatu. Photo: James Ashwell

The islanders here practise a dance called the Rom dance, a sacred event that is believed to improve the harvest. The ritual stretches back centuries and tells the timeless tale of good versus evil. The locals dress to represent evil spirits, adorned in a thick cloak of dried banana leaves and a conical, brightly painted banana-fibre mask. As the dance begins, story, myth, heritage, and belief entwine with the supernatural in an unfolding rich in symbolism.

Christmas spectacle

I was as excited as a child on Christmas Day when we arrived in the south of Pentecost Island to see the land diving, or Nanggol, probably the most famous custom of Vanuatu and a big part of the reason we chose to sail here. It was certainly an incredible experience to witness.

In mid-July we pressed on to Rano Island, Malakula. We’d heard that local traditions were still thriving on the two stunning islets of Wala and Rano on the north-east of Malakula and so we sailed there to find out. The islet of Rano is as picture perfect as it is possible to get and we dropped anchor on a 10m-deep shelf of pure white sand and gin-clear waters.

Tribesman at PNG’s Goroka Show. Photo: James Ashwell

The Vanuatu islands first had contact with Europeans in 1606, but Malakula was isolated and little visited by Europeans until well into the 20th century. As a result, the island’s indigenous traditions were better preserved there than elsewhere in Vanuatu.

Malakula is as wild as it gets. It is one of the South Pacific islands famed for its history of cannibalism. Sparsely populated with only 23,000 people, the jungle is thick and the land mountainous, which has resulted in 30 languages being spoken in an island the size of West Yorkshire.

It meant local villagers rarely explored the world further than a few miles from their homes. They got along badly with neighbouring villages and communication and trade were limited.

Dramatic arrival at Rabual, New Britain, PNG. Photo: James Ashwell

There were regular wars between tribes. After a battle a couple of captured men would be taken to a site specifically designated for the purpose, then killed and parts of the upper torso eaten. We found a local guide who took us on a trek to one of the cannibal sites deep within the jungle.

The captured men would be taken to an upright stone where they were slaughtered, butchered then cooked. We could clearly see the place where they discarded the bones.

By early August, with the season advancing, it was time for Uhuru to head north and make the 300-mile passage from Luganville to the Solomon Islands. We cleared in at Lata, having contacted customs and immigration in advance. Shortly after we lowered our quarantine flag a lovely lady whose house overlooks the small bay came over to welcome us with a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

Sunset walk with the local kids at Port Resolution, Tanna, Vanuatu. Photo: James Ashwell

We felt it was a good omen for what was to come. Over the next few days we spent a lot of time with Hilda. We toured her beautiful garden filled with orchids. She cooked a traditional meal for us and introduced us to her children.

Heading north we decided to break the journey with a stop in the Marapa Islands. The anchorage I picked out from satellite images turned out to be one of the most beautiful we were lucky enough to enjoy. The tiny island on Paipai reef is everything you’d hope a tropical island to be and we never tired of the stunning view of white sand and palm trees.

Unexpected dance by three local tribes around our camp in Simbai. Photo: James Ashwell

On arrival we followed the process we’d set for ourselves and first asked permission of the locals who own the island and offered gifts. However, it wasn’t long until a dugout canoe with a very angry man arrived asking why we hadn’t asked permission. After a good hour of talking he understood that we’d been fooled earlier by a local from a different village and his anger turned to friendliness. We visited his family, gave some gifts and soon felt comfortable and safe.

Navigation challenges

If you look up the Nggela Islands on Google Earth you will see a tiny sliver of a channel between two huge islands that just begs to be sailed through. The only problem is there’s no data available on any charts that indicate the depth, so it was impossible to know if Uhuru, with a draught of 2.5m, would be able to make it through.

We decided that it looked like an adventure we couldn’t ignore and would be worth a go. So at 0500, before sunrise, we raised anchor and headed for the channel.

We slowed to 3 knots and gingerly entered the passage.

Trading with locals at Nissan Island, Bougainville. Photo: James Ashwell

As the depth reduced from 25m to 5m I started sweating. However, it was well worth the worries as we passed just a few metres away from remote stilt villages and beautiful jungle. We managed to capture depth data the whole way along the passage and passed it on to Navionics so vessels that come in future will know exactly how deep it is.

Friendliest of welcomes

From here we sailed to Roderick Island. On our arrival a man named John came over in a dugout canoe and asked us if we wanted to come over for some drinks. As soon as we arrived at the beach his whole family welcomed us, fully dressed up in their traditional attire. They were singing and chanting as we got off the dinghy.

Only when we walked up from the beach, did the full extent of his efforts hit us. He’d decked out his whole beachfront as if for an extravagant wedding. We entered by passing through a palm entrance arch, each of the palm tips decorated with hibiscus flowers. He presented us with three necklaces each, astonishingly, made from hundreds of orchids. John had made a hand wash bowl out of a giant clam.

Diving straight off Uhuru in Kavieng, New Ireland, PNG. Photo: James Ashwell

After washing our hands, his daughters presented us with cold coconut juice and a leaf plate of food extravagantly decorated with colourful hibiscus flowers.

Following a meal and conversation, we were led by a group of dancing children through a passageway of flowers to the fire. Here, we gathered around, and everybody danced and laughed. The most incredible thing is that John did not do any of this for money and asked for nothing.

He only did it because we’d written to him in advance to ask his permission to anchor on his land, and he wanted to show his welcome. To show our thanks we scuba dived on his mooring lines to check their condition and bought him a load of building supplies to help him refurbish his property.

We could have happily spent several months here. Sadly, the window for heading over the top of Papua New Guinea closes in late October when the winds and current switch direction making the passage almost impossible.

Stern line to a palm tree in a wonderful Duke of York Islands anchorage. Photo: James Ashwell

We made a last stop at the pristine Marovo Lagoon, New Georgia, an incredibly wild place with waters teeming with life and jungle spilling down to the shore. It was a shame to have to rush through the Solomon Islands; we could have spent much longer there.

Beautiful but dangerous

We’d planned to clear into Rabaul, the capital of New Britain, Papua New Guinea, but I had an uncomfortable feeling as soon as we arrived – it was industrial and had a bad energy. So after formalities we headed to a safe anchorage at the nearby Duke of York Islands, where we left Uhuru to venture inland to Papua New Guinea’s mountainous interior. This is not an easy journey. We’d been warned that travelling anywhere in this country is challenging, but we were not prepared for the reality.

Our first experience of tribal culture was at the Goroka Show, one of the largest tribal gatherings in the world.

The show was originally an attempt by missionaries in the 1950s to curb tribal fighting by bringing their different cultures together to showcase each of their distinctive and colourful rituals. Today over 100 tribes gather to perform their songs, dance and show their traditional dress.

Interacting with the tribes at the Goroka Show in PNG. Photo: James Ashwell

At around 2.30pm, way after the time it was suggested we leave, we noticed the mood change. As we walked back to the ‘tourist’ area, we heard gunshots. We started to jog and then realised everyone else was starting to run. It turned into a stampede and the barbed wire fences protecting the package tourists got trampled down.

We ran into the nearby university accommodation and locked ourselves into a bathroom until it felt safe to leave.

From Goroka, we hitched a ride on the missionary plane to Simbai. The views along the way were incredible – dense jungle, misty mountains and villages with not a sign of outside influence.

When we landed in Simbai there was a small gathering of locals keen to see who’d arrived. We didn’t know it yet, but this was to become the most moving and inspirational human interaction of my life.

Exploring the south of Bougainville’s Green Island with local kids. Photo: James Ashwell

After settling down into a traditional hut, high on the mountain side above the village of Simbai, we lit a fire next to our sleeping bags and drifted to sleep. At around 1am we awoke to the distant sound of women’s singing. Eager to not miss out on the festival we got dressed, grabbed our head torches and walked towards the sounds.

Arriving at the ceremonial house we were the only foreigners there and the locals were keen to explain their customs to us. The festival marks the ascent of their chosen boys into manhood. To explain, the village elder invited us into the initiation hut where he showed us the boys recovering from having spears pushed through their noses.

At dawn, the sun rose spectacularly to reveal a clear, blue sky. The valley below was filled by a thick fog. Villagers in traditional dress walked by carrying bows and arrows.

These memories of a rare and genuine tribal celebration in a remote mountainous corner of Papua New Guinea were a privilege I’ll treasure as long as I live. I wonder if my kids’ generation will still be able to witness such an event?

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Why charter? To have a deserved break afloat; to sail somewhere different; to try before you buy, especially if deciding between monohull and multihull; to see if it’s something your crew enjoys before embarking on longer-term cruising. Or all of the above.

For us, the plan seemed clear. After a decade of UK summers (an oxymoron!), where our family of four enjoys sailing dinghies and weekending our vintage micro-cruiser, it was time for some more reliable, sunny cruising. And the chance to try a modern production monohull presented an ideal opportunity for our daughters (9 and 13) to progress into yacht sailing.

Dubrovnik has become a Mediterranean cruising mecca. Not only is the ‘pearl of the Adriatic’ a UNESCO world heritage site to set sail from, with an old town made extra popular by Game of Thrones, but the islands strewn between here and Split offer some of the most enchanting, manageable cruising.

But I’d previously been put off the idea of chartering during summer school holidays, considering it too hot, expensive and, most of all, crowded. Thankfully, none of these preconceptions played out. In fact, from arriving in late July at Sunsail’s Dubrovnik base onwards, everything was charming. I would add surprisingly so – however there were some surprises in store.

Due to work commitments, we missed the first two days, compressing our week’s charter, but with the islands all lying to the north-west, routing decisions are easy at least – if the wind co-operates!

Chartering the new Sunsail 41.3 from Dubrovnik, a base which typically involves sailing to the north-west. Photo: Kelagopian/Sunsail

Full of surprises

I was genuinely impressed with the quality of ACI Marina, the Sunsail base, its staff and equipment. Were you stormbound you could happily while away a few days here – it’s easy to get into the old town, while quiet and relaxing with a superb pool and restaurant (Zephyrus YC), a well-stocked mini supermarket and good on-site facilities.

Indeed, despite normally itching to get straight off to a nice anchorage, we stayed put… our only night in a marina (and it was free!). It was a Monday so it was quiet, a strong wind was forecast that night and we had a small tech issue so decided to relax, victual, and enjoy the facilities.

The first real surprise came on boarding. I know the Dufour 41 having tested it the year before, so while the new voluminous boat was expected, the level of equipment it included was eye-opening. It was packed with mod cons I hadn’t even considered for a 40-footer, including aircon, genset, watermaker, freezer, microwave, electric toilets…

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For us the electric outboard on the Highfield RIB was the biggest hit, eliminating smells and noise and ideal for the kids to up their helming confidence. Knowing most Sunsail yachts are in ownership programmes, I wondered how such a high standard spec level is decided and works out financially, so, at the end of the charter, spoke with specialist Julian Adams – see panel, page 61.

Most likely we have all experienced some tired charter boats before, and it felt luxurious to step aboard a shiny new model. Of course, while a luxury to have, all these items ramp up the complexity and hog most stowage space. Our rep acknowledged this and even suggested using one of the three heads to stow the fenders.

The view of Lucas Taverna while moored stern-to.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t get a chart briefing because the specialist was off on an emergency – the downside of not arriving on the usual handover day. But the briefing videos are good and base manager Keith Harvey is very thorough with his drone footage of each area and zones of caution.

