There is a certain kind of sailor that I am always in awe of: the single-handers, Jess Lloyd-Mostyn tells us…

From the storybook-like tales of Joshua Slocum, the steadfast determination of Robin Knox-Johnston and the romantic adventuring of Bernard Moitessier to the gutsy female role models of Ellen MacArthur, Laura Dekker and Jeanne Socrates, the people who choose to sail solo are a constant source of inspiration for me. 

Those are the big-name heroes of sailing, known worldwide for their bravery, capability and strength. They are an entirely different world and another league from what I and my family are doing. But, closer to home, there are many single-handers who go out cruising like us. Not racers trying to win prizes or glory. Just ordinary folks with an unshakable curiosity about the world and a desire to go and explore it on their own terms.

In Tonga we met a pair of brothers from the United States, each with his own boat. Both had wanted to sail the world, neither wanted to answer to another voice as captain. They would sail along similar routes, at more or less the same time, sometimes making vague plans to reunite and at other times intentionally branching off in opposite directions. They had a lovely form of camaraderie; each appreciating and understanding the various challenges that the other must have faced and we listened to the two of them swapping stories for hours.

We met Charlie in the Komodo islands. He was from Australia and had little money but used it on the best boat he could. He had gradually and steadily made his way up the coral coast, into the Louisiades of Papua New Guinea, and island-hopped westwards through Indonesia. He hadn’t come from a sailing background but was taking things slowly, learning what he could, minimising his risk by taking a gentle approach to his voyages.

Tony befriended us in Malaysia. He traded his tips on Thai island anchorages for a cruising guide to the South China Sea. He was from a military background and had set his boat up extremely thoughtfully and deliberately so that it handled perfectly with a lone crew. Like us, many single handers grow to love their windvane setups as they can be depended on much like an extra pair of hands. They can be the key to a more enjoyable solo cruise, more periods of rest and a steady course held while you work on deck.

And, whilst these sailors were approaching their time at sea with a ‘give-it-a-go’ attitude, eager to meet new opportunities and the challenges of utter self-reliance, all of us cruisers should move past the sense of awe or intimidation we might feel when encountering them and instead ask for their suggestions, as you never know when you might suddenly be forced to be a single-hander yourself.

Importance of Single-handed Sailing

Starting our family and raising our three children afloat has meant there have been many times when we have taken turns to sail alone, while the rest of the crew slept on. Certainly, there was always another person there if really needed but it is surely a good thing to hone independent skills and techniques for handling a boat solo. A sudden squall on nightwatch, an encounter with a fishing vessel getting too close, or a decision to tack were all things that both myself, and my husband James, learned to attempt by ourselves, in order to try out our cruising competence. Sometimes we’d rise to the challenge of tackling these experiments. On other occasions we’d fall short and struggle, pulling the sheets clumsily, trimming the sails awkwardly.

But still, even if you’re surrounded by plentiful helping crew hands, it’s always important to at least try single-handed sailing and to manage alone. After all, if James fell overboard, I would need to harness the skills to safely manoeuvre the boat back to him and get him back on. This was so much on my mind in the early days that we incorporated it into our mile-builder courses and RYA sail-training; knowing that for a life at sea ahead of us, there would be times when each of us might be trusting the other one with our lives. 

Perhaps the most crucial gift that any experience of single-handed sailing can give us is the psychological strength to reflect on and analyse what we are capable of. Even the most stalwart lone sailor relishes the companionship of swapping stories with other cruisers at the bar; even the most jam-packed family cruising boat should be made up of several capable solo sailors. Ultimately, we are all single-handed, or should at least learn to be.

Have you tried single-handed sailing yet?

Show Me More:

• Cannes Boat Show 2024: Top Six New Boats
• Cruising Gone Wrong: Jess Lloyd-Mostyn’s Column
• INEOS Britannia Team Profile: Royal Yacht Squadron

The post Single-Handed Sailing: Importance of Learning to be a Solo Sailor appeared first on Sailing Today.

Dreaming of dropping everything to sail the world? Sailing La Vagabonde Riley Whitelum & Elayna Carausu have done just that, becoming parents, digital yacht nomads and internet sensations in the process… 

They sailed Greta Thunburg across the Atlantic and now, together with the Young Cruisers Association, have developed a much anticipated boating community app, Milly Karsten reports.

Riley Whitelum and Elayna Carausu have been sailing around the world for 9 years. With over 1.9 million subscribers to their YouTube channel, Sailing La Vagabonde, and helping to develop and launch the SeaPeople app, this Australian couple are certainly bringing a new and exciting dimension to seafaring.

‘It’s just dopamine hit after dopamine hit’, Elayna and Riley told me over a Starlink call between my London office and their boat off the coast of Amami Ōshima, Japan. 

Having met in Greece back in 2014, this Australian couple just weeks into knowing each other, took a leap of faith and set sail for the rest of the world. Elayna, tells me, “It was just meant to be one month of island hopping Greece and Turkey, and when my return flight to Australia was (…) Riley asked me, ‘do you want to come live on this boat with me and sail the world?’. Elayna was just 20, and Riley 29.

Having followed their journey on instagram and YouTube for years, I was keen to hear about their dreamlike and beautifully documented adventures first hand. However, these seasoned sailors, now parents, digital nomads, and internet sensations, also bring to light a new and continually evolving way of life, where sailors and adventurers can live and work on the go, at sea. They’re one step ahead of the working from home revolution – they’re over the horizon, and showing us what we’re missing out on. But it’s not all been picturesque archipelagos and plain sailing…

How has it been becoming digital nomads with Sailing La Vagabonde and creating content together at sea?

Elayna: It took a year for us to be able to earn a living from the YouTube channel (…) to earn what I could earn at a bar basically, it took a year for that, and it was hard work… and obviously didn’t cover the costs of setting up a production boat for bluewater cruising. 

Riley: If we go back and tell the story… We ran out of money and Elayna was making movies, but very infrequently, (…) a bit of a comical thing in between Elayna and I was that I was very practical, and I was saying well in the end what is it all for? Maybe we should be concentrating on basically anything else… 

Riley then admitted that in the beginning, with little income being made from these videos, he was sceptical, but Elayna saw potential, and asked him to give it time.

E: After a year we completely ran out of money, we had to fly back to Australia to get work. Riley worked offshore again on the oil rigs, for maybe what 3 or 4 months?… And we saved up again then flew back to the boat. 

R: But during that time our audience, which was quite small at the time, were freaking out, and they were like ‘is this going to be the end of the movies?’ … Some of those people said look, ‘sign up for this website called Patreon and we’ll all chip in a couple bucks and we can get you going again’. 

What advice would you give to someone wanting to do this?

E: We’ve seen people start out thinking it’s a good business plan, and hope on a boat and completely fail (…) that can’t come first, you need to sail and have fun and, have the videos be an afterthought and it’ll evolve. 

R: Or you know, the videos can be your passion, but sailing and boats has to be as well, you can’t have that as a secondary (…) you need to be tough basically, you need to be able to live a really hard life, not because you think you’ll make some money out of it (…) very few people are going to get compensated adequately if you consider it a job… If its a way of life that you enjoy, then yeah, it’s a banger way to live!

Are your parents and friends fully on-board?

E: We started at a time when travel blogging was just kind of new, (…) For our friends and family it was really surprising and weird, and when we’d go home for those first few years people didn’t really know how to talk about it with us (…) mostly they wouldn’t even ask, it was like we were doing something so out there it was hard to even talk about it. 

R: Social media still had that stigma… We operate in a bit of a grey zone, because we’re not merely Instagrammers, I like to think we’re not… We are on social media, but we’re not documentary film makers either, although we try to get as close to that as we can these days. So people didn’t know where to put us immediately…

E: We’re definitely not tik-tokers, (…) we’d rather just work really hard on YouTube, make good quality movies that people can sit down and watch and learn something, rather than the fast paced [Scrolling].

What has it been like raising your family on board?

R: The great thing is that Lenny in particular really and truly loves the boat, (…) we’ll spend more time away than he’d like, and that’s exactly how we’d want it, we want them to be excited to go back to the boat.

E: We bought them both back when they were only 6 weeks old, tiny little babies (…)  There’s so many easy little hacks, for example a chair that clips into the saloon table that clips them in when Riley and I have to go and take a reef (…) I think learning to sail trained us for children, because someone always has to be alert (…) someone has always got the kid hat on, like someone’s always aware of where the kids are and if they’ve got their life jackets on.

Sailing La Vagabonde & Greta Thunberg Across the North Atlantic 

In 2019, climate activist Greta Thunberg made a double crossing of the Atlantic to attend two climate conferences, her return eastward journey was made on La Vagabonde with Riley and Elayna – a harrowing winter crossing, and one which Elayna was not convinced of doing. Yet, when asking the sailing duo what their best experience had been, they’re answer was this:

R: The most rewarding is the most difficult, so whatever your hardest passage was, arriving after that is the most rewarding, so that’s going to be the Greta Thunburg trip across the North Atlantic. 

E: We had a week to prepare for this trip, we had a really great female English sailor, Nicky Henderson (…) so we had Nicky, Riley, Me, Greta, and Greta’s Dad.

R: And Lenny…

E: Who was only one… and when we left there was snow, there was ice on our boat the day we left and it was snowing, in the Chesapeake Bay, it was freezing.

R: Milly it was a ******* disaster!

E: It took us 19 days to get across the other side, and in that time there was freezing cold weather, there was hot water from the Gulf Stream…

R: There was lightning that was striking the water right near… Nicky was at the helm, she is such a rockstar… we just cannot believe how incredible… what a leader she is! 

R: I mean I could talk about that for hours… we had to go up the rig in 20 knots… the furling line for the headsail snapped and I had to go out the front in legitimately… we don’t even know what it was, but it was well over 40, because it had sustained 40 for I don’t know how long, and then the wind picked up and that’s when the line snapped (…) I had to go forwards, like crawling on my belly to try and furl in manually the headsail, while Nicky was trying to go dead downwind… 

E: You felt ‘the sublime’ on that crossing didn’t you 

I asked what this was…

R: More philosophy… So, in order to have an encounter with ‘the sublime’ the necessary ingredients are power outside of your control, particularly if it’s nature, and you need to feel threat of your life, so your life needs to be basically out of your control (…) and it was the first time that I really felt that way. 

E: It’s a feeling of Awe… 

The SeaPeople App

Alongside their sailing adventures, bringing up a family onboard, and creating content for over 1.9 million YouTube subscribers, Elayna and Riley have been busy with a new project – working with the Young Cruisers Association to create and launch a specialised app to connect sailors around the world. 

If you’ve watched their videos, you’ll know these two don’t shy away from talking about the rainy days, and trials of living/working/parenting on a boat. They talked to me about their experiences of seafarer’s isolation, particularly through the pandemic, and their difficulties with mental health over the years. 

It’s certainly a lesser spoken aspect of living afloat… We hear of grand dreamlike adventures and are shown remarkable photos of beautifully calm or high seas, but easily miss checking on a key component of life – connection and community. And so, it seems the SeaPeople app is an exciting step in the right direction.

