Voyages 2024

Commodore’s Column

Dear Fellow Sailors:

This 2024 issue of Voyages captures the spirit of adventure, curiosity, and camaraderie that define the Cruising Club of America. Editors Bob and Ami Green, who generously donate their time and talent to create Voyages, have assembled a collection of 12 globe-spanning sea stories from our members.

You’ll sail across Drake Passage with Max Fletcher, save a man overboard in the Spanish Virgins with Andy Burton, make an expedition to the South Sandwich Islands with frequent contributor Skip Novak, and circumnavigate Newfoundland via Greenland and Labrador with Ashley Perrin and Merfyn Owen. You’ll drop in on Blue Water Medal winners Thies Matzen and Kicki Ericson in the Falklands, where Steve and Karyn James found them while traveling on a National Geographic-Lindblad cruise.

There are also some thoughtful, personal reflections. Bob Rubadeau and Anne Kolker write about their formative years as sailors — Bob on his evolution as a licensed professional captain, and Anne on learning to master a boat after her husband’s death and going on to skipper all-women racing crews. Chris White shares all there is to love about catamarans, and Dorothy Wadlow reveals the pleasures of bird-watching at sea.

Ami Green deftly captures the quiet spirit and unassuming character of Kirsten Neuschäfer, the first woman to win the Golden Globe Race and the winner of both the Rod Stephens Trophy and this year’s Blue Water Medal winner. Ami’s interview with Kirsten details the many blue-water accomplishments of perhaps the most-celebrated woman sailor of our time.

Even commodores get to go sailing once in a while. I share my account of sailing Aphrodite in CCA’s 2023 Mallorca Cruise, organized by Les Crane and Howie Hodgson.

Clay Hutchinson’s book, Somewhere South Sailing Through Polynesia 1977, will help you pass the winter until sailing season — check out Don Stabbert’s review in this issue.

If you are loafing around on a winter night and have 40 minutes to spare, take in Gary Jobson’s movie, The Cruising Club of America: Sailing the World for 100 Years, which reminds us where the CCA came from and how it got to where it is now. You’ll find it on the CCA website and on YouTube.

So there you have it: a road map for some great reading. A big “Bravo Zulu” from Shawn and me to our editors and the members who have so lovingly shared their sea stories and reflections.

We would like to take this opportunity to thank the members of the CCA who work so hard keeping our club vibrant and relevant and for the great cruising opportunities. Shawn and I are grateful for the trust placed in us, and we are honored to have been in service to the club. On March 1, we will have our change of watch. Our club will be in good hands as new Commodore Jay Gowell and his wife, Elizabeth, tack on the headers and point high with the lifts!

Cheers, Chris and Shawn

About the CCA

The Cruising Club of America is among North America’s foremost resources on offshore cruising and racing and, together with the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club, co-organizer of the legendary Newport Bermuda Race. The club is comprised of more than 1,356 accomplished ocean sailors who willingly share their cruising expertise with the greater sailing community through books, articles, blogs, videos, seminars, and onboard opportunities. Ocean safety and seamanship training through publications and hands-on seminars is a critical component of the club’s national and international outreach efforts.

The club has 14 stations and posts around the United States, Canada, and Bermuda, and CCA members are actively engaged with the next generation of ocean sailors as they look forward to the club’s second century of serving the offshore sailing community. For more information about the CCA, visit cruisingclub.org.

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

Voyages

Chronicles of the Cruising Club of America

cruising club officers

Commodore – Christopher L. Otorowski

Vice Commodore – John R. Gowell Secretary – Molly Barnes

Treasurer – Kathleen M. O’Donnell voyages editors

Amelia and Robert Green voyages@cruisingclub.org

voyages committee

Editor of Final Voyages – David P. Curtin (BOS)

Past Issues Manager – Cindy Crofts-Wisch (BOS/BUZ)

Editorial Advisors: Dale Bruce (BOS/GMP), Doug Bruce (BOS/GMP), Lynnie Bruce (BOS/GMP), John Chandler (BOS/GMP), Doug Cole (PNW), Max Fletcher (BOS/GMP), Bob Hanelt (SAF), Cameron Hinman (PNW), Amy Jordan (BOS), Charlie Peake (NYS), Krystina Scheller (BDO), Brad Willauer (BOS/GMP) editors emeritus

Alfred B. Stamford, 1962-1974; Charles H. Vilas, 1974-1988; Bob and Mindy Drew, 1988-1994; John and Nancy McKelvy, 1994-1999; John and Judy Sanford, 1999-2002; T.L. and Harriet Linskey, 2002-2010; Doug and Dale Bruce, 2010-2017; Zdenka and Jack Griswold, 2017-2021 design and layout

Amelia and Robert Green; Claire MacMaster, Barefoot Art Graphic Design; Tara Law, Artist; Hillary Steinau, Camden Design Group proofreading

Amelia Green; Virginia M. Wright, Consultant; Editorial Advisors printed by J.S. McCarthy Printers, Augusta, Maine cover photo

A view of Santana from the Friar Trail in François, Newfoundland. See Ashley Perrin and Merfyn Owen's Circumnavigation of Newfoundland via Greenland and Labrador on page 20.

copyright notice

Copyright 2024, The Cruising Club of America, Inc.

Copyright 2024, respective author(s) of each article, including any photographs, drawings, and illustrations. No part of this work may be copied, transmitted, or otherwise reproduced by any means whatsoever except by permission of the copyright holders.