I’m obviously old school because I still crave paper, including charts, cruising guides, suggested itineraries etc. However, it’s now all set up to be digital only.

That feeling of leaving the marina, motoring out of the channel and first hoisting sails is priceless. Šunj on Lopud is the perfect easy first/last hop, little more than an hour from the bustling city, and offers stunning clear water to laze and swim in, an amuse bouche of what was to come.

a quiet, protected corner in Polače, anchored with a stern line to a rock. Photo: Kelagopian/Sunsail

Still not knowing how busy future destinations would be, I phoned ahead to the Lukas Taverna at Kobaš in the Ston channel, and was met with a reassuring ‘no problem’. We’d had some local recommendations from a Yachting World reader, but the Sunsail team is also responsive and helpful with advice on WhatsApp.

While my fellow charterers were quiet that week, I later saw just how well some used it for live recommendations and any tech queries. Likewise, Harvey’s daily weather briefings are first class.

Sailing to shellfish

Sailing up the channel between Lopud and Šipan (Eliphati) islands and the mainland brought the second surprise: just how quickly and violently the conditions can change here. Many will know the mountainous backdrop plays a big part in the local weather and cruising here, particularly thunderstorm activity. And the wind can change very quickly too. In this case we were sailing in 7 knots when a 20-knot wind band hit with a 45° change in its direction.

Our heavenly spot off Pomen

This led directly to the next surprise: we were not to get the sailing experience I’d enjoyed on the test boat the year before, sorry kids. All that gear obviously comes at a cost: weight. Then factor in white sails only, the drag of a fixed three-blade prop and towing a RIB dinghy and pointing and headway ability obviously diminish.

That said my ‘first mate’, my eldest daughter, proved an effective hand, and the electric winches and stackpack made sailing a doddle. Also, at 40ft, the loads are all relatively light, so it’s easy enough to pull halyards by hand and quickly unfurl/furl sails for that impulsive 10-minute spell of sailing.

KobaŠ is a delightful cove with a couple of restaurants, including Lukas, which belongs to ‘no problem’ Nicolas’ family. They gave us a friendly welcome and helped us dock stern-to, with 50cm of clear water below our rudder. Father told stories to guests over a glass or two, while mother knocked up some memorable seafood. We’d heard the oysters in these waters are meant to be some of the best in the world and they didn’t disappoint. Equally the calamari and (very) local chardonnay were excellent (the secret is in the stubborn vines which grow on rock faces apparently). All worth the inflated prices you pay on the islands (€230 for four).

It was on discovering our first truly idyllic and almost deserted anchorage the following morning that we began to realise just how special these waters are. You go giddy with excitement, juggling between trying to capture it on camera and continually wanting to plunge into the intoxicating palette of blues. In fact, the rest of our voyage centred on trying to find the most beautiful waters to anchor and swim in. The choice is spellbinding.

Our voyage was one of finding such delights, with laughs and cool-offs along the way

Lazy pace

With the light breeze still from the north-west (on the nose), any progress along the Mljet coast needed to be done under power. But these longer passages, particularly motorsailing in calm seas, were wonderfully relaxing.

It provided proper family time, with occasional cool-offs and tow-alongs, all while skirting the coastline and poking our noses into any inlets that looked inviting.

Mljet is 90% vegetation, and full of these enticing pitstops, particularly around the protected marine national park at the northern end.

Winding through the delightful channels en route to its Polače heart, we passed numerous superyachts parked stern-to their preferred rocks in some of the choicest spots, so we were then thrilled to find a quiet corner with a good stake to tie a stern line to in the protected anchorage opposite the town.

Polače has plenty of restaurants, a dinghy dock and useful small shops. Bike and e-bike rental stores abound as tourists typically cycle from here to the salt lakes (too hot for us, thanks).

Watching the setting sun from the remote nature reserve Lastovo.

Those who moor at the many restaurant quays and eat there avoid the €120 park fee, but after getting fresh supplies via dinghy we were too content with our anchorage spot and ate aboard that night. This helped confirm that the Dufour’s transom dinette/grill setup is a prime feature. Barbecuing in boardshorts, diving in to cool off, and finishing with an aft platform shower is the life!

Around the headland is Pomena where we stumbled upon the most stunning small shoal by an islet, a patch of white sand large enough to precisely drop the pick into with just enough scope during a calm daytime. It was the most inviting water I’ve seen, our tiny slice of paradise.

From here you have to decide whether to stay local, as in Mljet and the PeljeŠac peninsula, or strike out for Korčula, with its postcard old town, or the more remote Lastovo, a 20-mile sail west. We only had two more nights, but the mystique of Lastovo beckoned.

After a long afternoon crossing in a dying breeze, we buzzed the north part of the island to glimpse Lastovo town nestled high in the hills, danced to cockpit tunes as we took in the western end before reaching Pasadur in time for sundowners. The anchorages and submarine pen area looked busy so we settled for a buoy (€40 on top of the three-day €40 national park fee), which brought peace of mind and another stunning swimming location.

Medieval old town of Korčula. Navigation is easy line of sight between islands.

A biodiversity treasure with some of the richest botanical areas in the Med, Lastovo was declared a nature park in 2006.

Yes, in hindsight, it was a long way to go on our timeframe (and further to go back into the weather), but to see the kids be water rats until after dark, then lie with them on the foredeck stargazing at what is said to be the second darkest night sky in Europe, forged an enduring memory.

Weighing it up

Normally when handing the boat back the next day it makes sense to get to an easy radius from the base. Which was our intention, honest. But after a long morning of beating into an unforecast wind and swell, it was too tempting not to divert back to our paradisiacal patch off Pomena, which proved so relaxing we ended up staying that night. After all the forecast was settled now wasn’t it?!
Scoping out the various restaurants and watching other visiting yachts claim their spots (a fun pastime) we settled on the friendly fish restaurant Konoba Herc opposite, only nudging in there after our final sunset swim.

From the most tranquil evening I woke to mayhem at 2am as a huge thunderstorm hit. Having checked all lines and fenders and got thoroughly drenched I fretted about how to get back to Dubrovnik if the storm continued. Despite a disconcerting night and tentative departure, the skies and seas settled almost instantly by morning, leaving mirror calm conditions for the 40-mile return, albeit under the iron headsail (with more idyllic swim stops).

The Dufour’s aft grill and bathing platform get the seal of approval

The re-fuelling and handover was slick, with excellent instructions. And because we’d elected to stay on in Dubrovnik for an extra couple of days, there was no panic to get to the airport. Instead, a chauffeured transit awaited to take us on to more relaxation – thank you Sunsail.

So again, why charter? It’s 3°C and mizzle as I write this, the days barely bothering to get light. However, I’m picturing that water, the laughs, the lifelong memories. A sailing holiday afloat together can ensure quality family time and is the reason many crave repeats as their children age.

I know we do.

Charter cruising tips

If possible allow time before or after. Get the cheaper flights. Decompress. We stayed between the airport and marina for a long weekend from where it was a €20 taxi into the old town or back to the airport.

Don’t overstretch yourself. On a digital chart it all seems manageable, but a 5- to 7-hour sail is a long slog under power! I’m my own worst enemy, wanting to see every last inlet. But that can limit time exploring ashore.

If sailing is a priority, you may need to limit your cruising radius. Instead of trying to sail from A to B, consider just going for pleasure sails at the optimum angles and in the best breezes.

Marinas in Croatia are seriously expensive (around €75-150 a night)! With the plethora of stunning anchorages and restaurant docks, they can be avoided unless weather-bound or sight-seeing certain towns.

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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The post Croatia is a yacht charter destination that is chock-full of surprises appeared first on Yachting World.

The massive structure of Svartklubben lighthouse looms on the horizon. Standing on the small Swedish island of Singö, it guards the entrance to the Gulf of Bothnia. Passing it feels like we’re opening the pages of a new book.

That morning, we’d hauled our anchor out of the mud in the beautiful Arholma anchorage, the northernmost island of the Stockholm archipelago. Sweden has so many excellent cruising grounds, each of which can keep you busy for a lifetime.

We’d spent a month on the south-east coast of Sweden, meandering between the thousands of islands. But now we were going to where even Swedes rarely sail: the Gulf of Bothnia. From the Stockholm archipelago to the northernmost point of the Gulf it’s roughly 400 miles in a straight line. But we will be sailing a circuitous route, and there are many distractions along the way.

Anna Caroline sailing into the fading early evening light. Photo: Matthew Davey

Choosing sides

The first thing to decide is whether we’re going to loop around the Gulf of Bothnia clockwise or anticlockwise. The prevailing winds are south-westerly, but when we were there they tended to blow from the south-south-east.

To avoid having to sail dead downwind, we decide to sail north along the Swedish coast and south again along the Finnish coast.

Our first stop is the quaint village of Öregrund, where we find a good spot in the small guest harbour. Öregrund is one of those little towns where it seems as if time has stood still. Wooden houses are painted in the typical red or yellow, trimmed with white. You can tell that it gets very cold here in winter: each dwelling has small windows, big chimneys.

There are sturdy churches, each with a neighbouring bell tower, and fishing boats in the harbour. Tourists stroll around and we join the throngs for an alfresco dinner at one of the many terrace restaurants, celebrating our first step into the relatively unknown Gulf of Bothnia.

View of a typical village on Sweden’s High Coast. Photo: Frida Gruffman/Getty

Cherry picking

When you ask Swedes about the northern Swedish coast, they invariably talk about Höga Kusten, the High Coast. This is an area in the middle of the Gulf, just south of the island Kvarken. Between Stockholm and the High Coast, the land is relatively flat and covered with forest.

Many islands dot the coast, so there are lots of options to anchor or tie to a rock ‘Scandinavian style’ with a stern anchor to keep the bow away from the hard stuff. In many places along the Swedish and Finnish coast, you have the choice to head ‘outside’, where there is more sea room, or ‘inside’ between the islands where you find more shelter.

We moor Anna Caroline in a club harbour on the island Granskär. These club harbours are quite common in Nordic countries. Basically, it’s a harbour at a lovely island that has been owned or leased by a club for decades and members come from their different home ports to spend the summer vacation there. Visitors are often very welcome.

Svartklubben lighthouse guards the entrance to the Gulf of Bothnia

A clubhouse, including the inevitable sauna, is standard, but sometimes the harbour has a restaurant or café as well. At Granskär, they rarely see a foreign boat, so we receive a warm welcome and are spoiled with all sorts of useful advice for our journey further north.

To decide on our next stops, we look at the map and at the time we have available to sail here; summers are short in this part of the world. “Why don’t we cherry pick?” Wietze muses. We choose to sail overnight to the High Coast to maximise our time there.

When we cast off it’s midsummer: we sail through a night in which the sun doesn’t set and the skies keep amazing us with their hues of yellow, orange and red. In the early hours of the next morning the wind drops and we motor into the Lustholmen club harbour. There’s not a soul to be seen on the moored yachts; only fresh leaves rustling in the wind.

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After tying up, we put the kettle on and wonder what midsummer partying went on the night before as the island slowly comes back to life. Again we receive kind hospitality and lots of information about great places on the High Coast. “Ulvön and Trysunda are well-known and beautiful islands,” fellow cruiser Stig comments, “but come to my village Häggvik. We have a harbour that can accommodate your boat. It’s the best spot on the High Coast.”