“SeaPeople is an app designed to bring all the elements of the human side of boating into one place. Sharing your photos, the stats of your trips, your tracking history, and communicating with other boaters has been spread across multiple platforms for too long. SeaPeople brings it all into one place.”

E: We really needed something to connect all sailors… to organise sundowners on the beach, to see who’s around you, who’s onboard, if they’ve got pets or children, where they’re going and at what speed… like you can see the world on a beautiful world map and zoom in on anyone’s boat and ask them a question, ask them if they’ve got a spare part… It’s really for connecting all seafarers. 

R: Everyone on a boat, they’re living this crazy adventure, and everyone’s got a story to tell, that’s why everyone had a blog and these disparate websites that were popping up all over the world for each individual boat… this is a way for friends and family to jump on to see where you are, what you’ve been doing, and then to see other similar people that might be nearby’

SeaPeople: The Hail Feature

For Riley and Elayna, the most exciting part of the SeaPeople app is the ‘Hail’ feature. Unlike VHF, where if someone doesn’t hear you, or the message doesn’t get through, there is no way to find that message again, this feature of the app allows you to broadcast a message which stays out there – creating a space for community, conversation, and advice. 

E: With Starlink, now is the time for an app like this.

R: These ancient devices that we’re still using, like AIS and VHF, it’s just so necessary for this to exist now, for everyone’s safety and just conveniences. 

Download the SeaPeople App

We’re excited to announce the SeaPeople app will be available to download from 10th October this year. Visit www.seapeopleapp.com

How to Watch Sailing La Vagabonde Videos

Follow Riley and Elayna’s latest Sailing La Vagabonde adventures – www.youtube.com/sailinglavagabonde

Show Me More:

• The WORLDSTAR 2026 Race: Circumnavigate in your Own Boat
• 37th America’s Cup: Key Info, Dates & How to Watch
• South Atlantic Cruising: Sailing Cape Town to Brazil

The post Sailing La Vagabonde: Digital Nomads at Sea & New Boating App appeared first on Sailing Today.

It was just one of those days for Jess and her family who suffered the perils of things going not quite to plan in their otherwise life of paradise…

Jess Lloyd-Mostyn’s Cruising Column

Sailing can be an absolute pleasure; sails billowing happily, a flat sea, sun glittering on the water.

Today is decidedly not one of those days – it’s the sort of day when cruising is just plain annoying. And, despite being aware of just what a sulky sort of statement that is, given our rare privilege to cruise worldwide full-time, I am not immune to that feeling when you simply seem to have got out on the wrong side of bed.

It started last night. Our sleep was disturbed by a nasty chop creeping steadily into the anchorage. It built more as the early dawn light began to seep in and we resigned ourselves to an early start, lurching from side to side in the galley in order to make a hasty breakfast and a quick departure. It is never good beginning a passage short of rest and foul-tempered. Plus, we had a long day-sail ahead of us to get to our next anchorage.

Then the wind wouldn’t cooperate; the beam reach that had been forecast was upwind instead, making our progress slow. Gusts of wind kept coming in from different angles, the autopilot wouldn’t hold and it was impossible to trim the sails correctly. The sky glowered at us, matching our moods, as squalls either side of us threatened to disturb the wind even further. We finally arrived at our destination, set the anchor, and put the boat to bed. Our kids were eager to get to the beach so we dutifully rowed ashore. Maybe things were looking up, we thought, as we pottered in the shallows and explored the caves at the edge of the sand.

Then, a sudden howl, one of the children inspects the sole of her foot now smothered with something brown and sticky: tar. It’s on her sister’s arm too, and also on her brother’s leg. We attempt to remove it as best we can, using the grit of the sand, but they are still streaked with thick gluey smears of the stuff. Everyone now moves to play at the other end of the beach but it’s not long before I notice little fingers scratching at their legs and soon, I too feel an uncomfortable itchiness at my ankles. There are sandflies on this beach; tiny, impossible to see or smack but unimaginably irritating to the skin. We are all immediately covered in angry red welts and the entire family lunges towards the dinghy and rows back to the safety of the boat.

Meanwhile, the fickle wind has switched things up yet again and, rowing back to our floating home, we can see that she is bucking and rocking like mad at her anchor chain. This bay has become untenable and James and I exchange stony glances confirming that we must sail on to another anchorage before the light fails. We scramble back on board, rubbing acetone-soaked cotton wool on the last of the tar smudges and slathering bite ointment to soothe the many bumps now covering the children. A new plan is hurriedly explained and we redo all the work necessary to get the boat moving again. 

We have exactly three hours of light left to get us 20 miles to the next harbour which will all be upwind; it’s a horrible choice between staying on at an impossible anchorage or slogging into the wind using the engine for the next few hours. Thankfully we get moving efficiently and manage to make it to the next port before the sun has even set. We weren’t planning to arrive for a couple of days so congratulate ourselves on being accidentally ahead of schedule. We resolve to recover the feel of the day and head ashore for dinner.

Yet, this is a clearance port and we need proper authorisation to set foot on land, given that the customs office overlooks the anchorage. We go in, paperwork in tar-stained hands, happy to have finished the unexpectedly long passage and be nestled in a smooth, bug-free anchorage at last.

“That’ll be two hundred dollars” the Customs official flatly informs me. Flustered, I stammer back, “But I thought that clearance was free?”. “Not on a weekend, lady” he says, jabbing a thumb at the calendar on the counter next to him. Of course, our two-day lead meant that we’d cleared at the wrong time. I am ready to weep from frustration as I emerge from the office.

“Another day in paradise, eh?” James teases as he kindly hands me a beer from the shop next door, clinking the bottle necks together “If only they knew”.

I mustn’t sulk, I tell myself. Yes, today cruising is annoying and my ankle still itches. But there is always tomorrow.

Show Me More:

• 37th America’s Cup: Key Info, Dates & How to Watch
• Boat Test: C-Cat 48
• Med Mooring Masterclass: How to Moor with Perfect Technique

The post Cruising Gone Wrong: Jess Lloyd-Mostyn’s Column appeared first on Sailing Today.

Sailing with Animals: Aware of being watched by uninvited guest onboard is something Jess Lloyd-Mostyn has got used to over time. She even finds they make good company!

Sailing with Animals

I am not alone. I sat down at my desk in our aft cabin intending to write on another topic altogether when I spotted a tiny figure peeking out at from the bookshelf. There is a small, speckled gecko who stopped, mid-movement, as soon as he realised there was a human sharing his space.

He is one of many little crewmates that we’ve unwittingly hosted onboard. Our very first batch of geckos arrived when we were sailing in Panama, and we rejoiced when we caught a glimpse of the odd one darting out to attack a mosquito. The mosquitos, also uninvited, are less-welcome additions. Their presence fluctuates according to whether we’re tied to a marina, or anchored too close to mangroves. Portlight screens and nets all help but a friendly critter, snapping them up with lightning quick reflexes, is a much more satisfying solution.

Wasps and hornets would also like to holiday with us. These insects are a more daunting prospect than their cousins in the UK, being much larger with extended mid-sections and longer, dangling legs. Many times we’ve had a glorious sail rudely interrupted by one of these giant buzzing beasties flying into my face at the helm. They are exceedingly curious and persist on flying in to explore the cabins below-deck, unfazed by the squeals of our children or our futile attempts at coaxing them out. Even worse are the potter wasps, that choose bizarre spots to try and build their muddy, clay nests while we’re out provisioning; on the binnacle ipad mount, the inside of the hatch surround, or fastened to a fishing rod holder. I promptly and unceremoniously knock them off immediately – no hitchhikers allowed!

At one anchorage, in southern Mexico, we left the boat for a few days while we travelled to attend a friend’s wedding. Once back we checked around the boat and found, with dismay, that a swallow had built a nest in our mainsail stackpack. This teeny structure had a clutch of four precious eggs inside and the mama bird was nowhere to be found. After waiting a day or two we sadly realised that we had to jettison it overboard – a fact made more traumatic by my fitful hormones as we were expecting our first child at the time. We raised anchor, and hoisted the sail, glancing forlornly back at the last fragments of the nest, bobbing on the water.

Fellow sailors who took in the Galapagos islands en route to French Polynesia all shared stories of the local sealions eagerly heaving their way on board. Every foray ashore or snorkelling outing would end in a return to their boats to find several stout sealions squatting happily in their newfound territory. Catamarans tended to be the worst afflicted by these large invaders as the swim steps on them made for easy access.

Our friends who are sailing in Cape Town have a similar sailing with animals problem with the resident fur seals. They already have an animal crew member, their ginger cat “Boots”, who was not at all keen on these impromptu interlopers, nor the distinctive stench they left in their wake. And, though their cat was unable to dislodge the seals, he had proved his worth on board many times over by catching countless mice, cockroaches and even flying fish (although the keen observer might note that they simply landed on deck by mistake).

We too have had several cats on our yacht unofficially. While in Malaysia there were a number of marina cats who sauntered down the wooden docks and nonchalantly hopped up to lounge in the sun on the aft deck as if they owned the place. These freeloaders were harder to shift than some as our kids would swoon and coo over their new crewmates, petting them lovingly while I was trying to shoo them off.

And then there are the marine lodgers, whose presence we are almost entirely unaware of until we try to clean the hull. There have been a series of large, grumpy and very territorial crabs that like to inhabit the large rectangular vent from our LPG locker, or fiercely guard the stainless-steel stock, where the skeg meets the rudder. When we dive down to scrub the hull they swim out and waggle their claws at us in fury for disturbing their piece and decimating their garden. Sorry crabs, but we need the extra knot of speed!

A small flurry of movement catches my eye as I look up from the keys. My little gecko friend has shifted and is gulping heavily and blinking. It’s nice to have company when I write sometimes, even if it is to the sound of bug swallowing.

Show Me More:

• The WORLDSTAR 2026 Race: Circumnavigate in your Own Boat
• Ben Ainslie’s Team Update: America’s Cup Countdown
• South Atlantic Cruising: Sailing Cape Town to Brazil

The post Finding Uninvited Guests Onboard: Sailing with Animals appeared first on Sailing Today.

Some voyages are easier than others. Jenevora Swann narrates a challenging Sail Across the South Atlantic…

Sailing the South Atlantic: The road less travelled

When our friends asked if we’d help them sail Tourterelles, their brand new Knysna 500SE catamaran on her maiden voyage across the Atlantic from South Africa, we jumped at it.  We’d sold our own catamaran a year previously in Australia and were missing the cruising lifestyle and the challenge of sailing into pastures new.  

The trip was also the perfect opportunity for Fergus, my husband, to complete the practical part of his RYA Yachtmaster Ocean qualification. He’d already passed the theory, but the final requirement was to do a passage of a minimum of 600-nautical miles, using the ancient art of astro-navigation. Sailing as part of the crew, instead of his usual position of skipper, meant he could complete this task without monitoring the GPS.