VOYAGES 2024

4 A Sail across the Drake Passage to Antarctica by Max Fletcher Boston Station, Greater Maine Post Winner of the Club’s 2024 Far Horizons Award

14 XX Sailors by Anne Kolker, New York Station

Winner of Charles H. Vilas Literary Prize

20 SAF Station member completes circumnavigation of Newfoundland via Greenland and Labrador by Merfyn Owen and Ashley Perrin, San Francisco Station

30 Snow & Ice

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

38 Birds Aboard by Dorothy Wadlow, Essex Station

42 An Unexpected visit with 2011 Blue Water Medalists Thies Matzen and Kicki Ericson in the Falklands by Steve and Karyn James, Florida Station

50 Rock & A Hard Place

A memorable expedition sail to Zavodovski, the most remote of the South Sandwich Islands. by Skip Novak, Great Lakes Station

60 Carpe Diem on a Cat by Chris White, Pacific Northwest Station

66 A Lucky Man Overboard by Andrew Burton, Boston Station

70 On Becoming a Captain by R.J. Rubadeau, Boston Station

78 Voyagers in Mallorca by Chris Otorowski, Pacific Northwest Station and Narragansett Bay Post

With Jill Hearne, Ernie Godshalk, and Ann Noble-Kiley

94 Interview with Golden Globe Race Winner Kirsten Neuschäfer

Winner of the Club's 2022 Rod Stephens Trophy and the 2023 Blue Water Medal by Amelia Green, Essex Station

101 Book Review - Somewhere South: Sailing through Polynesia 1977 by Clay Hutchinson

Review by Don Stabbert, Pacific Northwest Station

102 History of the CCA

Discover a bit of our valued history with the Irish Cruising Club and the Royal Cruising Club over the years.

106 FINAL VOYAGES

Salutes to departed members.

Edited by David Curtin, Boston Station, Buzzards Bay Post, and Robert Green, Essex Station

127 GUIDELINES for Final Voyages, Photos, and Articles

130 LAST WORDS from the Editors

A SAIL across the DRAKE PASSAGE to ANTARCTICA

I’VE HAD A DEEP FASCINATION FOR THE FAR SOUTH EVER SINCE

I read about Ernest Shackleton in fifth grade. I got a taste of it at age 29, when I sailed my Westsail 32 double-handed from New Zealand across the Southern Ocean to the Falkland Islands. The year was 1985, shortly after the Falklands War, and the British military folks told us, “You fellows ought to sail to South Georgia — the scenery and wildlife are amazing.” It was too late in the season to do so, but they’d planted a seed in me. Sailing to the far south became my highest sailing goal.

Nearly four decades later, I was retired and still hadn’t fulfilled that goal, so I placed an ad on the Ocean Cruising Club (OCC) website offering myself as crew for anyone heading that way.

Which is how I found myself on a flight to Ushuaia, Argentina, to join Barry Kennedy for a voyage to the Palmer Peninsula in December 2022. Barry had sailed there twice in recent years aboard his 38-foot Dix pilothouse cutter. Then, during the global pandemic shutdown, he purchased a Garcia Passoa 50 sight unseen in New Zealand and had her shipped to the U.S. He spent a winter upgrading her systems, christened her Gringo, and sailed to Ushuaia by way of the Panama Canal and the Gambier Islands in French Polynesia.

Ushuaia felt like the frontier town that it is. The gateway to Antarctica, it touts itself as “the end of the world.” Black snowcapped mountains ring the city, and the wind frequently blows hard. No wonder: Cape Horn lies just 55 miles south.

Argentina felt like the Wild West economically too. The inflation rate trended towards 100 percent. Barry advised me to bring clean, unmarked U.S. $100 bills and avoid using ATMs and credit cards. The latter would incur the official exchange rate, then about 160 pesos to the dollar, whereas exchanging the bills

at the informal exchange houses called “cuevas” would fetch the “Blue Dollar” rate of about 300 pesos per dollar, making everything nearly half price.

Gringo was tied up at one of the two nautical clubs in town. I familiarized myself with the boat and helped with last-minute projects, such as generator repairs, fueling, provisioning, and all the other myriad details involved in getting ready for an extended voyage. Everything took on a heightened significance since we needed to be entirely self-sufficient in a hostile environment for three to four weeks.

Our three other crew members flew in from Colorado and Wyoming. Barry’s best friend, Todd Rutledge, is a highly experienced mountaineer and has led expeditions up many of the world’s highest peaks, including Antarctica’s Mount Vinson. Todd’s son, Dalton, was a junior in high school, and our voyage was planned around his school vacation. Martha Williamson, a National Park Service manager, rounded out the crew. All three were new to sailing, but fortunately Martha had done the passage from the Galapagos to the Gambiers and become familiar with Gringo

It is intimidating to contemplate crossing the Drake Passage when you know you’re likely to get hammered somewhere along the way. Advances in weather forecasting in recent years enable safer route planning, and Barry had engaged Ken McKinley of Locus Weather to help with our long-range forecasting. We hoped we might get a few days of the “Drake Lake,” rather than what locals call the “Drake Shake.”

We departed Ushuaia in a flat calm but were disappointed

when the Chilean Navy denied our request, made over VHF radio, to sail down through their islands. Apparently, they were miffed we had sailed from Argentina, a country with whom they share much animosity, so we had to skirt farther to the east before turning south.