It’s a wonderful sail to Häggvik: the high cliffs create sudden windshifts and keep us on our toes. It feels like dinghy sailing again. When the channel narrows we drop the sails and look for the narrow passage to Häggvik – it’s much narrower than we thought.

After some nail-biting moments, with the depth sounder screaming at us, the fairway widens again and we arrive at the loveliest little marina shared with enthusiastic cruisers. For provisioning we can borrow bikes to cycle to the nearest town with a supermarket.

The guest port of Baggviken on the Swedish island of Mjältön

We spot reindeer on the shore of an island on the other side of the Ratan anchorage, after a brisk sail from the High Coast to Ratan, a beautiful secluded bay. This is close to the narrowest part of the Gulf of Bothnia; the part where the landrise is most visible.

Once the last Ice Age retreated the land of the Nordic countries started to bounce back. And it’s still going on, albeit at different rates. In the northern part of the Gulf, it’s roughly 9mm per year. Rocks that were marked at sea level hundreds of years ago are now metres higher.

The small village of Hölick on Sweden’s Hornslandet peninsula. Photo: Henk Hulshof/Getty

The far north

From Ratan we make use of a steady, 20-knot south-easterly. We’re enjoying such a great sail, with hardly any waves, that we decide to keep going and do an overnighter to Luleå, one of the bigger cities of northern Sweden. There’s a nasty low approaching, so we tie up in the large marina.

While we wait for the weather to pass, we visit the site where Luleå was first built; due to the landrise they had to move the town 7km further east to keep the harbour at sufficient depth. There’s a beautiful old town built of 404 tiny wooden cottages around a 15th century stone church.

Sailing through the Luleå archipelago is at times challenging with our 2.15m draught, but we enjoy the solitude of this relatively unknown cruising ground. We see fishermen working trout and salmon nets, and a handful of sailing yachts. But mostly it is us, the birds, wooded islands and the high summer sun.

Swedish Cruising Club harbour on Bergön at the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia

The club harbour on the island Bergön is a particularly magical place. Members have built a clubhouse, a wood-burning sauna and a fireplace under a circular roof. On long tables on the jetty, members and cruisers meet and share tales on endless summer days.

From Bergön we motor eight miles to Töre, the northernmost navigable point on the Gulf of Bothnia, a literal high point, and turning mark of our voyage in the Gulf. A big yellow buoy marks the spot. Together with two Finnish boats, we round the mark, then tie up to a wall and walk to the nearby campsite. Just 30 miles south of the Arctic circle, we’re in shorts and T-shirts, enjoying bright sunshine and 25°C temperatures. Töre has only 1,100 inhabitants, but is a significant stopover for yachts because of the iconic yellow buoy. At the local campsite we even get a certificate for rounding it.

Bergön is popular with Finnish cruisers, so we take the opportunity to gather up-to-date information. We meet Niklas and Johanna sailing their Grand Soleil 40 Zeieten around the Gulf anticlockwise, and discuss the best strategy for the Finnish coast. For miles and miles offshore it’s very shallow. Rocks are everywhere, and tend to move with the ice in winter. So, there are dredged and marked channels to the bigger cities and the main ports.

Pilot buildings in the bay at Ratan

Lighthouse route

To get in, you often have to sail up to 20 miles through a channel. And the same distance out again; which deters most people from sailing along this coast. “Go for the lighthouses,” Niklas says.

“When Finland was part of Russia, the government wanted the cargo ships to travel along the Finnish and not the Swedish coast. So, they built a whole series of lighthouses with small harbours on islands all along the westernmost rim of the shallow part of the coast. These harbours can accommodate government vessels, so they are deep enough for a yacht.

“Pick the destinations on the mainland where you want to go and for the rest you stay ‘outside’ and use the lighthouses.” It’s a splendid idea.

We’d sailed into Bergön as strangers and leave as friends; it’s that kind of place. Unexpectedly, the wind turns to the north. We rush south, to make good use of it. A quick visit to university town Vaasa, then on in more northerly winds to historic Rauma, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Both marinas in Rauma are too shallow for us, so we end up in the fishing harbour, where we find a warm welcome.

‘Nature harbour’ mooring on the outer edge of the Stockholm archipelago. Photo: Mikael Broms/Shutterstock

Our first lighthouse harbour is Kylmäpihlaja, a tight fit for our boat, with a stiff breeze blowing across the basin. With the help of Ari, a Finnish fellow cruiser, we got our lines ashore and safely tied up. But it was worth it: the island is a gem. It takes about 20 minutes to walk around it and we make several laps to enjoy the ever-changing light. Ari also offers excellent tips for anchorages in the famous Turku archipelago, further south. “It’s the best cruising ground in Finland,” he promises.

We take a week to meander through more beautiful islands: another lighthouse landmark, and yet more cute anchorages or villages where we can tie up. The archipelago can get quite crowded in July, but by August things are slowing down, and slowly the nights get darker. It is sufficiently quiet that as we approach Turku through a winding, shallow channel, an elk swims across our bow.

Marina berths are usually bow in with mooring rings

Back to the west

The city of Turku feels very cosmopolitan after the small villages we’ve visited. We sail right into the centre of town, where a marina is situated on the banks of the Aura river. It’s a popular place for crew changes, restocking and sightseeing. But after a few days we head back into the archipelago.

The narrow, winding, and in places shallow, track makes for challenging sailing in the shifts and calms. Our last stop in the Turku archipelago is the small island Kumlinge, where the name of the tiny harbour and adjacent restaurant is Glada Laxen: the Laughing Salmon. When we ask manager Markku what their speciality is, he replies: “Perch.” We now know why the salmon is laughing.

The next archipelago is nestled between Finland and Sweden. Åland is officially Finnish, but Swedish is spoken. Again, you can opt for the wider channels that are used by the big ferries that ply the route between Helsinki, Turku, Mariehamn and Stockholm. Or you choose one of many narrower fairways between the smaller islands.

In a steady south-westerly breeze we sail from island to island before we reach Åland’s capital, Mariehamn, and finally complete our Gulf of Bothnia loop. But I’m not sure this chapter of our cruising is completely closed.

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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The post Let’s Go Offroad… Sailing? Cruising the Gulf of Bothnia appeared first on Yachting World.

When it comes to regrets, I have none. But on all my voyages the golden rule has been to know what NOT to do. I learned that valuable lesson on my very first day on a sailing yacht.

At the time I was working at the BBC World Service and the BBC yacht club had a 40ft sloop called Ariel based on the Hamble. I signed up for a sailing weekend along with a friend from television news called Charlie McLaren. We travelled down on Friday, met the captain and sailed to the Isle of Wight, planning to spend the night at Yarmouth. As we neared the island, the captain told Charlie, who was the mate for the weekend, to get the crew to lower the sails.

‘At any given moment there are 10,000 boats undertaking a long voyage.’ Photo: Dan Bower/World ARC

Suddenly there was a loud crunch and Ariel came to an abrupt halt. Even I could tell that we’d run aground. The boat was heeling over at an angle and rocking in the swell. Then, while lowering the mainsail, the wildly swinging boom hit the other crew hard on the head, the violent blow splitting his scalp open.

With blood gushing all over the place, we took him below and put a towel around his head. Charlie offered to make him a cup of tea, but as he was pouring the water into a mug, the grounded yacht gave a sudden lurch and the boiling water all splashed into his sea boots.

Screaming like mad, Charlie ripped his boots off, yet by the time he’d pulled off his woollen socks both legs were already covered in blisters.

With the situation now bordering on the desperate, and no prospect of getting afloat on our own, the captain hailed a passing motoryacht and asked them to pull us off, which they did. He then contacted the Coastguard by VHF and was told to head back to Portsmouth, where the hospital had an A&E department.

Classic cruising in an Atlantic crossing with the ARC. Photo: Leonardo Pazzaglia/ARC

We motored across the busy Solent waterway, and saw an ambulance with its blue lights flashing waiting for us. I bade goodbye to the captain and took the train back to London. “How was your weekend?” asked my wife Gwenda when I got home.

“Very interesting. I think I’ve learned a lot,” I told her. “Not much about sailing, but a lot about what NOT to do on a boat.”

Over the years I came to realise that learning what not to do fully accords with the ruling principles of voyage planning. The primary objective is to plan a route or passage that takes best advantage of prevailing winds and favourable seasons. Essentially that’s about always being in the right place at the right time, or, better still, not being in the wrong place at the wrong time!

According to the International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea, ‘Voyage planning is common sense’. The definition of common sense is the basic level of practical knowledge and judgement that we all need to help us live and travel in a reasonable and safe way.

Cornell has sailed many ways around the world, from the Northwest Passage (inset) to the Antarctic. Photo: Jimmy Cornell

Avoiding pitfalls

For the last 35 years I have kept a record of the global movement of sailing yachts based on the number of arrivals in key locations around the world (see full feature in the October 2023 issue of Yachting World and at yachtingworld.com).

Worldwide it is estimated that at any given moment there are around 10,000 boats undertaking a long voyage. The vast majority of those adventures have a happy ending. Bearing in mind the many challenges that sailors on ambitious voyages have to overcome, it is quite remarkable how there are relatively few failures.

South Pacific sailing paradise – Mo’orea in French Polynesia. Photo: Cavan Images/Alamy

From the cases of unhappy or abandoned voyages that have come to my knowledge over the years, and from conversations with owners and crews, I narrowed down the most common factors that contribute to the ‘failure’ of a voyage. These are: the boat itself; problems with the crew; an inability to be self-sufficient; inadequate funds; or having the wrong attitude to life at sea.

These are such important matters for anyone planning a long voyage that I conducted several surveys among long distance sailors, as well as participants in my rallies, to find out more about those causes.

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Managing finances

Applying those criteria to my own experience, the choice of my various boats has been generally right, and every one of them fulfilled my expectations. But when it came to the financial aspect, the early part of my first voyage was quite difficult as we’d spent all our money on the boat, and had absolutely no savings.

However, although I had resigned from my job at the BBC, I was asked to send back reports on any subject of interest that I might come across. Most of my reports were sent to a programme called Hello Tomorrow, which dealt with developing countries. The programme was produced by the BBC World Service and sent to radio stations around the world. Often an interview that I’d recorded at a previous stop had already been broadcast in the country where we had just arrived.

Cornell at the wheel of Aventura Zero, the bespoke Outremer 45 he planned to sail round the world using only electric power without having to rely on any fossil fuels. Photo: Jimmy Cornell

This made my task much easier and I had no problem finding new material everywhere: visiting an experimental farming station in the jungle of Panama; the Potato Institute in the Peruvian Andes; or a tea plantation in the highlands of Sri Lanka. Besides providing us with a modest, but regular income, my work provided an excellent opportunity to meet interesting people in every country we stopped.

The financial aspect of long-distance cruising is now very different from when it was still possible to do it on a limited budget. My advice on cruising budgets is to be prepared for the costs to be higher than expected, and to have recourse to some reserve funds in a serious emergency.

I’d also urge everyone to think carefully before making a clean break with shore life during the current economic uncertainty, creeping inflation and currency fluctuations. If possible, you should keep a shore base in case you are forced to change plans, whether for health or financial reasons, to have somewhere to return to.

Build routines

Sailing with our two young children on the first voyage imposed on us a certain discipline. We established a routine with regular meals, schoolwork, rest periods and watches, a pattern that continued even when I was not sailing with my family.