Having never been to Cape Town before, we were delighted the boat was moored in the popular V&A Waterfront Marina. Its central location gave us the opportunity to visit a few tourist attractions including the iconic Table Mountain and the penguin colony at Boulders Beach.  

The marina is home to a sizeable selection of seals, sealions and a rather large Cape otter who, as we discovered, has the tendency to board boats at night, seeking out any items of food that may have been left unattended!

Our plan was to head across the South Atlantic, aiming for the Caribbean, via the two remote tropical islands of St Helena, and Fernando de Noronha – an archipelago off the northeast coast of Brazil. 

We couldn’t rely on the ports we were visiting to have much fresh produce, so we provisioned with seven weeks’ worth of food. Luckily, this beautiful and spacious catamaran is fully equipped with two very good freezers, large fridge, integrated cockpit cooler box and extensive space for tins, dried foods, UHT milk and cartons of juices.

South Atlantic Crossing: Departing Cape Town

Finding the right weather to leave Cape Town proved a challenge.  We hoped for light winds for a few days to get offshore, then we could seek out the trade winds, once clear of the land.  Finally, after a week of waiting, the GFS/ECMWF forecasts showed a brief, but favourable, window. 

Casting off from the dock, we navigated our way through two lifting bridges and left Cape Town. With 11kts of wind from the north, we hoisted the mainsail and genoa and sailed out past Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was once imprisoned. 

When the wind decreased, the Code G sail was put into action and, running at 6 – 7kts with calm seas and under sail, we were all happy as we settled into our first night on the 1,700-nautical mile sail to St Helena.

With four of us on board, our night shift patterns were very civilised, especially as we were sharing them per couple. On the leg to St Helena, Fergus and I were doing the ‘sunset’ shift of 8pm to 2am, while Ian and Ann had the ‘sunrise’ shift from 2am to 8am. 

Swells & Sails

While we started with the planned low winds, they filled in more than expected, building to 20kts from south/south east.  Under the main and genoa, we sailed well at an average of 6.7kts with one reef in the main.  

Then, without warning, the light sea state changed and became rather confused.  With a 2.5 metre swell at an 8 second interval on the beam, it became incredibly uncomfortable. Thankfully, the confused sea state didn’t last too long and after a few days it settled down and the wind all but disappeared. 

At the start of our second week at sea, we finally had the wind behind us and it was perfect conditions to drop the mainsail and get the Oxley Bora winged sail out to play with. 

This gorgeous sail was like nothing we’ve sailed with before. Cut like a symmetrical spinnaker, it had a wing-shaped kite that is self-inflating. Flying high above the bow of the boat, the sail seemed to dance from side-to-side in the breeze, moving us along so quietly, it felt like we were floating above the ocean.

Seeing Stars in the South Atlantic

Sailing offshore, hundreds of miles away from land and civilisation, isn’t for everyone. You can go for days without seeing another vessel on the chart plotter and it doesn’t take much to realise you’re on a very small boat in a very large ocean.  While this can be scary for some, we find offshore sailing really peaceful and relish the serenity and change of pace. 

Being on night watch adds another element to the tranquillity. With a night sky clear of cloud and no moon to take centre stage, the stars and constellations come out to play, carpeting the sky in bright dots, sparkles and different shades of white. 

Fergus’ newly acquired skills in astro-navigation came into its own.  He had an amazing grasp of the night sky, pointing out the brightly lit planets of Mars, Neptune, Jupiter and Uranus – as well as detailing many of the 88 constellations.

We also had our fair share of shooting stars that zipped around the stratosphere as if on an Formula 1 race track. But our highlight was seeing the occasional meteor streak across the sky; each visible for three or four seconds before disappearing. This is when sailing offshore at night can be simply magical.

St Helena

After 12 days at sea, from 27 miles out we could see the mountainous landscape of St Helena looming on the horizon. Situated almost halfway between South Africa and Brazil, it’s one of the most remote islands in the world. 

Steeped in history, it’s Britain’s second oldest Overseas Territory, after Bermuda. It was once an important port of call for ships sailing to Asia and Southern Africa from Europe and it’s also where Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte was exiled to in 1815, until his death in 1821.

The island was a joy to discover. Walking around the capital of Jamestown was like stepping back in time to an old Cornish village, with its Georgian architecture, typically English street signs and currency, which is pounds sterling.  

On a guided tour around the island, we met Jonathan, a 191-year-old tortoise, who is the oldest-known living land animal in the world. We also snorkelled with whale sharks, who can be seen in St Helena’s waters for three months of the year.

But it was the topography of the island that surprised us the most. From a craggy black volcanic exterior, to an interior beautifully full of colourful flowers and a lush green landscape of trees, flax and grazing animals.  It’s well worth a stopover if sailing this route across the South Atlantic.

Dramatic Times

Our visit was curtailed as a large swell was heading towards St Helena, resulting from a storm thousands of miles away, off the east coast of Canada. The harbourmaster advised the anchorage would be uncomfortable and landing at the dock untenable. So we checked out and set off on the 1,733-nautical mile trip to Fernando de Noronha in Brazil.

Little did we know we were about to face a journey of extraordinary challenges and drama.  

Heading north west, it wasn’t long before we experienced large swells and fickle winds. During the first day, we went through a series of sail changes before settling on the Oxley Bora winged sail. Adding persistent rain and a broken impellor into the mix, it wasn’t the best of starts. 

We settled into a rhythm, with the Oxley sail flying well in winds of 15 – 22kts, giving us an average boat speed of 6.2kts. Shortly after sunrise on day three, a 27kt gust of wind hit the sail hard. 

As the boat slid down a wave in the heavy swell – now at 2.7 metres – the autopilot dropped out, causing everyone to be up on deck very quickly to rescue the sail and steer the boat back on course.

It was a fight to get the Oxley down as halfway through snuffing it, another large gust caught it, refilling the sail and taking the sock back to the top. As the sock line pulled through Fergus’ hands, he got a nasty rope burn as, in the urgency of the situation, he’d forgotten to don his sailing gloves.  

Persevering and in pain, he eventually managed to snuff the sail, but spent the rest of the morning with his hand stuck in a bucket of ice to quell the effects of the throbbing rope burn.

After a few hours of light winds and slower speeds using the genoa, the Oxley was hoisted once more.  Sadly the weather gods hadn’t finished having their fun with us yet and we were subjected to a second large cloud, that crept up behind the boat in stealth mode, bringing 25 – 34kts of wind. 

Ian, our skipper, didn’t want to risk damaging the Oxley by getting it down in such gusty winds, so started the engines and motored forward to reduce the apparent wind on the sail.  

With the uncertainty of the situation and the speed – which topped out at 15.6kts –  compounded by the roaring noise of the wind, I was momentarily terrified.  It didn’t help that the boat was rolling in the swell and there were some very large waves roaring up at the back of the boat.  

A plan was formed to put the genoa out to blanket the Oxley Bora, which could then be wrestled down, this time by Ian as Fergus was operating with only one hand.  Thankfully, within seconds of the sail being snuffed, the dramatic situation ceased; leaving us all in an exhausted, windswept heap for the second time that day.

That was enough to put the Oxley sail away for a while, as the winds were just too unpredictable. So, we ran downwind with just the genoa out, then added a reefed main on a wing-on-wing basis.

Extraordinary Challenges 

A week into the second leg, another much more challenging day loomed.  

Shortly after breakfast, the autopilot malfunctioned, this time, switching off completely.  Fergus was by the helm so put the boat onto hand steer while we got the sails down.  It was difficult to fathom out why it had malfunctioned, but Ian had fitted the boat with a second autopilot, which was put into play.  

We settled back into the day, and were rewarded by a large pod of Atlantic spotted dolphins that swam along in front of the boat, happy to escort us for part of the way in this great big ocean. 

But our joy didn’t last long. At sunset, just as we were making a sail change, the boat’s second autopilot stopped working. With two autopilots malfunctioning in one day, there was clearly something badly wrong and we were 800-nautical miles away from land.

Ian and Fergus went through all the normal diagnostics to try to resolve the issue, but as darkness loomed, we were left with no alternative but to hand steer the boat all night, taking turns on a rota basis.

The next day, we checked all possible causes, trying to understand whether the autopilot fault was electrical, hydraulic, operating system or just a loose connection. The boat was brand new, so to have an issue affecting two autopilots was extraordinary.

Chains of communications commenced with marine engineers, the manufacturers of the boat and of the autopilot. We also received email help on troubleshooting from family and friends as well as from another yacht – and fellow Ocean Cruising Club member – who was sailing nearby.  He had a Starlink connection delivering high-speed internet in the middle of the Atlantic and offered to watch some technical YouTube videos in case he could find a fix. His kindness and support meant a huge amount.

We were now faced with our worse-case scenario – to hand steer the remainder of the way to the island of Fernando de Noronha. Between us, hand steering for six days would be doable, but tiring, especially in the heavy swells. 

Digging Deep in the South Atlantic

36-hours into the issue and we were very tired and incredibly frustrated, but not beaten.  This leg had become a marathon and we were having to dig deep to keep focused, while getting used to a new gruelling shift pattern.  

Each couple did a four-hour helming stint at night as well as individual watches during the day. Taking time out to sleep or rest in between watches became imperative.  

During a spell of calm weather, we launched the Oxley Bora, but it quickly came down when we spotted a small tear on it, probably sustained from its earlier exploits. So we sailed with the two head sails up – the genoa and the Code G – trying to keep a speed up of 5kts. 

When we made landfall in Fernando de Noronha, it was a huge relief. It had been one of the most frustrating and stressful trips we’d ever had. 

Beautiful Island

In between trying repairs and fixes, we got to explore a little of Fernando de Noronha.  At seven square miles, it’s the largest of 21 volcanic islands and islets that are situated 220 miles off Brazil’s north-east coast. Because of its beaches, diving and surfing, it’s very popular with the Brazilian jet set.

We wished we could stay longer, however, it was also one of the most expensive islands we’ve ever anchored at, costing £65 a day.  

Frustratingly, we couldn’t fix the boat’s issues, so instead of hand-steering 2,000-nautical miles to Tobago, the skipper decided we would to go 238-nautical miles in the opposite direction to the Brazilian mainland port of Cabedelo. With engineers and parts more readily available, the boat would rest up at Marina Jacare Village until it was ocean ready again.  

But we end this tough journey with a smile. En route into Cabedelo, Fergus and I were just finishing our final night watch, when there was a strange wet slapping noise, quickly followed by Fergus yelping and jumping up.  By our feet there was a surprisingly large flying fish, which had flown into the helm station and walloped him in the face, leaving a slimy trail of scales from his cheek to ear.

We’re well-versed to flying fish landing on the boat, but this was the first time of being hit by one. Perhaps it was Neptune’s way of just touching base!

South Atlantic Fact Box

St Helena – We stayed for six nights on one of the 25 mooring buoys for £2 per night. Harbour dues were £35.  Due to the swell, it’s difficult to land a dinghy at the dock, so use the ferry service which is £2.50 per return trip.  The St Helena Yacht Club costs £5 to join, which has a very sociable bar and offers use of a washing machine, toilet and showers.  