I was in the cockpit standing watch on the second evening in typically boisterous Drake conditions: 35–45 knot westerly winds with frequent gusts into the 50s. We were reaching, making 7 to 8 knots with a staysail and three reefs in the main. Despite the watertight hatch being shut tight, I caught occasional whiffs of seared beef emanating from the galley. I opened the hatch and discovered Martha cooking dinner. I told her, “Martha, no one cooks a gourmet meal in 50 knots of wind.” She laughed and replied that she was new to sailing and didn’t know any better.

The next day was calmer and sunny, and seabirds filled the sky all day long. The numerous albatrosses gliding close to the boat seemed very curious about us, and we were equally mesmerized by them.

Nearing the 60th parallel, we sailed through an area of fog that denoted the Antarctic Convergence — the boundary between the northern temperate zone and polar air and water masses. The waters here are rich in nutrients, and we spotted numerous whales spouting around the horizon. Both air and water temperatures dropped from about 43 to 34 F. Fortunately, Gringo’s Webasto heater kept the main cabin warm during passages, and a large Refleks heater did so when anchored.

Argentina.

The following afternoon we noticed a bright cloud on the horizon. A couple of hours later, it dawned on us that the enormous white mass was actually Smith Island! The island is being uplifted by plate tectonics and presents high, steep snowbound peaks formed of particularly dense rocks that are resistant to erosion.

When morning dawned, our landfall destination appeared out of the mist ahead — the Melchior Islands. We rounded a headland and wound our way between Zeta and Eta islands. Steep cliffs of snow and blue ice surrounded us and emanated deep cold. Snow mixed with fog swirled around the peaks above. The landscape was utterly surreal, magical, and otherworldly. We had arrived in Antarctica.

We soon learned the routine of anchoring where there are few natural harbors: Find a spot to drop anchor, then take four lines ashore to hold the boat in position against winds that can blow from any direction. We carried four large bags, each one

containing 100 meters of floating polypropylene line — two for the bow and two for the stern. We got the boat tied in and enjoyed shots of whiskey, followed by a good sleep.

Our next stop was Foyn Harbour, Enterprise Island, where we tied alongside the rusting hulk of the Governoren , a whale-oil processing ship that was deliberately run aground in 1915 to save her crew after she caught fire. Martha and I paddled inflatable kayaks and admired the icy scenery, while Todd and his son scaled a small mountain and skied down. During the night, a daintily carved iceberg about the size of our boat drifted into the harbor and rafted alongside us.

Barry’s permit to cruise Antarctica specified that nothing, including food scraps, paper towels, and TP, was to be tossed overboard so as not to contaminate the environment. We carried three large dry bags for our trash and recyclables in the transom. For trips ashore, we washed our boots in a solution of water and antibacterial tablets.

During our next day sail, to Port Lockroy, we discovered the channel blocked by a stretch of brash ice and large bergy bits. After poking around the edges, Barry plowed the boat right through a roughly 300-foot-long section where the ice appeared less thick almost without losing speed — nothing like an aluminum hull and a powerful engine!

Barry and Todd took the dinghy to scout attachment points in a tiny anchorage protected by a couple of small islets. Barry liked to have the “shore party” — that was Todd — pre-tie one of our lines to shore so it could be immediately attached the moment the boat came in and anchored. This was typically done on the windward side in order to hold the boat in position while the other three shore lines were deployed.

Details on many of the anchorages suitable for yachts have been passed amongst the handful of sailors who have ventured to Antarctica in recent decades. These rough hand-drawn sketches include landmarks, places to drop an anchor and tie to shore, locations of uncharted rocks, and other info that might be of use. Such tips are critical to cruising here — safe anchorages are few and far between, and there is little room for error in keeping the boat secure and avoiding dangerous situations.

Our cove at Port Lockroy was surrounded on three sides by snow-covered hills containing numerous penguin rookeries. We loved wandering around and watching the birds strut up and down the hillsides from a respectable distance. December is breeding time for the gentoo penguins. We saw quite a few sitting on their eggs and their mates bringing them small stones to build their nests. I used the occasion of being on land to stand on my head in honor of my late dad, Abbot, who stood on his head at the South Pole in 1995 when he was 73 years old.

The next day we took the dinghy around to the Port Lockroy research station. The original structure, the first British base in Antarctica, is preserved as it was when abandoned a half century or so ago. Today the United Kingdom Antarctic Heritage Trust manages the site. The four young women staffing it were friendly and informative, and we were

Max stands on his head in memory of his late father, Abbot. (Todd Rutledge)

chosen the high rocky spot because snow would melt or blow off more quickly there. Penguin eggs do not fare well in deep, drifting snow.

able to purchase a few mementos and mail postcards from Antarctica’s only post office.

As we started off on the 20 miles to our next anchorage, the wind built to the 35–40 knot range. We had to wind through a narrow channel that was partially blocked by both grounded and floating icebergs. We were sailing downwind at about 5 knots with just a handkerchief of jib rolled out. It was sometimes hard to judge — and we had little time to assess — on which side to pass each iceberg in order to stay in the channel, so Barry watched the chart while I steered. With the wind still howling, we eventually came to Port Charcot, a bay where we tucked up in the lee of the land and set an anchor to wait out the blow.