Crew compatibility and their attitude to the voyage are vital for a stress-free adventure. Photo: Sebastian Gylling/ARC

There were other rules that became routine, such as always checking the anchor with a mask if we were spending any length of time in an anchorage. Some of my later crew found my insistence on a regular routine as pedantic and at odds with their expectations of a cruising life. In most cases, they had joined me for a limited time and were looking forward to a nice and enjoyable vacation.

They were irritated by such onboard routines as keeping regular watches, being quiet when the off watch crew were sleeping, or not having unlimited use of fresh water. I realised that it was not the routines they could not accept, but the concept of discipline.

Stay flexible

Having done all my early sailing at a time when there were no weather forecasts available on ocean passages, my offshore tactics had to be based on the actual conditions being experienced. This is how I learned the importance of being flexible when it came to route planning.

Seizing a potentially promising opportunity had always been my attitude and this is how our planned three-year world voyage on the first Aventura ended up lasting twice as long. Looking back on that voyage, and those on the following four Aventuras, I realise that some of the most memorable highlights of my sailing were thanks to those unforeseen detours.

What it’s all about – incredible sailing in the world’s most spectacular locations. Photo: Oyster World Rally

Having transited the Panama Canal, rather than take the direct tradewind route to Tahiti, on the insistence of our children Doina and Ivan we turned left to visit Paddington Bear’s original home of Peru.

From there we continued to Easter Island and Pitcairn, two of the most interesting islands in the world that we would have otherwise missed.

A chance encounter with an Englishman on Easter Island led to an even longer detour and extended our South Pacific sojourn by at least one year. When I told him I was a journalist and working for the BBC, he asked whether we were planning to sail to the Ellice Islands for the forthcoming independence celebrations. He painted a very tempting picture of the planned festivities, and I was hooked on the idea.

So rather than continue west, as planned, towards Australia, from Fiji we turned north and witnessed the birth of Tuvalu, the smallest independent nation in the world. During the independence festivities, I met Ieremia Tabai, chief minister of the neighbouring Gilbert Islands, and future president of Kiribati, who invited us to come to their own celebrations the following year.

By now we were so seduced by the South Pacific and its people that we decided to spend as long as possible there instead of rushing west to complete the second half of our circumnavigation.

From Tuvalu, we sailed south to New Zealand to avoid the cyclone season. The following year we returned to the tropics, and from Tonga sailed north, crossed the equator and eventually made landfall at Tarawa, the capital of Kiribati.

Aventura III at Romanche Glacier in Chile. Photo: Jimmy Cornell

Similarly, after the launch of Aventura III in 1998, my planned round the world voyage started with an expedition to Antarctica, accompanied by my son, Ivan But on our return we decided that rather than continue west, we’d sail north all the way to Alaska.

The unplanned detour started with a leisurely cruise through the spectacular Chilean fjordland, a wonderland of ever-changing scenery, with sparkling glaciers, tumbling waterfalls, and countless sheltered anchorages. On a stretch of 600 miles, there was not one single settlement, not even a house, and we met only four cruising boats and about as many fishing boats.

From Chile we continued to Easter Island and Pitcairn, both of which we’d visited 22 years previously. But we took our time to call at places that we’d missed in the past: the Austral and Line Islands, as well as Hawaii and Alaska. Aventura III’s tortuous world voyage was eventually completed 12 years later.

My willingness to change plans and take detours is probably explained by my being open-minded whenever I am faced with an option that looks challenging but has the potential of richer rewards.

Pick crew carefully

After that first voyage, whenever possible I sailed with Gwenda, or my children Doina or Ivan. When they could not join me, I had no choice but to take on crew. It was not long before I discovered that the crew problems I’d witnessed on other boats were now affecting me as well.

On a few occasions, I was disappointed to discover that even old friends behaved differently on the boat than ashore. Some of the worst were those who had their own boats and some offshore experience but were unable to accept my role of captain. This sad experience was obviously not unusual, and I realised that’s the reason why the majority of cruising boats are sailed by couples on their own.

Cornell and the first Aventura depart London in 1975. Photo: Jimmy Cornell

There must be some truth in Hemingway’s advice that “one should only sail with people you love”. The risk of having problems with occasional crew is virtually impossible to avoid because in most cases they happen after the passage has started.

This is one of the reasons why I always advised participants in the ARC to set an initial course to the Caribbean that passed close to the Cape Verde islands, not only because they would encounter better winds from there on but mainly because it gave them the opportunity to stop and get rid of a difficult crew. It happened every year.

The right attitude

However, I’ve come to believe that the most important factor that can have a bearing on the success of a voyage is your attitude to the sea and sailing – and to cruising life in general.

Setting off on a life on the ocean is a major decision that entails a complete change of both lifestyle and mentality. Leaving on a sailing yacht just because it is a convenient way to see the world is not a good enough reason. I have come across this attitude among sailors I have met, some of whom were unwilling, or more often unable, to make the transition from a shore-based mindset to becoming a full-time sailor.

The cruising Cornells – Jimmy with wife, Gwenda, and children Doina and Ivan. Photo: Jimmy Cornell

This may not be a major problem on a relatively short voyage, such as sailing to the Caribbean and back, but can have serious consequences for those who leave on a longer journey of several years. The ultimate success of a voyage does not depend on the boat, finances or crew but on you and your attitude.

Having the right attitude is as difficult to define as having common sense. You either have it or you don’t. Life at sea can be difficult, uncomfortable, occasionally hard and dangerous. You must be physically in good shape and psychologically able to deal with the demands of a challenging existence. Before committing yourself to a long voyage, it would be advisable to do a short ocean passage to decide whether that’s the kind of life you’d enjoy.

In my 50 years of sailing I’ve met many outstanding people, and invariably what made them stand out was their attitude. What I most admired in them was their profound respect for the sea.

All-electric Aventura Zero. Photo: Jimmy Cornell

What they all had in common was that special mindset to embark on a long voyage, which required qualities such as courage, perseverance, determination and self-confidence. The fact that we live in an age when it is so much easier and safer to sail to the remotest parts of the world has not changed those requirements in any way.

Looking back on my eventful life, I realise above all how fortunate I am to have reached this age without having any regrets for the things I’ve not done. And that’s only because I have done everything that I always wanted.

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I’m looking up at an almost naked young man 60 feet in the air. He’s balancing on a platform built of sticks and branches, raised on a mountain top in the Vanuatuan jungle. All you can see from here is fluorescent green treetops covered in cascades of lush vines, while deep below us, far away in another world, lies the dark blue Pacific Ocean.

Men and women wear traditional dress, penis sheaths and grass skirts, and chant and dance next to the tower. My eyes go back to the young man on the platform. He’s chanting now, spreading his arms out, his ankles tied to two vines cut to the exact length so when he jumps his shoulder will just touch the rich, dark volcanic soil below.

We are about to witness the land diving ritual, nagol, which is performed each year between April and June to ensure a bountiful yam harvest.

The singing gets louder. My eyes are transfixed on his body. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, arcs his spine backwards and slowly lets his body fall into the open space.

He crashes down into the dirt right in front of me with a loud thump. Two men rush to cut his ankles free and pull him up. Now I can see he is just a boy. He stumbles back to the other dancers. I remember to breathe but my heart is still racing.

It’s crazy and dangerous, a ritual from another time and only performed here on Pentecost Island, one of 83 islands that make up the South Pacific nation of Vanuatu. The only way to visit it is by yacht.

Land diving on Pentecost Island. Photo: Marianne Urth

Exploring the South Pacific has been my dream since I was 19 years old and read books written by Danish hippie, Troels Kloevedal, who sailed around the world with friends and family in the 1970s in an old gaff-rigged schooner. He visited remote places where the locals would welcome him in dugout canoes and offer fruit in exchange for anything he could spare.

I found my captain sailing the Mediterranean 28 years ago. Delivering a boat with my sister, we were tucked into a small fishing port at the south end of Sardinia in a wild storm when a young Chilean sailor offered us help and, later, homemade pizzas. That’s when it all started.

Almost three decades and four kids later we moved from Santiago to Sydney where we bought our first catamaran, a Fountaine Pajot Helia 44. We fell in love with the space and comfort of a multihull, but realised we wanted a boat that would sail in light winds and in a gale and discovered Catana’s newly launched Ocean Class 50. With daggerboards, a central steering station and the light weight of 13.4 tonnes, it ticked all our boxes.

We received the boat in France, where we sailed for a couple of weeks until it was shipped to Australia to be exhibited at the Sydney Boat Show. Our first day sail out of Sydney Heads showed us what the boat was capable of.

Flying along at 10-11 knots towards Espíritu Santo. Photo: Marianne Urth

We reached out with one reef in the main and the gennaker on a beautiful day when a huge gust suddenly accelerated the boat, flying to an exhilarating speed of 23.8 knots. It was as if we had been given a young stallion and we were not 100% sure how to ride it.

On our short-handed shakedown cruise up and down the east coast of Australia, we learned how to handle our new boat; how to reduce sail in good time – and always at night – and dock it in tight spaces with just the two of us.

Picking up mooring buoys proved to be the most challenging: the bowsprit and its two stays are connected in sharp angles to the hulls, which makes it difficult to pick up mooring ropes. After we bought a set of ‘marriage saver’ headphones, communication improved tremendously. By the time we tied back up at our mooring in Sydney we felt we had tamed the beast and were ready for the next step: sailing into the South Pacific.

Going east

There are two ways of getting there. You can cross the Tasman Sea to New Zealand, which is not for the faint-hearted, and from there venture north to Fiji and Tonga. Or sail east from Australia the 780 miles to New Caledonia and from there go to Vanuatu or Fiji.

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We joined the Go East Rally, run by New Zealander Viki Moore, because we had no idea where to start our preparations and found the thought of sailing in company attractive. It turned out to be a great idea, mainly because of the paperwork. When you leave Australia you need to export your boat, and the copious customs declarations for leaving and entering another country can be daunting.

The extensive checklist for the rally got the communication and safety up to Cat 1 level, which is required for boats departing from New Zealand but not for Australian boats. We attended a first aid course for remote areas, equipped our grab bag, got the proper charts, installed Starlink and DataHub for tracking: all pieces of a puzzle that finally came together and prepared us and the boat for a safe passage.

We left Sydney at the end of April and sailed 400 miles north to The Boat Works boatyard on the Coomera river at the Gold Coast, to fix a problem with our propellers (the port side prop suddenly engaged when sailing over 9-10 knots so Catana offered to install a new one). It was also the meeting place for the other rally boats.

Before leaving we provisioned sparingly for the passage, aware that on arrival in New Caledonia all fresh fruit and vegetables would be confiscated, but we would have access there to French cheese and wine, as well as usual supermarkets and fuel.

Anchored behind one of the small chain of Vanuatu’s Maskelyne Islands. Photo: Marianne Urth

Our New Zealand weather router, John Martin from Ocean and Offshore Cruising Strategies, gave us the go-ahead and on a Sunday morning the Australian Border Force arrived with a team of 20 people to check the 13 rally boats out from the Southport Yacht Club. In light south-westerly winds, the fleet motored out through the Gold Coast Seaway towards the sea mounts 100 miles offshore.