Fernando de Noronha – While an official port of entry, only immigration can be undertaken via the Port Captain. Boats travelling onwards to mainland Brazil will need to organise a visit to customs. 

Jenevora Swann and her husband Fergus Dunipace were liveaboards on their catamaran Two Drifters for eight years. They sailed halfway around the world from Greece to Australia before pausing their circumnavigation in 2022.

For their latest cruising and adventures visit the Two Drifters Facebook, or the Two Drifters Travel Website.

Tourterelles 

Knysna 500SE Catamaran Owners Version (2022)

LOA: 15.2m (50ft)

Beam: 7.95m (26ft)

Draught: 1.40m (4.6ft)

Show Me More:

• The WORLDSTAR 2026 Race: Circumnavigate in your Own Boat
• Southampton Boat Show 2024: What to Expect
• TeamGB Interview: Olympic Sailing Coach Stevie Morrison

The post South Atlantic Cruising: Sailing Cape Town to Brazil appeared first on Sailing Today.

Tom’s Podcast on How to Avoid Cabin Fever – Give it a Listen!

How to Avoid Cabin Fever

‘Love, soft as an easy chair…’ sang my watchmate for the tenth time since eight bells, following with a whistled version of what he imagined to be the next line. I thought how much better Barbara Streisand delivered the number and ground my teeth silently. 

The wretch was clearly missing his girlfriend, but why he had to load up his angst on the rest of us was beyond me. ‘Why doesn’t he finish the song,’ I thought. ‘Or better still shut up?’ 

Spike, for that was his name, and I were signed on as gash hands aboard a beaten-up vessel headed south for better weather which had so far eluded her. It was February. The gales blew, the mainsail was so old that only regular attention with the needle saved it from blowing out of its bolt ropes, and the main topsail set like a pensioned-off pillow case outward bound for the rag bag. There was simply no excuse for our skipper, a paranoid hater of his fellow men; the mate was a manic depressive while the cook could only be described as a human mistake. Faced with such morale-busting circumstances, we focsle hands had every reason to be nice to one another, yet even in our small world the atmosphere was strained. These days I can see that Spike probably disliked the way Bert left his kit lying around. I didn’t care for it myself, but Bert was an amiable sort of guy. I don’t suppose my shipmates were crazy about my practising the harmonica either but, like so many before me, I fancied myself without sin, placing responsibility for the tense ambience firmly on Spike and his endless repetition of that single tuneless phrase. 

Sailors have always had a superstition about whistling. The popular explanation is that the malefactor will whistle up a headwind, but I’m convinced the truth is different. Any vessel far from land is a potential hothouse of cabin fever. We can’t escape our companions and they are certainly stuck with us. A snatch of tune whistled over and over again can provoke reprisals varying from a quick-acting dose of paraffin in the morning tea to a shove in the back near the rail on a dark night.

The chandler’s shelves are crammed with useful instruction manuals, but no author offers simple advice on dealing with a shipmate ripe for a punch on the nose. Yet grief between humans obliged to live cheek by jowl goes back a thousand years to the days of the Norse sagas and no doubt far beyond. If you haven’t experienced aggravation on a boat yet, never fear. Sail with friends or strangers for long enough and you will. Here are a few pointers. 

Unhappiness is catching. Put one misery guts in a crew and you’ll soon have a handful more. The classic sign of impending cabin fever and conflict on an extended passage is when one shipmate becomes uncharacteristically quiet and introspective. Unless the sufferer has a nasty attack of dyspepsia, he is either worried about his business or, more likely, he has a wife or sweetheart back home. Either he’s feeling bad because he’s having all the fun and she’s slaving away paying the mortgage, or he’s convinced she is even now getting it on with the plumber. In either case, he’s decided he shouldn’t be here at all. The fact that he’s obviously depressed loads you, the skipper, with the suspicion that you have fallen short in leadership when you have probably done nothing of the sort. The knock-on effects are inescapable and, whether it’s sex or the office, you have a dying duck on your hands who will wear down the spirit of the troops as surely as a Jonah. It’s your job to take steps, and the best answer is somehow to get Mister Longface talking. It’s a lonely world when you’re worried, and most discontented people can’t wait to cough it all up once they find a friend. Having rooted out the problem you can at least reassure the victim. Tell him his plumber is an ugly weirdo with nasty habits, or that his wife is probably as happy to have a quiet week or three on her own as he is. If being a confessor just isn’t your bag, delegate the job to a sympathetic crew member, but you must recognise the signs and act.      

Manners are another area of concern. When my daughter was four and still susceptible to the influence of her seniors, I shipped a young man who, among other unsavoury traits, used to pick up his wooden plate and lick it clean at the end of dinner. Although an undeniable vote of confidence in the victuals, we didn’t want the child to grow up imagining this was normal behaviour. Although inherently a decent lad, his wide array of unacceptable antics was worse than irritating. At twenty years my junior, all it really needed was a firm private word, and once I bit the bullet I was surprised at how readily he accepted the advice to clean up his act. The rest of the summer passed in comparative harmony and I was spared a stretch in the Scrubs for violent crime.

A third classic point of conflict and cabin fever occurs when people’s motives and aspirations fail to concur. On varying scales, such misunderstandings lead to divorces, boardroom brawls and wars between nations. At sea things are much the same. A ship can only go one place at a time so, if two parties want something different, one is going to be disappointed. Not having the option of stepping off onto a passing wave, the aggrieved party will generally be entered onto the list of undesirables by becoming alienated. This is bad news if the unhappy soul expected a jolly week’s yachting with nightly frolics in convivial anchorages, to find instead a prolonged session with half a gale in deep water. It’s even worse if a teenage daughter fancies an afternoon in the pricey marina handy for the boardwalk shopping mall when you want to drop the hook in a quiet creek for free. 

The best solution to cross-purpose aggro I ever heard of was dreamed up by a crew who circumnavigated from South Africa. Before committing to the trip, they sat down at the saloon table and thrashed out where they would go, why they would go there, and how long they might stay. Next they agreed who would be responsible for what, how much each would pay, and so on. The consensus was then written up as ship’s articles which they all signed. When the first rumblings of trouble sounded somewhere down in the Pacific, the skipper had only to summon all hands and lay out the agreement to which all were bound. End of problem.

As a postscript I must return to the provocation caused by the evil habit of whistling. If someone came up on deck, whistled or sang a tune from beginning to end just once, then went below again, nobody would mind at all. They might even enjoy it. It’s the unspeakable repetition of a disembodied phrase that does the damage. People don’t even know they’re doing it. 

Not long ago I was visiting a marina washroom. A lifetime had elapsed since that awful voyage with Spike, Bert, the misanthropic skipper and his mad mate. As I shook off my oilskin, a sound I recalled with horrid clarity came warbling from behind one of the loo doors.      

‘Love, soft as an easy chair….’

I slumped over the basin with a sense of déja vu before the flush sounded loud and long, and a grey-haired Spike appeared at the toilet door, somewhat stouter, but cleaner by far than ever he was in the old days. It beggared belief not only that he was there, but that the phono needle in his brain was still stuck on that same phrase. I thought of hiding in the next cubicle, but instead I manned up, shook his hand and bought him a pint. 

I’d been wrong about Spike all along. He might have been a dodgy shipmate, but once ashore he stood the next round like a gent. By the third pint, we were laughing our wellies off about that awful cook. 

‘Never hold a grudge’ isn’t bad advice either.

Show Me More:

• The WORLDSTAR 2026 Race: Circumnavigate in your Own Boat
• Southampton Boat Show 2024: What to Expect
• TeamGB Interview: Olympic Sailing Coach Stevie Morrison

The post How to Avoid Cabin Fever: Tom Cunliffe’s Column appeared first on Sailing Today.

Getting a boat across to the Carribbean via the Canaries is a breeze compared to heading back. Leo Kenny describes a trip from Antigua to Gibraltar.

A Catamaran in the Caribbean

Here I was again in the Caribbean. Antigua. We had delivered the Lagoon Catamaran 45 Boogie Woogie from Grand Canaria in November last year. Now we were taking her back to Europe. Getting into the mood, I went to the Skullduggery Pub and had a rum punch whilst waiting for Tomaz, Boogie Woogie’s owner, and his kids, who had crossed the Atlantic with us last November. They had been in Antigua chartering their boat since I left them in Grenada last year. Boogie Woogie was anchored, waiting for us to take her back to Greece. Escorted straight to my old cabin. Hungry as hell, we climbed back aboard the dinghy and went back to Skullduggery for hamburgers, fish and chips and another rum.

 An early morning swim and then I met the three other new crew with whom I would make the crossing without Tomaz, Dasa and the kids. Three young beautiful people – fit, smart and interesting: Alvaro from Argentina (skipper of Tomaz and Dasa’s other boat Lady Ida), Louisa from Belgium and Vincent from France. Thus began the arduous task of transferring things between boats: things for the Atlantic; things for the sale of the other boat. Vincent and I took the easy job and, donning masks and snorkels, began scraping the hull of barnacles that accumulated from our last transatlantic in November.  

Being in Antigua felt like I didn’t leave the Caribbean last December. It smelled distinctly Caribbean – a mélange of salt bush mixed with rum and curry. We waved Antigua farewell around 17:00 headed for Sint Maarten and next day we cruised into Nelson’s Bay, St Martin’s, hoping to replace the Genoa furling drum and take on provisions for departure the following day on Boogie Woogie. We manhandled, winched and cajoled the forestay off to replace the furling drum and would be glad we didn’t wait until mid-transatlantic. We didn’t finish putting it back until after dark, in the rain. After two dinghy trips with 2,000 Euros of stores, we rigged up a net at the stern for fruit and veg storage. Plenty of flour and yeast for bread making – but no rum or beer this trip! We had hoped to run NNE up to 38° before turning E for Azores.  

A rough transatlantic start 

Twenty minutes out of Sint Maarten’s sunny harbor, the Atlantic became grey and angry as if to say, “Huh, you again.” “I’m not scared,” I said.  “We will see,” said the sea and threw a rain squall at us with the pelting rain driven by winds around 35kn. One crew member with only 100 nautical sea miles under his belt, asked me earnestly, “Is this normal?”  

Our first transatlantic morning found us with 20-30kn of wind close hauled and a 3kg Mahi Mahi on the line. Louisa landed it. I filleted it. Ceviche for lunch and fillets for dinner. The first reefing line on the main sail broke that first morning, with the sheet inside the boom, so we rigged up a makeshift reefing line at the gooseneck and end of the boom, which needed to be reefed by hand. Only 2,400 NM to go! When the wind reached 25kn again, it blew out the shackle we had rigged, and all the port side lazy guy shrouds collapsed to the deck. A trip up the mast in the bosun’s chair, was not possible in 25kn winds, so we used the 2nd reef and left it for another day. We did 174 NM on the first day averaging over 7kn. Pretty good with the second reef. 