The penguins on the hills above the anchorage had to walk an exceedingly long distance to get from their rookery to the tip of a long point where they could jump into the water. It seemed like an inefficient location for their nests, but we later learned that due to an exceedingly large snowfall that had recently blanketed the region, the penguins had likely

The next morning we motored over to Hovgaard Island, hoping to tie into the same tiny cove where Rolfe Bjelke and Deborah Shapiro had wintered in the steel cutter Northern Light in 1984. They had chosen a place surrounded by rocks so that the ice would freeze solidly in place and not move around and damage the boat. By the time we got there, however, the breeze had kicked up on the beam, making it hard to keep the boat positioned in the narrow channel. We decided to head back to Lockroy via the dramatic Lemaire Channel.

Prior to our trip, my wife, Lynnie, had gone through my Antarctic books and, unbeknownst to me, created a trivia game featuring multiple-choice cards with fun facts based on five categories: penguins, whales, seals, birds, and Antarctica (Example: How does a penguin steer? Answer: with its feet). Now we enjoyed playing the game while learning about our surroundings, and we agreed that Lynnie ought to market it to the cruise ships that ply these waters!

While anchored at Port Lockroy, Lockroy Base hailed us on VHF radio and invited us “for tea or stronger.” We

dinghied in to a warm welcome from our four delightful hosts. They had arrived in November to a cold hut that needed to be powered back to life, and they would be there until March, doing penguin and climate research and welcoming cruise tourists. We were their first social guests of the season. They couldn’t have been lovelier — no surprise considering they were chosen from a field of 4,000 applicants and had been put together as a team after psychological tests. One had a master’s degree in environmental studies, one was a PhD candidate in conservation biology, one was a retail specialist and ran the small Lockroy store, and one did leadership training at Cambridge University.

It was around this time that Ken McKinley, our weather router, began alerting us that strong winds and heavy seas would blanket the Cape Horn region in about a week’s time. If we didn’t leave Antarctica soon, we might be stuck there for a while. We quickly made the boat ready to head out on the 550-nautical mile sail back to Chile.

The forecast had been for 25–30-knot winds, for which we had put in two (of five) reefs. Once clear of ice fields, where we saw numerous humpback whales, we got out to the open ocean and found the wind gusting close to 50, accompanied by a steep chop. With cold seas sweeping the deck, Barry went forward to put in another reef in the very difficult conditions. That evening we enjoyed a bouncy Christmas dinner of stuffed red and green peppers.

The next day we had nice reaching conditions in 30–40knot winds and made good time. After we passed the Antarctic

Convergence, the sharp rise in temperature made standing watch more comfortable. As we got farther north, we started to get a few hours of darkness at night and found the Southern Cross and, upside down from what we’re used to in the Northern Hemisphere, Orion.

As we approached Cape Horn, the wind backed to southwest at 25–30 knots with regular violent squalls that reached well into the 50s. It’s hard to maintain speed in 25–30 knot winds when you have to keep sails reduced for sudden violent squalls, so it was an active effort trying different amounts of jib and staysail rolled out. We needed to sail as low as possible, without jibing, in order to clear Cape Horn, while fighting the tendency of the boat to round up in extreme squalls in the building seas.

We saw Cape Horn’s lighthouse flashing as we sailed by in the darkness around 1 a.m., then turned north onto a reach. It was still blowing 25–30 and gusting 45-55. We needed to get to one of the four potential anchorages we had in mind before the forecasted seriously heavy weather set in later in the day. We set our sights on Caleta Banner on Isla Picton, Chile, a small, very protected cove with what we expected would be good holding.

The wind finally died, and we started the engine. Five miles from the anchorage, our engine started to act up.

We eventually diagnosed that it had a piece of kelp wrapped around the propeller shaft. No amount of forward/reverse would disengage the kelp, so we considered sending a diver over or backtracking to an anchorage we had passed earlier. After a half hour, the kelp finally worked itself free and we crept into Caleta Banner a few hours before the heavy winds began in earnest.

We anchored just past an old broken-down dock and read that Caleta Banner had once been a coaling station — the very station where the vessel Yelcho had taken on coal prior to her voyage to Elephant Island to relieve Shackleton’s men in 1916. We were invited ashore by the Chilean Navy officer at Isla Picton. Todd, Dalton, and I rowed in to his home, and we were welcomed with kisses from his wife and 15- and 6-year-old daughters. The island’s only inhabitants, the family is there for a year, with the possibility of a second year. Overseeing an outpost is considered a plum position, though the teenage daughter took some adjusting — especially considering that the internet got taken out in a recent gale! Our gift of two large grocery bags of oranges, melons, and chocolates was warmly received (their supply boat comes only once every two months). It reminded me of the lonely lives of lighthouse keepers in Maine in years past. Our protected sanctuary proved a little less ideal when we started dragging our anchor. We discovered there was kelp all over the bottom, and some of it had wrapped itself around the body of our anchor when the wind shifted.

We eventually got a break in the strong winds and motored to Puerto Williams to clear in — and out — of Chile. We tied up to the renowned Micalvi, a grounded ship that has served as one of the southernmost bars in the world, famed for the many legendary sailors who have sheltered and wintered here.

We scooted back to Ushuaia in time for a New Year’s Eve cookout at the marina’s clubhouse. Among the party-goers were seven women and one man who had just flown to Ushuaia to sail aboard the Antarctica-bound Spirit of Sydney and were meeting each other for the first time. None of the eight had much sailing experience. I marveled at the fortitude of the young couple who would be skippering the 60-foot boat across the Drake Passage essentially by themselves — while cooking for, entertaining, and watching after eight guests.