We settled into a routine with comfortable watches of two hours on, four off with our third crew, Alex’s sister. It was comforting to see the other rally boats on AIS, as once we crossed the highway of cargo ships along the Australian coast there was nobody else out there. After motor-sailing for two days with relatively flat seas, the wind set in from the south and we were able to turn slightly north and set course directly towards New Caledonia.

Trouble ahead

Generally, the boat handles waves very well but soon we had large cross seas coming up from the Southern Ocean, together with wind and waves on the forward corner. It felt like being in a washing machine. Meals were eaten on the floor in the saloon, which seemed to be the most comfortable place. Watches were largely undertaken from inside the cabin. There was nothing to look at outside apart from checking the sails and the horizon from time to time.

The boat handles strong winds well and doesn’t need much sail area to take off to plane. We felt safe on board; the German sheeting arrangement eliminates the dangers from an unexpected gybe. The best preparation we did for the ocean crossing was marking all halyards and reefing lines (the reefing system has separate luff and leech reefing lines) for each reefing point, so there was never a doubt as to where the lines should be set. This way reefing can be done quickly by one person while the other only needs to check that everything runs smoothly.

On day four, 300 miles west of New Caledonia, we started to receive news about violent rioting in Nouméa. The airport had closed, supermarkets and shops burned down and fuel was reserved exclusively for the military. The messages were clear: go back to Australia or continue to Vanuatu, which meant another three days sailing in strong winds and heavy seas.

Vanuatu it is, then

We had not really planned to go to Vanuatu, but had no other choice than to modify our plan. As they say in Australia: “eat some concrete and harden up!”

Winds picked up, so did the waves, and a strong current against us made the boat rock and slam violently. We passed Isle of Pines at the southern end of New Caledonia, by then exhausted, and set course for Tanna, a volcanic island in the south of the Vanuatu archipelago.

Taking delivery of the Catana in France. Photo: Marianne Urth

Seven days after leaving the Gold Coast’s skyscrapers, we motored into Port Resolution, a bay with lush green jungle vegetation covering steep cliff sides.

Local fishermen in outrigger canoes cast their nets around our boat and gave us friendly nods while we picked our anchoring spot in the bay. From the shore, the smell of warm, humid soil reached our cockpit and as soon as we turned the motors off we heard laughter from children playing on the beach while their mothers watched from under an enormous banyan tree. From a distance it seemed like paradise, yet also so foreign that we could not really imagine ourselves being part of it.

After being cleared by immigration and customs the following day, we walked around the village. Everyone smiled and waved, or shook our hands and told us their name. An elderly woman gave us bananas, a gaggle of kids offered us grapefruits and giggled with delight when we asked if we could take photos of them. The uneasy feeling of having landed in such a remote place started to wear off.

We’d prepared for months to be ready for anything an ocean passage could throw at us, but what I hadn’t prepared for was the lack of provisioning at this unanticipated landfall. We took a very bumpy three-hour ride in the back of a pick-up to an ATM machine in the only town on the island and visited the local market. But the only thing there which I understood how to cook was spring onions and bananas.

Meeting the locals. Photo: Marianne Urth

Luckily, I spotted a local fisherman with a load of huge yellowfin tunas. Later we found that you can barter fishing hooks and clothes for grapefruit and cucumbers at almost every anchorage and I adapted our menu on board to whatever was available. Fried bananas quickly became a new favourite and we caught plenty of wahoo and yellowfish tuna. There is also fresh organic meat in Port Vila’s supermarkets.

Experiences of a lifetime

Behind the bay of Port Resolution lies Mount Yasur, a live volcano which you can visit if you dare. In some wind conditions ashes would fall on the boats at anchor in the bay. Standing at the rim of the crater, protected behind only a rickety fence, I could feel thunder in my bones as the volcano spewed red hot lava over our heads.

I was relieved when we left and sailed north towards others of the more than 80 islands of Vanuatu. Navionics charts seem accurate enough and with Starlink you can always double check with satellite imagery. We also use the Rocket Cruising Guide and Zulu app and found beautiful, protected anchorages on every island we have visited.

Spiritual and mysterious Rom dance on Vanuatu’s volcanic Ambrym Island. Photo: Marianne Urth

Prevailing winds are south-easterly trades, but we also experienced several days with no wind and cloudy skies which brought our batteries to their knees. You can never have enough solar power. We don’t have a generator, but we have 1,600W of solar panels on our coachroof and 800Ah of lithium batteries. If there is sun, we can run our watermaker, washing machine and breadmaker as often as we like, but when it gets cloudy we have a problem.

Every island we visited offered us unique experiences. We swam with dugongs in the Maskelyne Islands, took part in the mask dance and chief grading ceremony on Ambrym, went land diving on Pentecost, canoed to the stunning blue water holes on Espiritu Santo, and visited remote villages where the chiefs welcomed us and asked for help to fix their generator and solar panels.

Moored off Hideaway Island, Mele, on Efate Island. Photo: Marianne Urth

We never planned to sail to Vanuatu but I’m so glad we did. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d find a world like the one my childhood hero visited so many years ago, but arriving here in Vanuatu on our boat made me realise there are still places that have kept their magic.

I’m not sure how much longer we will be able to experience the culture of Melanesia though. All the young people have phones and seem glued to them – as do young people anywhere in the world. Are they watching their elders, I wonder, and learning from them, or are they dreaming of living in the world the phone shows them? My advice is to hurry out here, but do not rush through this magical place.

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Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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Sailing in the Baltic is increasingly popular, and for all the right reasons: beautiful cruising grounds, lovely weather, interesting history and hospitable countries. But the 90-day limit for non-Schengen passport holders makes it harder to explore destinations further away, such as Finland, the Baltic countries, the Gulf of Bothnia and Poland. More and more cruisers are looking for ways to extend their stay in Schengen and Sweden is offering the opportunity to do just that.

Six months in Sweden

The Swedish Migration Agency, Migrationsverket, has a special residence permit available for visitors who would like to stay for a maximum of six months extra, on top of the Schengen-related 90 days.
This visitor’s permit can be applied for online initially, but an interview at a Swedish embassy or consulate is necessary if the permit is applied for in the visitor’s home country. It can be applied for when the visitor is already in Sweden, and this also involves an interview.

There are some specific requirements: first, you need to submit a detailed itinerary of your cruising plans. Second, applicants need to have sufficient funds for their stay (SEK450 per person per day) and third, travel insurance that covers all medical emergencies, including repatriation. The procedure may take some time, so it’s recommended to start at least three months before sailing to Sweden (see migrationsverket.se).

Whether a Schengen visa is required depends on the country of residency. The Migrationsverket website lists nationalities which require visas.

Marina at the Island of Dyrön, Bohuslän. Photo: Kedardome/Shutterstock

After the application is submitted, the Swedish Migration Agency makes the decision if the residence permit for visits is granted. The length of a residence permit for visits varies, depending on the purpose of the visit and what the applicant states in the application. For tourist purposes, the length can amount to a maximum of six months.

Endless opportunities

If you’d like to spend the extra days in Sweden alone, there are many stunning cruising areas to choose from. The west coast offers beautiful islands and skerries and a buzzing sailing community around Marstrand. The east coast, and especially the Stockholm archipelago, is considered by some as one of the finest cruising grounds of Europe. Thousands of islands and skerries, beautiful nature and lovely old fishing villages in the typical red and white colours.

You can sail around the interesting south coast to visit both archipelagos, but there is the Götakanal as well: a system of rivers, lakes and almost 60 locks to get you straight across Sweden from Gothenburg in the west to Mem on the east coast. Cruising up north to the Gulf of Bothnia is more challenging, but very rewarding: solitude and interesting historical locations. The Höga Kusten (High Coast) in the middle of the Gulf of Bothnia is a very interesting cruising destination in itself.

Typical Swedish archipelago cruising. Photo: Light-Studio/Shutterstock

Or you can use the additional time to cruise further afield in the Baltic – there are so many itineraries to choose from. Especially when you consider leaving your yacht for the winter in Sweden: this opens up some excellent sailing opportunities at the early start of the season or end, when anchorages and harbours are quietest and nature is at its best. Three ideas:

1 Sail across from the UK to Norway, spend 90 days there and then cross to Sweden for a few months on the west coast or through the Göta channel to the east coast.
2 Sail the Baltic anticlockwise and end your trip on the east coast of Sweden, where you store the boat for the winter and pick up the next year to sail around the south coast to the west coast of Sweden and on to Norway.
3 Sail through Denmark to Bornholm and then on to Finland. From there, you sail up the Gulf of Bothnia to the north of Sweden and sail down the east coast to Stockholm and beyond.

Extended adventures

Australian couple Denise and Bryan Keith have used the residence permit to extend their sailing in the region over the past year. “We left France in February with the intention of making our way to the Baltic Sea,” they explain.

Boréals Bushpoint and Willow II at anchor. Photo: D Keith

“While most boats we encountered were heading west, we found ourselves among the few heading east. It seems that the Baltic countries are not on many cruisers’ agenda. We’ve been so fortunate this year having had a perfect summer. Most days were warm and sunny which made exploring these ‘new to us’ countries so perfect. We expected crowded marinas but we found in Latvia and Estonia they were not ridiculously busy and we always found a place for our yacht.

“Now we’re in Sweden and our sailing season is coming to an end. The weather is changing and the autumnal colours are showing themselves throughout Stockholm.

“Even though the season here is ‘officially’ over, we’ve continued to sail the stunning Stockholm archipelago and into Lake Mälaren, which during September has been magical. Bushpoint, a Swedish flagged Boréal, has joined us in our exploration of the archipelago.

“Our aluminium yacht Willow II, a 44.2 Boréal is designed for higher latitudes, hence our decision to sail these waters. Because of the residence permit for visits, we’ve been given the opportunity to extend our season and as we are wintering Willow in Stockholm, this gives us time to prepare her properly for the three months we’ll be away. We’re already looking forward to returning early next year, to continue our Scandinavian adventures.”

Jayne Finn and Mike Evans.

Canadian/British couple Jackie and Gary King sailed their Brewer Custom 46 Inspiration Lady across the North Sea for extended Nordic cruising. Gary says: “We’d applied for our Swedish residence permits during our winter stay in St Katherine Docks in London. It took about three months for the whole process to be completed, including a visit to the Swedish embassy – a straightforward process, at relatively low cost to us.

“The only thing that took some research was the travel insurance with medical costs and evacuation covered; but in the end we found an insurer who could help us with this.”

They also utilised the extended time to explore further afield this summer. “We had such a good time,” says Jackie. “First, we crossed to Helgoland to check in to Europe. Then on to Denmark and across to Sweden: we sailed up the west coast all the way up to Norway. Then back south again, and around the south coast of Sweden into the Baltic to Gotland, the large offshore Swedish island.
“From Gotland, we sailed to the Stockholm archipelago, a beautiful cruising ground in itself. After a month of delightful cruising there, we sailed south again and transited the Nord-Ostsee-Kanal back to Cuxhaven, where we cleared out to sail back to the UK again.

“Having the extra time gave us peace of mind, especially when we got stuck in some places, waiting for a weather window.”

“The only thing that seemed a bit puzzling, was the approach non-Swedish countries took,” adds Gary. “Other cruisers who have used this system have had similar experiences: it is quite unknown and authorities in other Schengen countries have a different approach. It didn’t bother us, we were always treated courteously and efficiently. We have enjoyed every day of this summer’s cruising.”