On first watch next day, I hooked an enormous fish – Tuna I think – which ran all 100m of line out before I could tighten the drag. Poor thing got away with a lure and trace wire in its mouth. Sorry big fish. The sea moderated and the kind old sun at last broke through reminding me that Atlantic waters are indeed deep turquoise and sometimes almost violet like the color of Jenson’s Violet Mum used to put on my cuts.  

Alvaro is a hero. I winched him to the second spreader, 15m up in 20kn of wind, and he repaired the lazy guy shrouds. It was an excellent day with kind 15-20kn winds averaging a boat speed of 7-8kn. I was looking forward to a sleep after a weekly shower. At 04:00, the moon was up high but waning over a gentle 10-15kn breeze. Light winds and following sea. What more can a man ask – except maybe his family with him? Oceans like this make you think of everything you have done right in life. I spend hours watching the sea, thinking of people I love.  

A moment of transatlantic calm 

No wind, but water, water everywhere at 24°N! The crew bet on arrival time in Azores. I knew I would win: 1560NM to go @120 NM/day. We were thinking of going for a swim but worried that Tuna I lost was following us. Do you ever get that feeling – that you are being watched by a giant Tuna?  A pod of dolphins came to watch some clothes washing out of the corner of their little eyes. We repaired a small hole on the main then stopped the boat and went for a swim. 6000m of water under you makes your feet tingle. Looking out as the sun was setting over gently undulating-silky-water, there was not a single other ship in sight or even showing on AIS. We were in the Atlantic alone in this overpopulated world and the washing was dry.  

On the midnight watch, a three-quarter orange moon appeared from behind the only cloud in the sky on our eastern horizon. For the first time, I notice a different temperature, not a chill, but a different night feeling. Louisa asked if she should leave the blanket when I came up to the bridge. “Yes thanks,” I replied. We were still heading NNE hoping for a wind shift to head east to Azores. I got Azores’ entry protocol on Satphone. We needed to do a PCR, so we were thinking of just refuelling, taking on water and heading for Spain – another 10 days.  

Next morning as we passed the 1000 NM mark, an extraordinary sight greeted me as I was putting out the Tuna line: right next to the boat was a beautiful Blue-fin Tuna keeping up with the boat. 1 hour later she was still there; I could see her big black eye observing me. I was going to let her go if I caught her, but I tried dangling the bright green lure right in front of her. I even tried a filet of Mahi Mahi on the hook. She ignored it as if to say, “You think I am a silly Tuna?” I decided to name her Betsy the Tuna. At sundown, amazingly she was still there. Maybe she was hiding from a larger predator who was stalking us, or just going to meet some friend in Azores.  

We gybed round and were now reaching directly towards Azores. Betsy the tuna was long gone but the dolphins came back to play with us as we ran with a steady 15kn West wind driving us directly to Azores under a clear sunny sky and following sea, we put a preventer on the main, did clothes washing; made some water; and did maintenance on the engines.  

It was cold at 37°N. Messages from family on satphones tend to dry up mid-transatlantic – like the fish. Being alone, sometimes you think you hear a bird or someone talking, but it’s just the boom squeaking or a rope stretching, and the voice-like sound is the auto pilot correcting course. And then, a yacht! Swedish Sandvita was the first yacht we had seen for two weeks. We said hello on VHF. There was no moon that night and the through smudges in the Milky Way, I could see other galaxies. I felt lucky to be alive; 15-20kn from 120° starboard, zooming along at 7-8kn with silent sails.  

Transatlantic: Azores to Gibraltar 

The last hundred miles of this transatlantic crossing to the Azores took forever. They say it’s hard to leave the Caribbean. Then we saw a volcano like a smudge on the horizon in the early morning rain. People! Lights! Whose idea was it to put these islands in the middle of the Atlantic? The Portuguese? Faial, Pico, São Miguel, Santa Maria, Terceira, Graciosa – all just little spots on the charts, but grandiose to any seafarers like us as we got close around 06:00. Someone with a sense of humor named Pico with its 2000m volcano, towering over us as we entered the harbor on Faial (the next island). Such a good feeling in the rainy morning after 21 days at sea to enter a calm refuge.  

We were told to anchor in a quarantine area, so we parked beside the Swedish couple – to whom we had been chatting on radio for a couple of days – on their Hallberg Rassy 50 and made some bacon and eggs whilst awaiting our PCR test. Then, no rest for the wicked, we fixed the furling drum on the forestay that had slipped and began work on hauling down the main. WHAT A JOB! The bolts and brackets had been frozen together by sun and salt and water.  

After we had made garlic prawns and moussaka and had a few rums last night (and after I had made a note in this journal assuming we were quarantined for the night), we heard people talking on VHF about PCR results. We checked and voila, there were 4 negative results. We climbed in the dinghy to visit the “201 Inn” The bar was for seafarers. It sold scrimshaw and had hundreds of flags on the wall. This used to be a whaling town. There was a wonderful mix of old locals who eyed the blow-in sailors suspiciously and ….well…blow-in sailors ….of indeterminate ages. Reminded me of that bar in Muppet Treasure Island and everyone was called Jim Lad.        

Out of the harbour we headed SE in 20-30 knots. Dolphins joined us to say goodbye and wink at us going out into this weather. No other boats around. Spectacular coastline with the Atlantic – which said, “What Islands? I don’t see any islands,” crashing into ragged cliffs and a 3-4m swell. Managed internet to chat with family before we were out of range and had to rely on the expensive 20-character limit of the Satphone’s SMS. We settled in for the night heading 120° as the wind died and forced us to drop the repaired main. The dolphins were still with us. 7 hours later we left the eastern tip of Pico with its lighthouse flashing well wishes on a calm sea. All’s well that end swell.  

It felt like we didn’t go ashore; it felt more familiar out here. Cold, rainy and  there was pretty heavy 3m swell around the outer Azores. Only 25Kn winds but we were close hauled doing 8-9kn and going across the swell so lots of rockin’ and a rollin’ and doin’ it tills the break of day. There are strange seas, wind and currents as we pass the eastern most tip of São Miguel. One can expect winds to back coming off an island, but we are 15 NM off! The waves come from different directions and many wash over the decks. The two pontoons nosedive down swells and it is a bit of a roller coaster ride. The normally level platform of the Lagoon 45 becomes a wobble board depositing carelessly left equipment on the floor.  

Dire straits 

As we get to within 790NM to Gibraltar, commercial traffic starts to increase; we encounter three cargo vessels on AIS, all silently going about their business en route to Gibraltar to get cheap diesel like us. The Atlantic remains irritatingly choppy and A few broken dishes are testimony to the flaws in our storage strategies. As I have mentioned, I have a lot of respect for this Lagoon 45. But in seas like this, as with all catamarans, she tends to porpoise over the waves making it uncomfortable – especially after three days and nights of the same motion. It makes you a bit grumpy. The weather doesn’t look good for our ETA in Gibraltar: 35-40 knots of E wind and a tide against us make it difficult/not possible for yachts to pass through the straits – even motoring. Then the Atlantic really turns it on for us two days from Gibraltar but as we approach land, there is a respite; the sun is out. The wind has dropped. The sea has flattened somewhat. We are crossing the shipping lane. Ships to the left of me; ships to the right. Here I am stuck in the middle with you. I can smell land and internet and shortly afterwards we see land! It’s the southern tip of Vila do Pispo, Portugal. The Straights weather looks better so we will drop Vincent off in Portimao and continue to Gibraltar. 18nm from the Portuguese coast we sight a whale! What a bonus. It surfaced twice and blew spume into the air like in a children’s storybook.  

It’s very exciting approaching the Straits of Gibraltar on a transatlantic crossing. You can see two continents and make out Tangier Morocco on starboard and Tarifa Spain on port. What makes it all surreal entering these straits is having seen them on maps, and in person from both sides, to be in the middle, diving between ships, hearing the provocative  banter between the Spanish, English and Moroccan authorities as well as bad tempered skippers on individual boats – all jockeying for positions against the roaring current and winds; makes you think that we have not really changed much since the Moors crossed into Spain around the first Crusades. One thing very encouraging just struck me as we are leaving this beautiful expanse of the Atlantic; on neither crossing did we see very much flotsam and jetsam. Very few plastics or fishing gear and no big navigational hazards.  

Factfile: A West to East Crossing

The transatlantic west to east is a more challenging trip than the ‘downhill’ east to west via the Canaries and Cape Verdes. Here are a few pointers…

Transatlantic: When to go

With the Caribbean season winding down, early spring/summer is the usual time. This means that as you head north towards Europe, the weather remains relatively kind. Between March and mid-May you might get a helpful push along at the start from SE-SW winds – but these are not guaranteed. 

Weather and routing for transatlantic:

The most popular departure points are Sint Maarten or Tortola in. the British Virgin Islands. Both offer good services for repairs, spares and supplies. From here, a stopover in the Azores is pretty much mandatory and Horta is the preferred port, almost purpose built for such a stopover. Expect a good thrash against the trades early on, followed by calms as you feel the influence of the Azores High. After that, the prevailing south westerlies should funnel you home.  

There is also the option of departing from Bermuda, well to the NE. This is a more direct route but, being more northerly, can be a bit heavier going.  

Show Me More:

• Maiden & Tabarly Put Women at Top: Ocean Globe Race Results
• Swiss Solo Sailor’s Transatlantic Battle: Transat CIC Race Trouble
• Entries for the 2024 Round the Island Race are open

The post Transatlantic Voyage: Sailing Eastward vs Westward appeared first on Sailing Today.

Nic Compton narrates a trip from the English Channel to the Mediterranean via the rivers and canals of France.

French Canals and Rivers: Guide to Climbing a Mountain in a Boat

I have to admit, I love a good sea voyage. Whether it’s sailing from Greece to France, from Portugal to the UK, or from the UK to Ireland, I love the sense of setting off with a distant destination in mind and spending hours at sea away from day-to-day life. Whenever I mention this to my friends, they nod and say how wonderful. Mention the French canals, however, and their faces light up with interest and more often than not they’ll say they’ve “always wanted to do that”. There’s something about chugging through France with your masts down that resonates with boaters and non-boaters alike. Everyone, it seems, loves the French canals – or at least the idea of them.

I’ve been spoilt. I’ve been through them three times: once when I was five months old (north to south), once when I was 26 (south to north), and most recently to celebrate my 60^th birthday (north to south). The first time, my parents ploughed up the Seine with a 50ft centreboard ketch with a 5ft 3in draft. It was the 1960s and my father had lived through the horrors of the Second World War, so taking a stupidly long boat down the French canals was a walk in the park by comparison. The second time, I bumped along the Canal de la Marne à la Saône on my own 32ft ketch with 6ft draft, heading back from Greece to the UK in the late 1980s. I was completely unprepared and my then wife was six months pregnant by the time we exited the canal system at St Valery sur Somme, but I was young and feckless and had a positive attitude to problem solving. Perhaps it helped, in my deep subconscious, that I had already done the trip as a baby. 