It was soon time to pack my bags and start on a long series of plane hops home. An old adage says, “A man who would go to sea for pleasure would go to Hell for pastime.” That might describe parts of our voyage, but I prefer to think we go to sea to behold the natural world and the wonders of creation. Antarctica and the waters coming and going certainly fit the bill.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Max Fletcher grew up racing and cruising in Maine. He has cruised extensively in the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, Scandinavia, and the Pacific Ocean, visiting more than 50 countries under sail. On Christopher Robin, his Westsail 32, he sailed from Maine to New Zealand, across the Southern Ocean and around Cape Horn. He and his wife, Lynnie Bruce, live on Orrs Island, Maine, when not cruising aboard their Nordic 40, Juanona.

XX Sailors

“I had never raised or lowered the in-boom roller furling main, operated the anchor windlass, or brought the boat into a dock, but as I mastered these skills, I grew to feel comfortable being in charge.”

Iwas lucky to grow up in a family of strong, motivated women. My grandmother was the force behind my grandfather’s successful business. My mother went to medical school and became a pediatrician in the early 1930s when women in medicine were unusual. One of my aunts became the alternate delegate to the United Nations. I was always told that I could become whatever I chose to be.

As a child, I remember a song with the lyrics, “Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.” So, I did just that many times. Having a goal made it possible to keep going when others seemed to suggest that my direction wasn’t likely to succeed.

I learned a bit about sailing from my aunt and uncle who took us out on their boat on occasion, but when I met my future husband, Alan Hilgenberg, I admitted that my sailing skills amounted to little more than knowing how to carefully fold the sail cover for storage instead of dumping it in a clump! We began sailing together on an Island Packet that Alan shared with a friend. When he sold his share in the boat, we moved up to a 42-foot Beneteau First.

We had much to learn. I insisted that we take an offshore course on an 88-foot schooner, Ocean Star, owned by Ocean Navigator magazine. We sailed overnight from Key West to the Dry Tortugas and back. We learned a great deal about navigation, radar, standing watch, meal planning, weather, and radio calls. We subsequently sailed and cruised together along the East Coast, with offshore passages to Maine, and we chartered in the Caribbean. We planned to buy a bigger boat, retire, and spend our time sailing. Then, in 2002, we graduated to our Stellar 52 sloop-rigged yacht, which I named Étoile. With electric winches and in-boom roller furling, it was easy for two people to handle.

In 2008, when Alan was terminally ill, we considered trying to sell our beautiful sailboat, but the market wasn’t good, so we held off. Not long after, Alan passed away, and I became

the sole owner and skipper of Étoile. I was quite timid about handling this complex boat at first. I had never raised or lowered the in-boom roller furling main, operated the anchor windlass, or brought the boat into a dock, but as I mastered these skills, I grew to feel comfortable being in charge. A friend suggested that I consider joining an all-female crew in the 2009 Marion Bermuda race. I had never done any racing, but I was told that being a doctor as well as a sailor would make me a valuable member of a team.

I met with Deb Gayle, a veteran of numerous Bermuda races, who recommended me to skipper Maren Erskine. Erskine interviewed me and ultimately accepted me as crew. It was a turning point in my sailing experience. I met a group of women who had far more sailing and racing experience than I did. We practiced every weekend. Luckily for me, the race boat was docked at a marina near where Étoile was moored in Stonington, Connecticut. I was able to spend nights on my boat and sail all weekend. A fellow crew member, Garet Wohl, stayed with me instead of driving back and forth from her home in Salem, Massachusetts. Garet had just spent a year of weekends sailing her boat from Salem to Grenada by hopping down the East Coast and across the Caribbean, both single handedly and with help. When she asked me about my sailing goals, I said that I wanted to feel as comfortable being in charge of my boat as I was being in charge of the operating room. She promised to help.

We started the 2009 race, but turned back due to mechanical issues and concern for an oncoming storm. Since we all had booked return flights from Bermuda, we flew there to see the race wrap up. Calling ourselves “the singing nuns,” Garet and I wrapped ourselves in red kraft paper to resemble buoys and sang “Get Me to Bermuda on Time” to the tune of the My Fair Lady’s “Get Me to the Church on Time.” We had fun as the entertainment. I told my shipmates that we would do the race on my boat next time.

“As we neared Bermuda, a wave washed into the aft lazarette where some electronics were stored but not protected. Suddenly the chart plotter indicated that we were in Africa. Then it went blank.”

I knew that I should get some ocean-racing experience on Étoile before entering her in the Bermuda race, so, I signed up for the Lobster Run from Stonington to Boothbay Harbor. It was a category 2 race, which meant that we wouldn’t be out of reach of Coast Guard help if we needed it. My crew of seven women included several from the 2009 Bermuda attempt and a few more from my yacht club in Stonington. It was a new experience to be helpless in the Gulf of Maine currents, which pushed us backwards when the wind was too light to propel us. I was thrilled to cross the finish line on a beautiful sunny day. When a man at the Boothbay Harbor Yacht Club inquired about the race, I told him I’d been aboard Étoile.

“Isn’t that the all-female crew?” he asked.

I nodded.

“And you got here!”

I calmly told him that women actually know how to sail. Perhaps that too was a turning point.

I decided to try a Marion Bermuda race with an all-female crew in 2011. It took time and dedication to prepare Étoile for

a category 1 race. Because Étoile isn’t a one design, I reached out to the yard in Taiwan to get the documentation that allowed my boat to be rated by US Sailing. Having those details helped me to organize and understand my boat well enough to feel confident that we could go offshore where anything can happen.