Sunset cruising on Lake Mälaren, west of Stockholm and accessible from the Baltic. Photo: Aastels/Shutterstock

Weather windows

Not every application is automatically awarded a full sixth month permit. After spending a lovely month on the east coast of Norway, where their boat had spent the winter, Canadian cruisers Jayne Finn and Mike Evans sailed their Najad 405 Loons Lace to Sweden. “We opted to apply for a Swedish residence permit. This process was clear and straightforward: after filling out the form and uploading the information regarding our funds and travel/medical insurance, we went for an interview at the Swedish embassy in Ottawa,” explains Mike.

“Of the six months we requested in order to cruise much of the Swedish coast up to Stockholm, we were granted five. This gave us enough time to cruise the beautiful west coast of Sweden, including a visit to the Najad boatyard.

“Our plans were delayed, however, by some boat repairs and a health issue and, realising we could not follow our plan of more extensive sailing in Sweden, we instead went south and made stops in the Netherlands, France, the Channel Islands, Galicia on the north-west coast of Spain and the Portuguese coast, all the way to the Algarve in Portugal.”

Jayne says: “It gave us peace of mind to have the time to explore the different countries we sailed through. Our itinerary included some tricky passages like the German Bight, English Channel and the Bay of Biscay. Waiting for a weather window for these passages is less stressful when the Schengen clock isn’t ticking so loud.

“We’ve used one month of the 90 days of Schengen stay, and five on the Swedish residence card. So we had six months of blissful cruising in Europe. The landscapes and nature in this part of the world almost gives you a sensory overload at times. We love the nature as well as the rich cultures of the countries we’ve sailed through.”

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We were still five miles from port when we realised that clearing into Taiwan might not be as simple as we’d hoped. Our VHF radio crackled into life and a stern voice from the port authority asked who we were, where we were coming from, and where we were going.

It was mid-October, and we’d just sailed 340 miles from Hong Kong across the Taiwan Strait, double-handed. The crossing was mostly upwind and rough, affirming the strait’s nickname, the Black Ditch. Strong currents, choppy waves and sporadic rain was not how we wanted to start what we planned would be a multi-year cruise, but packing up our home and saying goodbye to family had taken longer than we planned, so we took the weather we were given.

Our cruising plans were vague, but we wanted to overwinter in Taiwan and then sail Teng Hoi, our Hallberg-Rassy 42F, north to Japan. Taiwan is a familiar destination for Hong Kongers, sharing enough common culture to feel neighbourly, but enough differences to make it interesting. Taiwan would offer a relatively soft start to our new cruising life, or so we thought.

We were pleased with ourselves as we closed in on Kaohsiung, on Taiwan’s south-western coast. This was the longest crossing we’d made as double-handers, and we were in a jubilant mood, showering and preparing for port, when the radio call came in.

The author sailing across the Taiwan Strait. Photo: Cameron Dueck

I answered the port authority’s questions, adding that we’d submitted all of our pre-arrival paperwork via MTNet, Taiwan’s maritime administration website. We lowered our sails and were motoring past the massive stone seawall when they called us again, asking us to wait outside the harbour while they checked our online documents.

After a few hours of bobbing in the sea, the port authority invited us to moor at a coastguard security dock for further inspection. We were 2m from the dock, about to cast our mooring lines ashore, when they changed their minds and ordered us to turn around and leave port, sending us into the evening dusk.

“We are a small vessel with only two crew, and we are tired from a long crossing. You are putting us into danger by sending us back to sea,” I told them over the radio.

Article continues below…

We slowly idled out of the harbour, hoping the officials would quickly change their minds.

“Can’t your motor go faster than that?” they radioed back. “Speed up, and go at least five miles out. Wait there until we radio you.”

I did as I was told, knowing that they held all of the power. We drifted in circles among anchored cargo ships as night fell, all the while making desperate phone calls to marinas asking for assistance. Finally, thanks to a flurry of activity behind the scenes by sympathetic agents and officials that overheard our radio traffic, we were called back into port.

Six hours after our first attempt we secured our lines in the darkness, assisted by apologetic marina staff.

“Welcome to Taiwan. It shouldn’t be this way,” one of the staff said, bowing deeply in apology.

We’d had a small glimpse of the decades-long fear and defensiveness towards the sea that has hobbled Taiwan’s own yachting culture, and plays a role in deterring foreign cruisers from visiting.

In the days to come we’d learn that unclear instructions on the government website contributed to the confusion. We also realised we’d made a mistake by attempting to clear into a major international port, so we were treated like a cargo ship rather than a yacht. And finally we conceded that we should have hired an agent, as we’d been advised to do, to help us navigate the clearing in process.

Glittering mahi mahi caught off southern Taiwan. Photo: Cameron Dueck

A rich culture

Once the dust had settled we sailed north to Tainan, Taiwan’s oldest city and former capital, still with a keen appetite to explore Taiwan.

Taiwan is geographically well placed as a stopover for boats heading north in the western Pacific. From the Philippines it’s only 200 miles across the Luzon Strait to reach Kenting, a small port on the southern tip. Taiwan is also only a three-day voyage from Hong Kong, offering a safe harbour before continuing on to Japan. However, while many yachts en route to a North Pacific crossing to Alaska make stops in Japan, far fewer call at Taiwan.

Over the course of the winter in Tainan we would learn more about what has stymied both domestic sailors and visiting cruisers, and we’d also experience the rich culture, warm people and stunning landscapes those cruisers are missing when they bypass Taiwan.

During the martial law period from 1949 to 1987, amid fears of a possible invasion by Communist China, the Taiwanese lived as if they were a land-locked country with heavy restrictions on all maritime activity. Ordinary Taiwanese were prohibited from going to the beach outside of a few designated resort areas. The coastline and outlying islands were militarised, with land mines and gun placements instead of beach umbrellas and marinas.

Argo Yacht Marina in Tainan, Taiwan’s former capital. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Heavy industry then took over the coastlines with unsightly, polluting factories and petrochemical plants.

When martial law was lifted the coastline returned to national attention, with new parks created on outlying islands. But the government’s view of pleasure boats has taken longer to change.
“The bottleneck is at the government level, especially the coastguard and maritime bureau,” said Keith Chen, director of United Project Center, Horizon Yacht, one of the biggest yacht builders on the island. “They have a historical habit of controlling everything, but they don’t understand pleasure boats or how to manage them. The measures they take sometimes actually make owning a boat harder, not easier.”

Until 1999, boats had to return to the same port that they departed from, and they were not allowed to go to sea for activities other than fishing. Day trippers had to show a fishing rod upon boarding in order to comply with the law. The political clout of the fishing industry in small ports also hinders maritime recreation. They have slowly ceded control but many ports remain hostile towards pleasure vessels.

“We have more than 400 fishing and commercial harbours around Taiwan but most of them don’t allow pleasure boats to dock, even though more than half of them are almost empty and no longer active in fishing,” said Peter Pan, owner of Taiwan Marine Sailing School in Kaohsiung, and a key local contact for visiting yachts.

Taiwan’s bustling night markets are full of energy. Photo: Shih-Wei/Getty

In contrast, Japan has in recent years opened its hundreds of small fishing ports to cruisers, providing basic, but safe and accessible mooring across the country.
Shaped by seafarers

These restrictions are ironic given that Taiwan’s history has been shaped by seafarers. In 2024, Tainan celebrated the 400th anniversary of the arrival of Dutch maritime traders who, in 1624, sailed in to the swampy delta of the Zengwun River at the settlement of Tayouan, where they built Fort Zeelandia. A rebuilt version of the fort still stands, and Dutch architecture marks many of Tainan’s historical districts, while its museums tell the story of how the oceangoing Dutch turned Taiwan into another link in their global trading empire.

One of Asia’s most famous sailors, Zheng Chenggong, also known as Koxinga, was a Ming general and pirate who drove the Dutch out of Tainan in 1661. He still looms large over the city, both figuratively and physically. Since then, Taiwan has gone through Japanese and Chinese rule, and on to a fragile independence while developing a booming semiconductor industry. Tainan’s wealth of historic architecture and traditional cultural practices defines the city, and as we explored its narrow, twisting alleyways it was easy to let our daydreams carry us back in time.

At Chihkan Tower, the oldest building of Tainan’s historic West Central district, a statue of Koxinga watches tourists clamber over the weathered stone walls. Koxinga’s son Zheng Jing built the nearby Confucius Temple, Taiwan’s first education institution, to honour his father. The compound is decorated with intricate calligraphy, while a granite stela carries instructions for all who pass to dismount from their horses to show respect.

Touring historical landmarks by bike. Photo: Cameron Dueck

At night we explored Tainan’s night markets, which are central to local nightlife and culinary culture. Tainan Flower Night Market was crammed with grazing visitors, inhaling the pungent tang of tofu mixed with the heavy scent of deep fried squid. Crowds jostled through the narrow lanes, creating the threat of being speared by a wayward skewer and joining quail eggs and grilled beef on a wooden spike.

Exploring inland

We had hoped to cruise up and down Taiwan’s coast, but once we learned of the challenges in finding moorings we instead made plans to travel inland using Taiwan’s excellent and affordable high-speed rail network, which can whisk a traveller from one end of the island to the other in hours.

Going inland quickly leads you to the mountains that form a towering wall running the length of the island and attract waves of hikers on the weekends.

The jewel of the mountains is the Alishan National Scenic Area, filled with trails, farms, small resorts, and home to the indigenous Austronesian people that call themselves the Tsou, literally meaning man or human being.

Taiwan’s east coast is Greener, wilder and less populated than the west coast. Photo: Getty

Alishan’s forests are known for their giant Taiwan red cypress and yellow cypress trees, with some trees believed to be more than 2,000 years old. As we hiked the broad network of trails the tall, straight cypress swayed back and forth high above us, dropping a thick carpet of needles onto the shady forest floor. The giant trunks creaked like ships masts as they moved, their music joined by the rattle of branches and the sighing wind as it filtered through the forest. As we climbed higher, the trees faded to grey in the thick, gloomy mist that rolls in every afternoon.

These mountains are famed for producing teas such as alpine Oolong tea and Jinxuan tea. But interspersed among the tea fields are a growing number of coffee plantations. The British brought coffee plants to Taiwan in the late 1800s, and the crop gained renewed attention about 20 years ago. Today there are dozens of artisan growers and roasters dotting the hillsides.

While hiking is the most popular way to see the interior, cycling has become a national pastime along Taiwan’s coastline, so we were free to explore.

We were cycling novices – most of our experience came from the tiny folding bikes we carried on our boat – but we rented touring bicycles and set off all the same. Our ride began in Taipei, at the northern end of the island, from where we headed south down the west coast to make a counterclockwise loop.

Towering cypress trees in the Alishan National Scenic Area. Photo: Getty

Taiwan is about 200 miles long, and about 80 miles across at its widest. The west coast has hot, flat plains planted with rice and vegetables, interspersed with semiconductor factories and oil refineries.

At the southern tip of Taiwan we crossed the mountains and turned north, where we were struck by the sharp contrast between coasts. The east coast is green and wild, with roads and towns hemmed in against the sea by the soaring mountains. The mountain barrier has protected this coast from the waves of colonial rule and maritime trade over the centuries, and even today it feels quieter and less developed than the rest of the country.