The third time was in May-July 2022. This time I was older and a little more world-weary, so I made far more preparation than I had done previously. We do live in a more safety-conscious and bureaucratic age, after all, plus I had a young family to think about this time. That said, it took us just three months from getting the final ok from the insurance company to getting the boat canal-ready and actually leaving the UK. There’s a lot to be said for not over-thinking things and just getting going. You’re not crossing the Atlantic, after all. The worst that might happen is that you might scratch your boat, which you’ll probably be able to claim back on insurance anyway (we did). That said, some advance planning is always useful, so here is a brief guide.

The Boat

When we bought Zelda in 2020, we had a vague plan to ‘go to the Med’ and (more by accident than planning, if I’m honest) ended up with a 1982 US-built Freedom 33 with a 4ft 6in (1.37m) draught. Perfect for the French canals, we thought. Other positives were the spacious interior for her age – an important consideration for a family of four planning to spend several weeks on board – and her lack of varnish on deck. Our long-term plan was to leave the boat in the Med and use her for family holidays, so we wanted a boat that required minimal maintenance. 

The downside of Zelda was her rig. Although we loved her simple, unstayed ‘cat ketch’ rig, with carbon fibre masts and no standing rigging, the main mast was 45ft long, which meant that, once we took it down to go through the canals, it would stick out by about 6ft at either end of the boat. We did consider having the masts shipped by lorry, but after being quoted us €1,300 for one mast and €1,800 for two (by Fastmast, fastmast.de), we decided to save the money. 

One bit of advance planning that did pay off was calling the crane operators. We had planned to take the mast down at Rouen but, after ringing the yard there, discovered the crane was out of action for a month, so we opted for Le Havre instead. In spite of the negative reviews we’d read online, the crane operators at Le Havre couldn’t have been more helpful and were reasonably priced, at €100 per mast. 

Once down, we tied a sturdy plastic bucket filled with bubble wrap to each end of the main mast, to protect it from damage. It was only once we got going that I realised our carbon fibre masts were actually far stronger than aluminium or wood. On the few occasions when they did catch the side of the locks, they just bent a little and bounced straight back. That said, I did keep the lashings to a minimum and always had a knife close to hand in case they need to be released in a hurry. 

The Route

Our original plan was to go via the Canal du Midi. This would provide a fun sea voyage for me and my ‘boat partners’, paramedic Matt and bar manager Laurence, followed by a leisurely cruise through the canals with ‘the family’, namely my wife Anna and our two children, aged 10 and 12. Just weeks before our planned departure, however, I contacted the Voies Navigables de France (VNF), the body that looks after France’s inland waterways, and was told that the recommended maximum draft for the Canal du Midi was now 1.4m (4ft 7in), rather than the widely advertised 1.5m. Given that a boat’s draft is supposed to increase by 2.5% in fresh water compared to salt water, that would bring Zelda’s draft a shade over the limit. The VNF strongly recommended we didn’t go that way, and the thought of getting stuck halfway and having to turn back was enough to put us off. 

Having decided to go down through the middle of France, there were several routes to choose from. Coming from Devon, it made sense to go up the Seine, through Paris, as my parents had 60 years earlier.

After Paris, there were three main options for reaching the Med. We could turn left up the Marne River on the so-called Champagne Route, which connects to the Saône and then the Rhône, which was the longest route but with the least locks. Or we could turn right and carry along the Upper Seine towards St Mammès. Once there, we could either head south-east along the River Yonne on the Bourgogne Route, which is the shortest and apparently the prettiest route but with the most locks. Or we could head due south down the Canal du Loing on the Bourbonnais Route, which was a bit longer than the Bourgogne but with less locks. All three routes were advertised as 1.8m deep, though certainly in our experience that turned out to be a little optimistic. 

We opted for the Bourbonnais Route, as we’d heard it was the busiest of the three and therefore less likely to silt up.

French Canals and Rivers: Preparations

If your boat is seaworthy enough to cross the English Channel, then it’s almost certainly in good enough shape to tackle the French canals. As we’d originally intended going through the Canal du Midi via the notorious Bay of Biscay, we made a number of safety upgrades before leaving the UK, including fitting new halyard and some new safety equipment, such as liferaft, EPIRB, flares, and fire extinguishers. Although as it turned out we didn’t need to do this for crossing the Channel, they served us well on the next part of the voyage, sailing from France to Greece. The old halyards proved invaluable going through the canals as not only were they long enough for every occasion but we didn’t mind if they got wrecked.

The only preparations specific to the french canals were making a pair of wooden crutches to hold the masts once they were lowered, and buying lots of extra fenders. We ended up with about nine fenders on each side, nearly all bought second-hand so we didn’t have to worry if they got damaged. In retrospect, I wish we’d fitted a scaffolding board over the fenders on each side, as we saw on several other boats, to give extra protection. Next time.

Perhaps most importantly, bearing in mind the amount of motoring we would be doing, we made sure the engine was fully serviced and had a new cutless bearing fitted. We ended up spending about £3,500 on upgrades and repairs to get Zelda sea- and canal-worthy.

Paperwork

As everyone now knows, British boats entering the EU are now subject to the same paperwork as other non-EU countries. The chief consideration for us was that Zelda would have leave the EU every 18 months or be liable to pay VAT, though we understood that in certain countries (such as Greece) this could be extended by 6 months if the boat was kept out of the water and ‘immobilised’ (ie paperwork handed in to a relevant authority). In retrospect, we might have seriously considered buying a boat already in the EU, and therefore VAT paid, to save the hassle of having to move her out of the EU every two years.

Another less expected piece of officialdom was getting qualified. The minimum qualification for skippering a boat in the EU is an International Certificate of Competence (ICC), which I took with a qualified examiner on my own boat. That was followed by the CEVNI, an online exam specifically for operating your own boat on the inland waterways (though if you charter a boat in the EU you are exempt from this). Lastly, I took my VHF exam, also required by the EU. Although it was quite stressful having to pass all these exams, it certainly sharpened my navigation skills and I felt much better prepared by the end of it. Total cost of qualifications: around £500, including RYA certification.

French Canals: The Locks

There are a huge variety of locks, from the enormous ones on the Seine and the Rhône to the quaint little locks in the heart of France. The bollards on some of the big locks are too far apart to have lines fore and aft, so you have to have a pair of springs looped around a single bollard. Running the engine in slow ahead will help keep the bow in, and the position of the rudder also has a big effect. 

Many of the smaller canals are automated, or a single lockkeeper sometimes drive ahead and operates a series of locks for you. We liked the system on the Canal du Loing best, where you we given a remote control and could to operate the locks yourself at your leisure.

The Journey

Crossing the length of France by boat is a journey like no other. You have the big fast-flowing rivers at either end, the Rhine and the Rhône, both busy with commercial traffic. Then, as soon as you hit the Canal du Loing, the pace slows down and you can enjoy stunning scenery and endless pretty villages – mostly deserted at the time of year we went (May/June).  We didn’t see a single other yacht until we got to Paris, and even then they were few and far between. The Canal du Centre was probably the busiest, being a hub of holiday rental boats. 

One of the highlights of our trip was staying at the Arsenal Marina right in the heart of Paris for just €37.50 per night (what a bargain!). Motoring high over the Loire on the elegant Briare Aquaduct, designed by Gustave Eiffel in 1896, was another memorable moment. We also enjoyed stopping at St Satur and walking up through the vineyards to the fortified town of Sancerre, where we bought bottles of the local Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé wines. And we all loved popping off on the bikes (we had brought two folding bikes and a BMX for my son) and buying pastries for breakfast every morning.

By the time we got to the Canal Lateral à la Loire, the waterways had become clogged up through lack of use (our depth sounder regularly showed 0m under the keel, though that was probably mostly weed). I had to tie a knife on the end of the boathook to cut the weeds off the propeller, and we had to stop several times to unblock the fresh water intake on the engine. We also hit the bottom on several occasions and, although we were always able to push through, we were grateful for our shallow draft – and glad we hadn’t attempted the Canal du Midi where it would surely have been much worse.  

Downsides included crunching the port side of the hull at the entrance of an old stone lock, and gouging the starboard side about 2in above the waterline as we left another lock. The fenders were practically useless when the locks filled right up, leaving a hard edge just above water level, and it was just a case of being eternally vigilant. (To my surprise, our insurance company eventually settled the £1,200 for the scratches to be filled and polished.) We also got stuck in Decize on the Canal du Centre after a lightning storm felled 100 trees, and we had to wait for three days while the VNF cleared the debris.

It can be hard work operating all those locks – we often went through ten or more a day, and our maximum was 26 locks in one day. But we did have a great feeling of satisfaction as we worked our way slowly southwards. Two and a half weeks after leaving Paris, we reached the summit: 650ft above sea level. Geneva was less than 100 miles away, half as far as any sea. Behind us, the Océan lock led back to the English Channel, while in front of us the Méditerranée lock led to the Med. It was downhill or the rest of the way, which proved much easier and quicker than going uphill.

The sense of accomplishment having travelled over 800 miles through France was enormous – not to mention the delight at finally being out of the canal system and in the Med. For all of the family it was a unique experience which we will look back at with a slight sense of wonder for the rest of our lives. Did we really do that? How very, very cool.

Options for French Canals

Champagne: 1400km, 174 locks, 1.8m (officially)

Bourgogne: 1316kn, 238 locks, 1.8m (officially)

Bourbonnais: 1330km, 176 locks, 1.8m (officially)

Midi (aka Canal des Deux Mers): 600km, 114 locks, 1.4m (2022)

Zelda Canal Stats

Le Havre – Paris (Lower Seine) 348km 6 locks 4 days 

Paris – St Mammès (Upper Seine) 88km 7 locks 2 days

St Mammès – Montargis (Canal du Loing) 49km 18 locks 2 days

Montargis – Briare (Canal de Briare) 47km 35 locks 3 days

Briare – Digoin (Canal Lateral à la Loire) 196km 38 locks 6 days

Digoin – Chalon (Canal du Centre) 114km 61 locks 4 days

Chalon – Lyon (Saône) 140km 3 locks 3 days

Lyon – Port St Louis (Rhône) 310km 12 locks 3 days

Total (excluding stoppages)       1292km 180 locks 27 days

Read More:

• Maiden & Tabarly Put Women at Top: Ocean Globe Race Results
• Boat Test: C-Cat 48
• Peloponnese: Sailing In Peaceful Greece

The post French Canal Guide: How to Travel 800 Miles through France appeared first on Sailing Today.

Sailing west from Finike to Bodrum, Jules Riegal finds a window to the ancient past and a touch of tranquillity amidst the party boats, gulets and holiday crowds of the summer season.

Beneath the Surface of Turkey’s Turquoise Coast

As I swam ashore with the stern line at Gemiler Adasi near Fethiye, spellbound by the submerged ruins of a fourth century church clearly visible through the turquoise water beneath me, the incongruous beat of a 90s pop hit gradually increased to a shocking volume to shatter the narrow bay’s tranquillity. A towering, three-masted, pirate-themed gulet loomed into view on its track close to the row of yachts, parallel moored stern-to the sloping rocky coast scattered with olive trees and the remains of ancient buildings. Behind the huge skeleton figurehead glowering from the bow, revellers were jumping up and down, amassed on both decks, as the party ship cruised slowly past the island’s archaeological treasures, said to include the original tomb of Saint Nicholas. As the gulet dropped anchor at the end of the line, music still booming, most of the people relaxing in the cockpits of their sailing and motorboats looked on with bemusement and a certain amount of resignation. After all, nobody said that July in the heart of the Turkish Riviera cruising region would be quiet.