We practiced for several months and were ready when we delivered the boat to Marion. The race start was thrilling — and somewhat terrifying: my crew told me that the captain takes the boat over the starting line, something I had never done. The race began with us close-hauled in 25–30 knots of wind. I wondered if I had lost my senses, but my crew seemed calm and that helped. Each day brought different weather. We had one day where there was so little wind that a sea turtle swam around us while one of the crew painted her nails. When we crossed the rough and lumpy Gulf Stream, I understood why some say it’s like sailing over Volkswagens. As we neared Bermuda, a wave washed into the aft lazarette where some electronics were stored but not protected. Suddenly the chart plotter indicated that we were in Africa. Then it went blank. Luckily, Garet, my

Above: Chilly fun in Newfoundland.

Left: Taking off down the coast of Newfoundland with Garet and Dan Coit, a surgeon from Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.

navigator, had a backup computer with GPS so we could steer around the race marks without ending on a reef. We finished the race with a respectable time — not last! When we were greeted at the dinghy club with a Dark ‘n’ Stormy, I thought, “Been there, done that.”

At the end of the summer in 2012, I began to think about doing the Marion Bermuda race again. Maybe I would place higher; at the very least, I would know what to expect. Not everyone from my previous crew was available, but I got inquiries from other women who had sailing experience and wanted to join me. Why not?

So, we practiced and planned. This time I was smart enough to provision for meals in both directions instead of thinking that I could easily buy prepared food in Bermuda. A few days before the race, our youngest member fell down a flight of stairs and was unable to join us. I replaced her with a very seasoned older woman who was willing to come at the last minute. The crew change allowed us to win the Ancient Mariners Golden Teapot Trophy, awarded to the crew with the oldest average age. Sometimes, things just work out.

As I continued to enter Bermuda races, it became evident that mine was the boat that women wanted to join. I realized that women were often reluctantly added to crew to serve as the cook. On my boat, everyone did everything. We all learned how to run the generator so that we could keep the batteries charged. We practiced crew-overboard in early-spring challenging winds. We deployed and recovered a 100-foot section of my Jordan Series Drogue. Each crew member contributed a frozen meal in two large portions to feed us in both directions. I knew that the race was as much about the entire experience as it was about racing. My boat wasn’t designed as a racing machine, but it was sturdy in all conditions and easy to sail.

So far, I have completed seven offshore races with all-female crew. My last race, from Newport to Bermuda, included the husband of one crew who asked to join us for the experience. I agreed to have him if he would accept the cook designation. We had a thrilling start, and we had fun despite running out of wind and motoring the last day to finish. It’s always about the journey.

In addition to offshore races, I have done lots of cruising along the East Coast and in the Caribbean. Garet and I took her Contessa 32 on a crazy adventure across the Atlantic from Gran Canaria to Grenada.

One my great inspirations is the late physicist Rosalyn Yalow, who won the Nobel Prize for developing radioimmunoassay, a powerful tool for following compounds’ movements in cells. Yalow kept a sign in her laboratory coat closet that said, “Whatever women do, they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not hard!” I was thrilled to meet Dr. Yalow when she gave a talk at my hospital. She indicated that she was simply doing what interested her. That’s the best way to keep going.

About the Author

Dr. Anne Kolker has hosted all-female crews in offshore races from New England to Bermuda and inspired dozens of women to seek out sailing opportunities. In 2023, the Boat Owners Association of the United States and the National Women’s Sailing Association honored her with the Leadership in Women’s Sailing Award, which recognizes an individual with a record of achievement in inspiring, educating, and enriching the lives of women through sailing.

Anne’s crews are five-time winners of the Faith Paulson Trophy, awarded to the fastest all-women crew in the Marion Bermuda Race. Anne has offered her medical knowledge on ocean crossings and safety at sea, has been instrumental in developing race strategies, and has lectured to teams about safety practices. She has given lectures at NWSA events and is a leader at Safety at Sea programs, preparing crews for unexpected medical events. She is credited with saving the life of a crew member during a transatlantic passage. Besides being a CCA member, she is a member of Stonington and New York Yacht Clubs and Ocean Cruising Club.

“The best thing about sailing is every time you go sailing you learn something,” she says. “Confident competence is my constant goal. Women are great shipmates with many competencies.”

SAF Station member completes circumnavigation of Newfoundland via Greenland and Labrador

It took a long time, but we did it: Ashley Perrin and I circumnavigated Newfoundland via Greenland and Labrador aboard Santana, Ashley’s Carl Schumacherdesigned Capo 30. We left Halifax, Nova Scotia, in 2018, sailing to the French islands of Saint-Pierre et Miquelon in the Route Halifax Saint-Pierre Ocean Race (which we won). After hearing stories of coastal Newfoundland’s remote beauty, we decided to embark on a high-latitude adventure as far north as the Davis Strait between Greenland and Baffin Island. We returned to Saint-Pierre in late September and took Santana on a weeklong cruise to St. John’s, where she was hauled and overwintered in advance of our sail north in 2019.