Two weeks after setting out we returned to Taipei, exhausted, road weary, but exuberant. Our plans to sail around Taiwan had been thwarted, but we’d still seen the island in its entirety.
While difficulties finding affordable mooring stymied our initial attempts at exploring Taiwan by boat, we were also kept on the dock in Tainan by that old familiar foe of sailors everywhere – an engine breakdown.

We’d arrived with a long list of upgrades and repairs we wanted to make to our boat, though an engine overhaul was not on that list. Taiwan was a leading international boatbuilder in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Then a sharp appreciation in the NT dollar raised the price of Taiwanese-built boats, and the global financial crisis in 2008 further weakened the industry. Today, the few remaining builders are focussed on large custom motor yachts for export. Still, we hoped to find freelance shipwrights available for hire.

Taiwan’s economy is driven by its high tech semiconductor factories, but the countryside is still dotted with terraced rice farms – here on the east coast. Photo: Getty

Our hopes were soon dashed as we learned that, due to the limited number of cruising sailors, boat repairs in Taiwan are either a DIY project or an expensive haul-out at one of the big builders. However, with enough contact-building, research and begging for favours we managed, over the course of five months, to install a diesel heating system, make some glassfibre repairs and undertake a significant engine overhaul.

Hopes of change

Along the way we made friends within the tight-knit community of passionate sailors in Tainan and Kaohsiung, all of whom desperately want to grow the sport and attract more visiting yachts. We were invited to a small marine industry conference to share our jarring experience of clearing into the country, and the industry professionals all expressed the same hope: that someday Taiwan will become a sailing destination.

“Sailing can totally change this country, not only for the economy and sport, but culturally. We need to go back to the ocean as our ancestors did,” Pan said.

We also learned more about how to go about cruising to Taiwan’s outlying islands, even as our broken engine kept us port-bound. Each destination required the filing of permits and requests, sometimes by post, again validating the use of a local agent.

uthor’s Hallberg-Rassy 42F Teng Hoi moored in Kaohsiung. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Penghu, a small archipelago of 90 tiny islands located about 45 miles north-east of Tainan, is a popular destination with a small private marina, but it is too far from the main island for a day sail. Green Island, about 15 miles off the east coast, was a penal colony for political prisoners during the period of martial law, and offers another cruising option once a permit to moor in the port has been secured.

But with a limited number of outlying islands available for day cruises, Bob Chiang, who runs Sailing Forward, a Tainan-based sailing school using J/80s, chose to instead focus on developing a racing culture.

“The west coast of Taiwan has good, steady wind all year around, which makes for very good racing. And for racing you don’t need islands or bays nearby, you just need open water and wind. So my dream is to bring more of a club racing culture to Taiwan, especially using smaller boats,” Chiang said.

While sailing around Taiwan proved difficult, exploring the island by bicycle is popular with locals and visitors alike. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Spring escape

By April our engine was repaired and the winds were beginning to turn southerly. We bid farewell to our new friends in Tainan and turned south to round Kenting at the tip of the island. Suddenly it felt like we were cruising again, a feeling that was made complete by a glittering mahi mahi on our fishing line.

As we sailed away we reminisced about the people we’d met and the adventures we’d had. We were already entertaining ‘next time’ scenarios of the islands we’d visit and coastlines we’d explore, now that we’d learned how better to manoeuvre Taiwan’s maritime rules.

Once around the southern cape we turned north, catching a lift on the powerful Kuroshio Current. The sun was out, and we had steady wind on the quarter. The Taiwanese coast slowly faded away behind us, but its mountain peaks towered up out of the haze for hours in a long, lingering goodbye.

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The mood on the Vinson of Antarctica was a wee bit on edge. Justino was staring into the radar in the pilothouse and Dion was all eyes on deck in a sharpish south-west wind. The flat light of a late evening on the wild coast of South Georgia was slowly fading.

“She’s coming up!” Justino shouted to us up on deck. He was in no doubt we had to up anchor – and fast. Tor, our Rambo, who was already kitted up and on standby, ran forward for the windlass. I was closest to the wheel and we started to motor ahead on our 80m of chain, closing the distance to the berg even faster.

It was an agonising five minutes and a race against time as we just snatched the anchor off the bottom, at the same time pulling hard to starboard to miss a broadside and then hard to port so the stern would clear – just. The bergy bit slid to leeward, marching on unchallenged, a truly unstoppable force of nature eventually grounding in 10m of water behind us.

The south coast studded with icebergs was both a hazard and offered some protection from swell. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

We have taken knocks with ice many times over the decades and it is part of the game in the far south. What can’t happen, though, is having an errant berg or bergy bit overrun and/or ground on your anchor and chain. That is a full blown fiasco. It’s ‘lose your anchor time’ at best and hopefully not all of your chain – 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 Hamble: a CQR from the Pelagic days pressed flat as a pancake.

Earlier that morning on Vinson of Antarctica we’d threaded our way through a wall of crystalline icebergs hard by the coast. Some years there is only the odd berg along the coast, but this was a bumper crop, spawned from a major calving of shelf ice in the Weddell Sea.

We’d been chased into Wilson Harbour on the ‘forbidden’ south coast of South Georgia, seeking shelter from a Force 6 south-westerly on the rise. The entire island is now a Terrestrial Protected Area (TPA) and in the island’s management plan; no cruise ships or yachts are allowed to disembark passengers on the south coast. Only small expedition vessels like ours and survey ships with a Regulated Activity Permit can land. In our permit, we were allowed there for the science work. Although this ‘iceberg cemetery’, as we call these features, looks daunting it actually provides a safe barrier to the heavy swell that would otherwise enter this open bay.

Easy downwind sailing wing and wing in the Southern Ocean. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

The double-edged sword was that we had to up anchor twice when bergy bits, otherwise grounded, jumped off the bottom with a tide. With plenty of sail area they were quickly on the move, threatening our anchor and chain. Vinson only draws 2.2m, which is an important advantage in this game of draughts between bergs and boats.

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. Secondary objectives were to carry out environmental surveys of official visitor landing sites to enhance the South Georgia TPA management plan. And, lastly, we were to monitor mortality events from the avian flu that had spread over the island during the previous six months.

Endangered species

We were a small team of 10. Our sailing crew consisted of Justino Borreguero, skipper, myself as co-expedition leader, and Dion Poncet as the local knowledge and landing expert along with 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 wandering albatross expert for the island, who has monitored this majestic species of seabird for decades.

Nesting albatross. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

Field ecologists Andy Black and Ken Passfield, and Kelvin Floyd, an invasive plant specialist and drone pilot, rounded out the team of five researchers. Collectively, the experience of this team 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 10 years event which not only informs the South Georgia government of the health of this endangered species, but also fulfils a commitment to The Agreement on the Conservation of Albatrosses and Petrels (ACAP), a group of 13 Antarctic Treaty parties that monitor and then suggest mitigation measures for what has been a steady decrease in population of albatross and petrel species in general due to the ravages of long line fishing in the Southern Ocean.

There are 34 known wanderer breeding sites on the island, of which 24 had active nests at the last census in 2015. The largest population is on Bird Island, at the far north-west end of South Georgia. This island, which is closed to tourist visitors, is occupied year round by a science team from the British Antarctic Survey, which monitor the many albatross, petrels, penguins and fur seals that breed there.

Survey team about to land at Whistle Cove, Fortuna Bay, on the north coast. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

After leaving Port Stanley in the Falklands on 12 January, we made short work of the 800 miles to reach first shelter along the north-east coast, sailing wing and wing all the way in a fresh westerly. These were glorious Southern Ocean conditions and especially so when picking our way through the bergs from about 100 miles out.

Some 10 days into the project we’d ticked off four of the 33 sites we needed to visit. Most were along the south coast and a handful in the Bay of Isles on the north-east coast. Wind and swell dictate whether we could make a landing. Some of the trickiest landings were on rocky headlands where a few birds were nesting up above the tussac hidden from view, guardians of their solitude.

The unspoken highlight for everyone was our brief time spent on the almost mythical island of Annenkov Island, a significant outlier 20 miles off the south coast, which has 176 breeding pairs. We can say this exactly, as we spent two spectacular days (some of it in the mist and rain) hiking up and down the pristine terrain counting these Southern Ocean denizens.

King Penguins, guardians of the solitude at Will Point, Royal Bay. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

Due to the untouched nature of Annenkov, we could be the last humans to set foot ashore there for the near- to mid-term future. It will most likely be left to its fastness, possibly for another decade, until the next census – maybe. Enhanced satellite imagery, although not yet there, can make human intervention a thing of the past.

Progress yes. Less impact on the island, another yes, but the researchers who have followed this story for decades with boots on the ground are not convinced. They believe they still need to be there in person to assess what is actually going on at any particular nesting site between breeding pairs and non-breeders, adults and fledglings, to make accurate assessments of the health of the population. A white dot on a satellite photo doesn’t cut it.

Article continues below…

If I had a hammer . . . a winter voyage to South Georgia by Skip Novak

No matter how well you think you have prepared for a voyage, there are always things that slip through the…

Sailing Antarctica: Record-breaking voyage around the southern continent

Many believe number seven to be lucky. The seventh day of February proved to be just that. It’s seven weeks…

A lifetime’s expertise

Dion Poncet was a key figure in the success of this project. His experience along the entire coast of South Georgia is profound, particularly on the restricted south coast where he began sailing as a toddler with his father, Jerome, and mother, Sally. The Poncets made some of the first wildlife surveys of these areas in the 1980s and ‘90s on their celebrated yacht Damien II. Dion went on to skipper his own boats, the Golden Fleece and Hans Hansson, on many more scientific surveys over the years. Without his tracks on our display console in what are largely unsounded waters, we’d not have been able to approach and land with any degree of efficiency, let alone a peace of mind.

Landing was usually a slippery affair and often requiring a jump on the heave to make it back into the dinghy. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

The landings to get teams ashore were rarely what you’d call straightforward. Some were more sporty than others, more often on slippery rocks in heave and surge. The technique is to drive the Zodiac’s bow hard on to 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, it’s a possible dunking by the stern. 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 excellent talents. (The other is butchery, and he was in charge of dispatching and cooking our four properly sea-salted half mutton carcasses that hung off the gantry).

There are no days off in these projects. When the weather is good to reasonable we’re always working flat out: up at 0530, coffee on (no time for pancakes and bacon, sadly), morning briefing, up anchor by 0600, and off to the next landing, making sail when possible for a more comfortable ride. In addition to our albatross survey sites, at every overnight anchorage or short stop the team was assessing the avian flu situation by inspecting and recording mortality events and taking swabs from dead birds and seals for later analysis in the UK. These observations and test results help inform the government about which sites are to be opened or remain closed for visitors, and in this season precious few were opened.

‘These were glorious Southern Ocean conditions.’ Photo: Kelvin Floyd

In addition our botanical expert Kelvin roamed above the beaches taking note of natives and invasives. He, Jen Black and others developed a three-tiered approach to managing alien plant species and have written the Field Guide to the Introduced Flora of South Georgia, which is a give-away booklet to all ships visiting South Georgia, to educate visitors and enhance the island’s biosecurity.

Unique terrain

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

Vinson probing into a cove looking for nests. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

Five laptops were opened and lit up on the salon table. Furrowed brows focussed on their crib sheets. They were not to be interrupted with frivolities such as what they’d like for dinner. Our researchers had come to the end of our principle objective, the census of 33 wandering albatross nesting sites on South Georgia, those that were logged in the surveys of 2004 and 2015 (excluding the largest repository on Bird Island, which is monitored by the British Antarctic Survey). They were checking and double checking their data loggers, drone footage, trackers on phones and scribbles in their notebooks, comparing the numbers and drawing some conclusions and accepting some assumptions.