This fragile line between peace and cacophony, and the surreal intermingling of high-season tourist shenanigans with Turkey’s tangible ancient world, were to be constant themes of our cruise westward along the country’s southern and southwest coasts last summer. The much-lauded yachting region on the cusp of Europe and Asia lived up to its reputation for beauty and charm, with a proliferation of idyllic bays, enclosed lagoons and rugged coves, and a backdrop of soaring pine-forested mountains and white-painted hillside towns with gleaming golden mosque domes. We sailed into undeveloped areas settled for millennia, as Mediterranean sailors and traders would have done thousands of years before, and discovered an abundance of Hellenistic, Roman, Medieval and Byzantine relics, from temples, castles and churches, to rock tombs and sarcophagi, to ruins of entire ancient cities at sites such as Kaleköy near Kekova and Knidos on the Datça Peninsula. At the marinas, towns and cities, the age-old stonework and rubble were often incorporated into new buildings or left standing in the middle of a car park or grass verge, all adding to the distinct ambience, enhanced by the undulating, atmospheric Call to Prayer emanating from the mosques, harking back to a bygone era.

Sailing Turkey: Preparing in Luxury

The Gemiler Adasi anchorage, which so perfectly illustrated the contrasting aspects, was one of the first stops during five weeks’ sailing in Turkey on our 50-foot Jeanneau, Nimble Ape II. Just my husband, Chris, and I, the plan was to cross from Cyprus in late June, checking in at Finike, and then day sail heading west along the Turkish coast as far as Bodrum, before entering Greece at Rhodes in early August.

We spent a week preparing at our luxurious base, Karpaz Gate Marina, a Platinum standard marina resort located on the offbeat, beautiful Karpaz peninsula on the northwest coast of the island in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC). It has all the berthing, safety and technical services you could need – and so much more if you are in the mood for a Turkish hammam, a dip in the indoor pool and jacuzzi, a visit to the on-site Beach Club or a couple of nights at the boutique hotel. The exquisite tasting menu created by chef Onur Us at the marina restaurant set the bar high for the dining opportunities in Turkey, while the welcome and assistance from the marina staff is always above and beyond anything we have experienced in 20 years’ sailing in the UK, Mediterranean, France and eastern US.

The Leap to Turkey

Following a convenient check out with customs on-site at Karpaz Gate Marina, we departed on 23^rd June for the 200nm, 48-hour passage to Finike Marina. The fairly busy shipping lane required a sharp lookout and monitoring of AIS CPAs as we closed the Turkish coast, but the shakedown sail was completed without major issues. It felt strangely exotic and adventurous to alight at Finike, a port town of ancient Lycia, founded in the 5^th century BC and originally named Phoenix. Berthed on the immigration pontoon, we were met by recommended agent, Samet, from Finike Yachting Agency, who dealt expertly with our check in with Port Police and Passport Control. With the discharging of sewage (black water) into the waters of Turkey strictly forbidden, we were issued with our Blue Card which indicates your boat’s tank capacity and monitors the amount of wastewater deposited ashore. It must then be duly presented to staff at Turkey’s marinas following each pump out to avoid any risk of a fine.

While a little grimy and industrial within the immediate vicinity of the marina, Finike town has plenty of restaurants and cafes, ATMs and supermarkets for victualling. We enjoyed a sweltering, fly-bothered fish dinner in Neşeli Balık restaurant in the middle of a bustling backstreet. After a couple of days’ rest, our journey west began with a short sail to our first anchorage, off Andriake Beach. We were soon in the midst of the heaving tourist area following a two-mile motor to picturesque, but crowded, Gokkaya Limani off the island Ashil Adasi, with clear water and a large cave perfect for paddle boarding or kayaking. 

Sailing the next day between Kekova island and the mainland coast, we passed Kaleköy village clinging to the rock face, with its spectacular Byzantine castle overlooking the sunken ruins of the ancient city of Simena. There is a place to anchor and pontoons directly below the castle, but with limited space and manoeuvring gulets taking up most of it, it was easier to anchor in the landlocked lagoon Üçagiz Limani to the west. After a short dinghy ride to Kale, we joined the procession of tourists and selfie-takers clambering up the ancient stone steps, through the maze of tiny streets lined with stalls selling souvenirs, to the top of the castle. A stunning view of Lycian Turkey awaits, facing the Mediterranean and Kekova Island, with hillsides littered with olive and carob trees, rock tombs and sarcophagi, and the necropolis visible below. A lone sarcophagus partially submerged in a shallow bay was a poignant parting sight.

Sailing Turkey: Connected in Kaş

While sailing Turkey, we had so far stayed off internet and phone while underway to avoid exorbitant data charges with Turkey outside the EU, so took our first chance for some shore Wi-Fi, power and water at Kaş Marina, tucked around the headland, in an enclosed bay at the foot of imposing slopes. Kaş town is busy and touristy, its rich history in evidence all around, tombs entrenched with car parks, paths and intersections built over and around them. It was also a chance to experience our first, not last, full Turkish platter breakfast at one of the marina restaurants, an array of bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, cheese, eggs, yoghurt, honey that no one person could finish.

‘Anchor with stern lines ashore’ was the soon-to-be-familiar recommendation for our next anchorage at Yeşilköy Limani, near the village of Kalkan. After a thrilling sail heeled over on a flat sea, hitting 9 knots over the ground, we flew into the pleasant bay and managed our first stern-to procedure of the summer. Tasks are delegated according to our strengths, meaning I go to the bow to drop the anchor, then swim ashore with the lines, while Chris takes the pressurised job at the helm while monitoring depth.

After a 30nm downwind sail, along the Seven Capes stretch and past the sheer cliffs of Butterfly Valley, we then anchored with lines ashore in a small bay next to the ‘blue lagoon’ nature reserve of popular Ölüdeniz. As expected, music throbbed from the packed beach with paragliders raining down overhead from Mount Babadağ, but views of the low clouds rolling off the soaring Taurus Mountain range and a paddleboard excursion to the turtle and fish-filled lagoon more than compensated. 

It was just a short hop to Gemiler Island before we headed to Fethiye Marina for a night alongside, taking the opportunity to sample the atmospheric Old Town, with its maze of streets packed with stalls displaying a colourful array of dried fruit, baklava, pastries and spices, and to walk along the long, tripper boat-lined seafront.

Sailing Turkey’s Cruising Heart

We were now closing in on one of the most favoured sailing regions in Turkey – the large, enclosed gulf of Skopea Limani, seven miles southwest of Göcek, with its numerous sheltered anchorages, pine-ringed coves and bays with jetties and restaurants. After a night at anchor in the wide bay Innice Iskelesi, we motored deep into beautiful Boynuz Bükü, a sheltered bay with a restaurant, looking to squeeze in amongst numerous other yachts stern-to the shore. It was the one occasion of the summer when there was no space in our chosen anchorage, but nearby Round Bay offered an easy alternative in the middle off the beach. Moving on for a final night in Skopea, we settled at Seagull Bay, with its prominent seagull mosaic, where I learned a valuable lesson to ensure the stern line is attached to a firmly secure rock and not a random boulder which has tumbled from the shore.

Keen to escape the claustrophobia of the gulf, the sail 25nm southwest to Ekincik Limani offered the welcome feel of the wind in our hair as we sped along in 25 knots with a couple of reefs. We made an ad-hoc decision to berth in My Marina Yacht Club on the east side the bay, so the yacht would be secure while we ventured up the Dalyan River on a local tour boat to see the ancient city of Kaunos.

A vicious crosswind and tricky stern-to arrival was soon forgotten once we explored the marina, beautifully landscaped to assimilate into the surrounding pine-forested, steep cliffs. The Dalyan excursion stops first at the nearby caves before entering the natural delta habitat, passing Turtle or Iztuzu Beach, where the sea turtles come to breed. There is a chance to take an hour or more exploring the mysterious ruins of Kaunos with its Roman and Hellenistic excavated structures, before heading further up the river to view the fantastic Dalyan King Tombs, carved into the cliff. 

We tacked our way into wind to a quieter anchorage at small Gerbekse Cove, with Byzantine ruins ashore, and then on to lagoon-style Serçe Limani, by-passing Marmaris Limani with Rhodes in sight. Motoring between Greek island Simi and Turkey, we cruised northeast up the gulf of Hisarönü Körfezi, past rows of large motoryachts clustered along the coast close to Bencik, the narrowest part of the 50-mile long Datça Peninsula dividing Hisarönü from Gökova Körfezi. At the head of the gulf, the lush bay of Keci Buku is home to Marti Marina, a large, pricey marina, incorporating the ruins of a Byzantine Church in its layout, where we stopped for necessities and a wander to the small village of Orhaniye.

Unmissable Knidos

The ancient harbour of Knidos, at the tip of the peninsula, was a must-see on our wish list, and we approached with trepidation, expecting the bay to be packed. Although tight, we managed to squeeze in and anchor in the southeast corner, taking in the incredible sight of the city ruins scattered on the surrounding slopes. Founded by Greek settlers, Knidos was an important Dorian port city dating to 400 BC and is renowned for its statue of Aphrodite and association with the scientist Eudoxos. Today, it is still possible to stroll along the well-preserved city paths on the steep terraced hillsides and among the remains of the 8000-seat Hellenistic lower theatre, 4th century BC sundial and Byzantine-era churches. Sitting onboard or swimming in the turquoise water of the harbour, it is incredible to envisage the thriving city with its magnificent temples housing 70,000 people and the different maritime passengers and boats that have visited or sheltered here over the ages. 

After a night swinging around in unison with the other yachts, an escape to the quieter cruising grounds of southeast Gökova beckoned and we set out for dog leg bay, Buku Cati, sailing past a changed landscape of lower, gentler slopes, with more greenery and pine forests. Turning in by the aptly-named One Tree Isle (formally Two Tree apparently!), we finally claimed a bay for ourselves, stern-to, with no one else in sight and no distractions, apart from the ubiquitous biting flies.

We then sailed swiftly eastward up to the head of the gulf towards Sehir Adalari, a group of three islands, including Sedir Island or ‘Cleopatra Island’. Dropping anchor right in the middle of the bay in shallow water and a sandy bottom, the spot was idyllic but not as restful as anticipated when a roasting meltemi wind kicked in at 10pm, keeping us on anchor watch until the early hours. We went ashore the next day, paying the entrance fee to roam the ancient ruins of Cedrae. Cleopatra Beach on the west of the island, where Mark Anthony is said to have transported the fine white sand from Africa for his sweetheart, attracts tripper boat loads of people, who are denied access to the special sand but can wade into the water and enjoy spectacular views of the Kiran mountain range.