Although we had no detailed itinerary, we had prepared our little boat for most anything. We refitted and outfitted Santana for remote cruising with a forward watertight bulkhead and demountable jack stands that allowed us to haul out anywhere without having to build a cradle. Our cruising kit included thermal clothing, jerry cans, fender boards, sails, spares, removable bow roller, and a 20-kilogram Rocna anchor and chain that we had shipped to Saint-Pierre. Kind friends took our racing sails and other gear back to Halifax and stored them for us. Our route included Newfoundland, Greenland, Labrador, and back to Saint-Pierre, but because of the pandemic, it took five years to complete it instead of the three we’d originally planned.

Santana was the first boat to launch and head north from St. John’s in June of 2019. There was snow on the ground and ice in the water all the way to St. Anthony on the Great Northern Peninsula during our ten-day passage. Along the way, we received the first of many kindnesses from the people of Newfoundland and Labrador. We sailed into Bonavista Harbour the landing site of John Cabot’s vessel Matthew and

at Newfoundland’s northern tip, the remains of L’Anse aux Meadows, an 11th-century Viking settlement and UNESCO World Heritage site. We left Santana in St. Anthony for six weeks while we waited for July, with its warmer days and better weather prospects for the five- to six-day crossing to Greenland.

Departing St. Anthony on a favourable forecast, we followed a course northeast to the continental shelf, then left its fog and icebergs behind and turned to port for landfall around Arsuk. It was grey but easy sailing. One afternoon, a huge pod of pilot whales jumped and played around us like dolphins for hours. Days passed, sometimes motoring, never experiencing more than 20 knots of wind, until near disaster struck less than 40 miles from the coast. Whilst reaching under jib top and full main, the mast sheared at the deck and moved sideways. If it wasn’t for the internal plastic pipe for the electrics, as well as our quick actions, we would have been dismasted.

By the time we had sufficiently stabilized the rig, the weather had begun to deteriorate, and we were no longer able to make direct for the land under Santana’s 13-horsepower engine. In the rising waves and swell, the best we could motor was 3-4 knots. A rhumb line of 30 miles and less than four hours to safe harbour was now more like 50 miles. After 12 hours in what had become a severe gale, we passed a headland that gave protection from the worst of the breaking waves. However, we were contending with very challenging conditions, in the dark, with 60- and 70-knot gusts barrelling down off the ice cap. In the early morning, 16 hours after nearly losing the mast, we sneaked into a narrow cove using FLIR night vision and a bucketful of

under blue skies, in flat water, investigating and hand-charting a dozen or more anchorages along the way. In hundreds of miles, there are but two settlements, Paamiut and Fiskenaesset, interesting to visit but neither a highlight of the trip.

seamanship. No one was ever more thankful than us to let go the anchor and feel it positively come to. The wind continued to gust hard in our sheltered haven. We retired below, wolfed down hot food, and slept.

We awoke the next day to blue skies and a flat sea to the south. We landed, hiked, ate, and spent another night at what we now saw was an amazing anchorage. We then set off on a seven-day journey to Nuuk via an inland passage between the offshore islands and the shore. Had we been in a rush to get north, we would have been predominantly offshore in the ice and fog of the marine layer. Instead, we witnessed close up the rugged beauty of Greenland’s west coast. We moved slowly, alone

Eventually, we arrived in the vicinity of Nuuk, where we spent two nights anchored at an abandoned fishing village, Faeringehavn, and another night shore-tied in a narrow inlet just five miles from the lights of Nuuk’s modern port. Not ready to join civilisation, we spent one more night alone where we ate and read by the light of our Tilly lamp, putting off the moment when we would have to grunt up and think about hauling out and de-rigging Santana. Those who have travelled to Greenland know plans are hard to make until you get there, hence we had our own means of supporting the boat ashore. But the guys at Nuuk Transport had a modern 100-tonne mobile crane, enough for our little three-tonne boat. The one-mile trip on a flatbed

“Ash arrived direct from racing to Hawaii in the Pacific Cup, and I flew in from the U.K., with the sleeved lower mast section.”

truck to the storage yard on a combination of jack stands and pallets was a surprise and as scary as all hell, but we made it.

That’s where Santana stayed for two summers and three winters until the summer of 2022, when Canada loosened its pandemic travel restrictions. Ash arrived direct from racing to Hawaii in the Pacific Cup, and I flew in from the U.K., with the sleeved lower mast section. We met at the Reykjavik, Iceland airport and took a flight together over the Greenland ice cap. The ice cap had huge melt water ponds and was covered in “dry” crevasses showing the effects of climate change. The winds from

that cap had caused a lot of grief three years before. By lunchtime, we were back in Nuuk with no idea what three winters in Greenland might have done to our boat. Nothing, it transpired, except a couple of flat batteries. We were amazed. Clearly, cold dry air is good for boat storage. Ash prepared Santana for sea, while I got on with cutting and splicing the rig back together. Within a few days, we were waiting for the yard to get their new boat trailer together, and the pace slowed down somewhat. Santana was so ready by the time she went in on a Monday at 8 p.m., that the rig was set up by midnight. We left the harbour,

heading down the fjord towards the open sea to Labrador. We chose to go south rather than north to Ilulissat and Disko Bay because the rig issue had dented our confidence. We were, after all, already in the southern part of the Davis Strait and directly east of Baffin Island in a 30-foot racing boat; the nearest port where a new rig could be economically shipped was 1,500 miles away. In addition, a rapidly emerging advantageous weather window would allow us to reach the shelter of the Labrador coast in six days with little chance of encountering a gale. Santana is small and although we have two GPS, electronic

charts (with paper back up), and a Garmin inReach for satellite text communications and safety, we don’t have the battery power or budget for equipment such as radar. We run her “cost effectively” and safely even in these remote regions because of our combined experience and trust in each other. Once offshore in these regions, we’re back in the old days and have no access to weather information other than the barometer and evidence of our own eyes. Between us, we have a lot of miles and both good and bad experiences, so while we race Santana very hard, we tended to be cautious about cruising and delivering even

before the rig incident.