At the beginning of February we’d bottomed out at the south end of the island, having toured the Drygalski Fjord (on a rare fine day), and landing on several headlands and islets. This was interesting terrain for the team to document the vegetation establishing on features exposed after the relatively recent retreat of the Jenkins and Risting glaciers. The beaches and accessible slopes surrounding the Tolkienesque Larsen Harbour were also surveyed for baseline data of flora and fauna, before we spent a quiet night at anchor in this well-known refuge, relatively secure in a pool surrounded by kelp.

Kelvin and Dion launching the drone to survey an islet in the Bay of Isles. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

At this stage 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 with 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, to land in clear conditions instead of the dense fog day the team had experienced some weeks previously. Possibly some albatross were missed!

Although desirable, this was not to be, with the weather systems fluid and short-lived. We couldn’t rely on a clear spell without the risk of wasting precious time transiting there and back from the main coast.

Vinson made good use of her reefed mizzen as a riding sail. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

In a whirlwind tour with the time available, we made visitor site survey stops along the north-east coast, in conjunction with more avian flu observations and sample collection. There was definitely avian flu all over the island, but 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.

On our last day at Grytviken we completed formalities with the government officers at King Edward Point. We loaded equipment and sustenance for one month for Ken, Sally and Kelvin, who were to move into the historic manager’s villa at Husvik. They were to engage with the government’s annual alien vegetation control programme in the Stromness Bay area.

Motor sailing through the narrow unsounded passage between Saddle Island and the South Georgia mainland. Photo: Kelvin Floyd

So how are the wandering albatross doing? Several months later I received this message 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% over the past 10 years, compared to 1.7% 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, flexibility and capability to land teams as efficiently as we had done. Long may this situation last. On 14 February we set sail for Port Stanley, the long way home. As usual, it was against a howling westerly.

If you enjoyed this….

Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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The post Skip Novak’s sailing adventure to survey endangered albatross: ‘We threaded through a wall of crystalline icebergs’ appeared first on Yachting World.

Thinking of cruising in Corsica and Sardinia? Given its strategic position in the heart of the western Mediterranean, it’s hardly surprising that Corsica has been invaded, conquered and colonised many times throughout its long history. But that same accessibility by sea – coupled with the wild, rough beauty of Corsica’s coastline, and the world class beaches and crystalline waters of its southerly neighbour Sardinia – make this region exceptional for cruising.

Island approaches

The islands span the central Mediterranean and are accessible from all directions. The north coast of Corsica is relatively close to the French and Italian Rivieras, whereas southern Sardinia is within easy reach of Sicily and the African coast. The majority of northern European yachts will reach the islands from the French or Spanish coasts and Balearic Islands. The shortest route is from Elba and Capraia in the north, while it’s also possible to cross from Tunisia.

Yachts are drawn to the many islands in the narrow Strait of Bonifacio between Sardinia and Corsica. Photo: Lubos Paukeje/Alamy

Cruising in Corsica

Corsica is a truly unique island. Although it is a ‘territorial collectivity’ of France, it has a proud identity of its own and a strong local independence movement. Nearly half its population lives in the two largest towns of Bastia and Ajaccio, leaving the rest of the island sparsely populated.

The west coast of Corsica is indented and rocky, with magnificent headlands and attractive bays lined with sandy beaches. Parts of the coast are inaccessible by road, like the Désert des Agriates in the north, a totally uninhabited stretch of unspoilt coastline. The exposed anchorages in these areas are excellent daytime stops, though moving to a more sheltered area for the night is recommended.

A spectacular part of the west coast to explore on a calm day is the Scandola Marine Reserve, part of the wider Parc Naturel Régional de Corse. Here the Corsican coast is wild and bleak, becoming more and more dramatic as you approach the breathtaking Punta Palazzu headland, where bright red cliffs tower over the coastline like cathedrals emerging from the sea.

Madeleine and Stephan Strobel have sailed their trusted Bowman 40 Easy Rider extensively around Corsica and Sardinia. Their new and expanded 5th edition of Corsica and North Sardinia was commissioned by the Royal Cruising Club Pilotage Foundation and published by Imray in 2024.

During the summer months, many day boats from Calvi and Girolata criss-cross between the cliffs and the headland. One of the most beautiful coves in this reserve is Marine d’Elbo, surrounded by red rock formations, lush green hills and a Genoese tower. Girolata is the only secure cove in the area and therefore gets very crowded in July and August.

Further south, the coastline between Propriano and Bonifacio, although extremely rocky, offers exquisite anchorages, with white sand and clear turquoise water between the boulders. One of our absolute favourite spots for cruising in Corsica is Cala di Roccapina (41º29’.5N 08º54’.7E): a very difficult to reach cove on a bumpy dirt road which is therefore unregulated and wild.

There are no parasols or restaurants on the beach, no cordoned off swimming area and no lifeguards. Once you have negotiated the boulders in the middle of the cove, you can anchor as close to the beach as you like and dive into the turquoise water.

Alghero old town in Sardinia during a maestrale. Photo: Madeline & Stephan Strobel

Bonifacio is one of Corsica’s most spectacular attractions. Enclosed within the chalk cliffs which run between Cap de Feno and Cap Pertusato it sits on a narrow, deep inlet lined by near-vertical slopes of white rock, crowned by a medieval walled town and citadel.

The quay is lined with delightful shady restaurants, where we’ve enjoyed many evenings watching boats and superyachts manoeuvring in the harbour. Bonifacio is also a handy place to change crew or welcome guests – there is a nearby airport at Figari, and connecting ferry services.

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Bouches de Bonifacio

The islands of Corsica and Sardinia are separated by the narrow Strait of Bonifacio (Bouches de Bonifacio). Many islands and reefs lie within the strait, with Îles Lavezzi and Île Cavallo on the Corsican side and the Arcipelago di La Maddalena on the Sardinian side (both Lavezzi and Maddalena are marine reserves).

The passage between Lavezzi (Corsica) and Razzoli (Sardinia) is only 3.5 miles wide, and we’ve spent a lot of time criss-crossing between the two as it’s home to some of our favourite spots.

Buoys have been laid in popular Corsican and Sardinian Marine Reserve bays to prevent anchoring and wardens employed to collect fees

There is a fabulous anchorage on Lavezzi (Cala Lazarina 41º20’.3N 9º15’.1E) hidden behind many visible rocks, but open to the south. It is one of the main attractions for day trip boats coming from Bonifacio and a perfect place to swim and snorkel. On shore pay a visit to one of the two cemeteries for the victims of the Sémillante shipwreck of 1855.

The bay can become uncomfortable in some wind directions – the best solution is to move to another anchorage in the Archipelago di La Maddalena, for example Porto di Madonna (41º17’.4N 09º21’.6E), which is protected from all winds apart from the west, or one of our favourite anchorages, Cala Lunga (41º17.8N 09º20’.5) – both in the northern group of islands (Razzoli, Budelli and Santa Maria).

Cala Lunga doesn’t have a beach, but has the most stunning rock formations. It is also much quieter during July and August. Porto di Madonna, which is magical out of season and during the shoulder season (until the end of June) becomes unbearably busy in high season. This is due to the Passo Secca di Morto, a very shallow reef where you are only allowed to swim, snorkel and row with a dinghy. The clear blue water is stunningly beautiful, but becomes a crowded swimming pool in August.

Sardinia

Sardinian history is as convoluted as that of its neighbour, having been a Roman province before being variously ravaged by Vandals, Ostrogoths, Byzantines and Saracens, later ruled by Spain before finally becoming Italian.

Port de Girolata on the west coast of Corsica. Photo: Madeline & Stephan Strobel

Alghero is a medieval walled town made up of Spanish-style Gothic buildings set amid groves of olive and parasol pine trees. The old town is a charming warren of narrow streets beneath turreted ramparts dominated by the Gothic-style duomo and its octagonal campanile bell tower.

Sailing along Sardinia’s north-western coast from Alghero, we found it beautiful yet exposed, and somewhat inhospitable, at the mercy of wind and waves travelling long distances across the western Mediterranean. Apart from a few safe harbours, it offers little shelter in bad weather. In contrast, the north coast is very indented with many bays with superb anchorages and beaches.

Sardinia’s famous Arcipelago di la Maddalena lies to the north/north east of the island. The red granite islands are almost bare of vegetation, except for low, aromatic Mediterranean shrubs, which in spring give off a characteristic scent that can be detected for some distance offshore.

Stephan Strobel enjoying gelato. Photo: Madeline & Stephan Strobel

The mainland Sardinian coast is so close to the Arcipelago di La Maddalena that it can provide plenty of alternative anchorages if the Maddalena islands are too crowded. We’ve resorted to anchoring in Porto Liscia, Isuledda Gabbiani (41º11’.7N 09º19’E) – a paradise for kitesurfers and windsurfers – or the even more sheltered Porto Puddu (41º11’.3N 09º20’E).

Although Sardinia is known for the Costa Smeralda on the north-east coast, developed by the Aga Khan in the 1960s and home to world-famous regattas, it isn’t the most attractive area we’ve visited. The famous Porto Cervo and Porto Rotondo are dead out of season (until the end of June), with shops and restaurants closed and facilities limited. The high-life becomes more and more exclusive during July and August, and mooring fees – if you can get one – are extremely high, while Porto Cervo can be dominated by superyachts provisioning and fuelling.

Go remote

Despite the thousands of visitors to Corsica and Sardinia, the islands remain wild and rugged. If going ashore, exploring the remote, uninhabited mountain areas by car – for example, the windy, very narrow coastal road from Calvi to Cargèse – is a nail-biting, unforgettable experience. Cap Corse has a beautiful coastal path between Macinaggio and Centuri called Le Sentier des Douaniers, and other wonderful hikes are along the Désert des Agriates, where you’ll not see a house, a road or a car for 30 miles.

Weather and winds

The coasts of Corsica and Sardinia have quite distinct weather patterns. The far north of Corsica, Cap Corse, is influenced by the Ligurian sea and northerly winds (tramontana), blowing from northern Italy. The western side of the islands is dominated by prevailing westerly winds (maestrale from the north-west, the ponente from the west and the libeccio from the south-west).

View over the Cala di Volpe, Sardinia. Photo: Madeline & Stephan Strobel

The Bonifacio Strait has its own particular weather system created by the funnelling effect between the two islands where the dominant winds are levante (from the east)
and ponente (from the west).

The east coasts are under the influence of the Tyrrhenian Sea and share a more benign weather than the west coasts. Corsica is partially sheltered from the east by mainland Italy and nearby islands like Elba and Capraia. The dominant winds are grecale (from the north-east), levante (from the east) and scirocco (from the south and south-east).

Radio weather forecasts usually use the quadrantal system for wind direction. The first quadrant (I) covers winds in the 90° quadrant from north to east, with quadrants II, III and IV continuing clockwise.

Thunderstorms are prevalent in the summer. These normally take place near the coast or over the nearby mountains and can be absolutely spectacular. Winds can increase from nothing to Force 5-6 in minutes and blow all around the compass, which makes for excitement in crowded anchorages. One consolation is that they are usually short lived.

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