Sailing Turkey: Windy Bodrum

Setting off for Bodrum in light winds, we were soon rapidly reefing with unpredictable gusts off the towering cliffs on the north side of the gulf. The sea cut up even more in the approach to the west of Karaada Island off the Bodrum coast as we alternated at the helm, negotiating the choppy, white-crested waves, spray flying over the bow. Beating into Force 7 winds, with gusts up to 35 knots, we were salt encrusted and ready for respite, so motored into sea and wind for the last five miles and settled thankfully at anchor off Bodrum Castle. 

Woken at 5am by a particularly loud and elaborate Call to Prayer, we manoeuvred into a berth among the superyachts in Bodrum Marina the next morning and took a couple of days to experience the historical, bohemian, mythical old Halicarnassus city, located at the confluence of the Aegean and Mediterranean oceans. A visit to Bodrum Castle, which houses the Museum of Underwater Archaeology, will leave you reeling with its array of amphora, ingots and terracotta oil lamps from shipwrecks of all eras and overwhelmed with information – and probably too tired to visit the Mausoleum, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

With our time sailing Turkey nearing the end, we sailed to the ancient capital Datça, where our appointed laconic Seher Tour representative located our translog and crew list online. All we had to do was send a video of the boat at anchor in the bay and message him the Registry and RYA Certificate of Competence. A quick visit to the Port Police for a passport stamp and we were cleared to leave Turkey. Checking in to Greece is not quite so straight forward, so we were well prepared for the afternoon of cycling back and forth to Port Police, customs and immigration in the correct order at Rhodes. The key is to bring printed evidence of everything for stamping – online payment of the TEPAI cruising tax for the relevant months, crew list and transit log – and be prepared to hand over more money to the Greek officials. The seven-week Greece leg of our tour had begun, but that is another story, mainly of battling the Meltemi.

We left Turkey with positive emotions of a memorable sailing experience during which we fully appreciated the privilege of arriving by sea to see the same sight as those arriving thousands of years before – more heightened for us when compared to sailing in Greece. Admittedly, our abiding thoughts were of regret in not choosing a quieter time of year and to imagine enjoying the popular hot-spots without the inundation of laden tripper boats, local craft and international yachts. However, though in peak holiday season, there was always space at the marinas when booked ahead. With a bit of effort, we did find those opportunities to settle at anchor alone or with two or three other yachts nearby, and fully immerse ourselves in the history and atmosphere along this unique Lycian route of antiquity, basking in the spectacular landscape with only the sound of goats’ bells or the buzz of cicadas to break the spell. 

About Jules Riegal

Jules Riegal, a journalist, PR and content specialist, has been sailing with her husband, Chris Stanham, a Royal Navy veteran and qualified Yachtmaster Offshore, for 23 years on their own boat from various bases, including: Portland, UK; Solomons Island, Maryland USA; Corfu and North Cyprus. They have sailed extensively along England’s south and southwest coasts, as well as exploring Brittany, the Canary Islands, Bermuda and British Virgin Islands, and the Chesapeake Bay. With three crew, Jules completed a transatlantic in 2012, from Norfolk, Virginia, to Falmouth, UK, via Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, on Nimble Ape I, a 42DS Jeanneau. Jules and Chris now own 509 Jeanneau Nimble Ape II, based at Karpaz Gate Marina in North Cyprus. 

Sailing Turkey: Full list of Turkey Marinas and Anchorages

Finike to Bodrum…

Finike Marina – Check in to Turkey

Andriake

Gokkaya Limani

Üçagiz Limani

Kas Marina

Yeşilköy Limani

Ölüdeniz

Gemiler Adasi (see photo)

Fethiye Marina

[Skopea Limani:]

Innice Iskelesi

Round Bay

Seagull Bay

Ekincik Limani

MyMarina

Gerbeske Cove

Serçe Limani

Keci Buku

Marti Marina

Kuruca Buku

Datça

Knidos harbour

Mersincik

Buku Cati

Sehir Adalari (Cleopatra Island)

Gelibolu Buku

Bodrum Marina

Datça – Check out of Turkey

Read More:

• Maiden & Tabarly Put Women at Top: Ocean Globe Race Results
• Boat Test: C-Cat 48
• Peloponnese: Sailing In Peaceful Greece

The post Sailing Turkey: Guide to Finding a Tranquil Turquoise Coast appeared first on Sailing Today.

Listen to Tom Cunliffe’s Podcast – February 2024. Produced by Sailing Today with Yachts and Yachting.

Tom’s February Column

‘Do you come from a land down under/ Where women glow and men plunder?’ …Remember that? It was the unofficial theme song for the crew of Australia II when they lifted the America’s Cup from the New York Yacht Club in 1983 off Newport Rhode Island. As it happened, my crew and I sailed into Newport harbour in the thick of the action. We had just completed an East-West North Atlantic voyage via Norway, Iceland, Greenland and Newfoundland. We were bound for Mystic Connecticut where we planned to lay up for a month or two to bang the old boat back together. Our 1911 pilot cutter had taken a hammering in the Greenland Sea and we were running short of jibs. We were now in day-sailing mode and Newport looked like an ideal stopover.

It seems incredible today that we had no idea about the historic events taking place there, but what with all the fun of the fair up north, we had taken our eye off the ball when it came to international yachting events. When we arrived, the 12-metres were out racing. Huge Australian flags were flying over the marina giving Old Glory a good run for its money. We’d seen the spectator boats and the twelves in the offing and realised what we had stumbled upon, so I decided to spring for a marina berth. We’d be part of the action and, as a spin-off, hard by Thames Street where we knew that ‘The Handy Lunch’ café offered ‘Breakfast All Day’. We were already planning our ‘link Sausage, two eggs easy over and hash browns with pancakes on the side’ when a white-clad youth in an official-looking baseball hat on the outer pontoon waved us away.

‘No room, Man. We’ve been booked out all summer. There’s no berths in town.’ Digesting this dismal intelligence, we pottered off towards the anchorage which was so chock-full of boats that finding a hole for a 50-footer extended by fifteen feet of extra spars was a non-starter. It’s never easy to give up on a harbour and head back to sea, but that was the state of play when a scruffy motorboat hove alongside with an old shipmate jumping up and down who lived on the waterfront.

‘Great to see you. You’ll never get a slot by asking. Follow me!’

Tom Cunliffe: Following Kenny

Kenny has been around the block more times than most sailors and we were fresh out of options, so follow him we did. He led us back towards the central marina, but instead of approaching the pontoons he puttered round the corner and laid his craft alongside a stone wall where a group of locals were engaged in casual fishing. We watched as Kenny struck up a conversation with them. I could see where this was leading. It seemed we were to moor up on a vacant quay backed by a small park, beyond which ran Washington Street, home of many of New England’s great and good. It couldn’t possibly be allowed, and anyway, the fishermen had first to be appeased.

The thing about ordinary Americans on their home turf is that their default reaction to strangers is to be welcoming. There are, of course, exceptions, but in general, once you are away from the big cities, that’s how it is. I could see the guys sizing us up as Kenny made his pitch. They were used to seeing smart yachts and gleaming stainless fittings, clean preppy crews and clearly no shortage of funds. Our boat looked different. Her black hull was stained from thousands of tough ocean miles, some of her iron fastenings were bleeding rust and her brown gaff sails made a statement in themselves. The guys approved and moved apart to make space for a berth. Kenny shunted his boat out of the way and in we went. We’d bowlines at the ready but when the hands looked for cleats or bollards to drop them over, there weren’t any. Confusion reigned until Kenny waved towards a series of conveniently spaced park benches with heavy wrought-iron legs set in concrete. No sooner were we secure to these admirable alternatives than our informal hosts came crowding round with questions. The outstanding query was ‘Have you guys come all the way from England in that?’

Later that afternoon things had settled down at the park benches when the world went mad. Racket and rumpus began to erupt from down the shoreline as the biggest Australian flag in the world came in, flying bravely from Australia II’s masthead. She’d won her race and had clawed the aggregate back to ‘3-all out of seven’. We discovered all this as we elbowed our way through the crowds to watch the radical 12-metre with the green-and-gold stripes berth with the music playing full-on. The final race was going to be a historic show-down, but not for a day or two.

As the partying ramped up next door, events were not proceeding without interest at our private berth. The fishermen all remained friendly. One of them even gave us enough of his catch to make our dinner, but we started to wonder how long it could possibly be before some official arrived demanding money. We had now found out that spaces in the marina where we had tried our luck were charging out at $150 a night for 30-footers. This, remember, was 1983 when you still got a lot of burger for your buck. Two nights of that at ‘pro rata’ would have emptied our coffers, but by now we were fully committed to the racing, cheering lustily for the Aussies. Leaving town before the final result was out of the question, so we sat tight and said nothing. The following day, there was still no representative from the harbour master’s office to clean us out, but soon after lunch in the heat of the afternoon, a cop car stopped on the other side of the park. A proper American policeman climbed out looking exactly as Hollywood had taught us he should. Loaded down with hand-cuffs, side-arms, night stick and radio, he strolled menacingly across the grass to stand alongside the shrouds, astride our headspring with its bowline round the stout chair leg.

‘Which of you guys is the captain?’ He asked with an alarmingly neutral expression.

I admitted it was me.

‘Who gave you permission to stay here?’ he went on, ‘And who are you paying?’

It had to happen, I thought. Given the sort of money people were stumping up to scrum it out in a marina literally stuffed with boats, our privileged berth position couldn’t continue. One lesson I’ve learned ashore, if not at sea, is that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.

With a heavy heart I came clean and admitted that, despite our smart red ensign, we were really no better than chancers. The guardian of law and order opened his notebook and was about to start writing when one of our neighbours put down his fishing rod and spoke up.

‘See here, officer,’ he said. ‘These guys are visiting our country. They ain’t done no harm and they’ll be gone soon. Why not leave them alone?’ 

I could have kissed him. The policeman hesitated, then put the notebook back in his pocket.

‘I guess if there’s no trouble it’s OK,’ he said slowly. ‘Just don’t be here next week or the sheriff will have you for loitering.’ 

Still with a poker face, he walked back to his car and drove away.

An Even Warmer Welcome

That evening at cocktail time the front door of one of the grand houses across the park opened and a butler, complete with tailed coat and bow tie, came out carrying a tray of drinks. We were all on deck as he stopped beside the boat and made his announcement:

‘The lady of the house wishes me to tell you that your boat has improved her view these last few days. She would like to share her evening cocktail with you.’ 

With that, he handed over the silver tray. I asked if I could invite his boss to join us. He made it clear that this would not be appropriate, but reiterated that we, and our berth, were welcome in the neighbourhood. God bless America, I thought.

The following day the last cup race finally got away. Australia II won by 41 seconds and changed the course of yachting history.

Read More:

• Ben Meakins’ Adventures: Round The Island Race
• Round The Island Race 2024: Early Bird Entry Closing Soon!
• New May Issue: Sailing Today with Yachts and Yachting – Out Now

The post Tom Cunliffe: What to do with no Berths in Town appeared first on Sailing Today.