The passage south to the northern tip of Labrador and southwest across the Labrador Sea was one of the grimmest, most miserable trips I can remember. Our budget didn’t stretch to replacing the troublesome autopilot we’d ditched some years before. The watches under a grey, wet sky and above a grey, petulant sea were cold and seemed endless, especially for Ash who found that her foul-weather gear had degraded and was not up to the task. We toughed it out and were thankful at the end of each watch to get into our thick microfleece/GORE-TEX sleeping bags. I don’t recall seeing a single seabird, dolphin, or whale during hours that passed so slowly we’d silently echo a

child’s lament every time one of us checked the chart: “When are we going to get there?” I’m never like that, I love being at sea for the sake of being at sea. It was tough.

The only saving grace was that the northern nights were very short at the start of our passage, but as we sailed south, they became longer and colder. We saw ice day and night and endured long periods of dense fog. On the last two nights, heaving-to was the only option, but as dawn broke on the last morning, Santana sailed out of the fog bank into a beautiful sunrise. We could see the Isle of Ponds, Labrador, in the distance. Making port in Mary’s Harbour in bright sunshine later that day, Ash and I stripped off our foul-weather gear and

“The passage south to the northern tip of Labrador and southwest across the Labrador Sea was one of the grimmest, most miserable trips I can remember. Our budget didn’t stretch to replacing the troublesome autopilot we’d ditched some years before.”

thermals, donned shorts, and headed to the RCMP station to check in to Canada. The lone officer could not have been more helpful and even offered to take in our laundry and wash it for us! No one deserves that, so we quietly thanked him and declined. Forty-eight hours later, the authorities in Toronto cleared us with some reservations. We switched from delivery mode to thinking like a couple of cruisers. With a little over two weeks before we planned to haul out, we began making our way to Corner Brook in the Bay of Islands 250 miles away.

Our first stop was Battle Harbour, once the fishing capital of Labrador and a former Marconi wireless station. Today it’s a living museum and a “must go” destination for anyone lucky

enough to reach this part of the world. The reality, however, is that there are many must-go places, and one needs much longer than one summer to appreciate it all. We were sorry the weather had us land as far south as we did, causing us to miss the likes of Indian Harbour, but we loved the remoteness of our lonely anchorages, such as Henley Harbour, where we anchored off the remains of the earth ramparts of Fort York, an 18th-century British outpost. Labrador has more than its fair share of historic gems hidden away on this road less trodden, such as the former 16th-century Basque whaling colony at Red Bay, another UNESCO World Heritage site. In L’Anse-au-Loup, a fisherman drove us to visit the historic lighthouse at Point Amour, invited

us to his home for Sunday lunch, and then drove us an hour into the interior to spend the rest of the day at his lakeside cabin.

Crossing over the Straits of Belle Isle in almost continuous bright sunshine, we cruised down the west coast of Newfoundland, visiting small harbours on the French Shore and spending several days hiking in the amazing hills of Gros Morne National Park, before finally arriving at the Bay of Islands. After one final night spent alongside at Lark Harbour at the mouth of a bay charted by Captain Cook, we made our way up the sea loch to the Bay of Islands Yacht Club at Corner Brook. It was pouring as we docked Santana in a tiny slip at the tiny marina where we would be hauling out. Soaked wet through while handling our lines, we were hailed by a local yachtsman who was slipping out of his berth: “The white truck, over there: the keys are on the front tyre. It’s yours. I’ll be back Tuesday.” It was Saturday lunchtime in Newfoundland; of course he was going to lend a stranger his truck. What else would you expect from a Newfie?

The summer of 2023 saw us back in Corner Brook with a full month to cruise Newfoundland and Cape Breton before hauling out one last time in Canada if the Canadian government would let us. The first challenge was to wake Santana from yet another

winter’s sleep and find out what, if anything, had deteriorated. After two days of work that included re-wiring the high-current negative and positive lines from the batteries to the main breaker board, we were ready to go. The second challenge was to clear Canadian waters by August 1 before we could re-enter any port, as required by Canadian customs. We headed out of the bay to spend the first night around the corner in the small harbour of Little Port, a place we’d recce’d the previous year.

As before, we had no fixed plans, but Ike, a well-travelled local yachtsman who’d sailed up from Grenada earlier in the year, convinced us to explore southern Newfoundland. We set out to round Cape Ray and start our cruise from Port au Basques, home of one of only two ferry links to mainland Canada. When Ash woke me in the early hours of the morning I expected to be on the approach to the harbour, but instead the lights were behind us, and Santana was heading east. “There was too much light pollution, not our kind of place,” she explained. Our first stop was 20 miles farther on, at Rose Blanche–Harbour le Cou, the last township on Newfoundland’s Route 470, which comes to a dead end just outside of town. When the cod fishery collapsed in 1992, the federal government offered the residents of the tiny settlements along this coast a resettlement package, and

“Our circumnavigation of Newfoundland was drawing to a close, but there was one last high-sided fjord to visit — Hare Bay with its imposing entrance and nesting sites of sea birds and bald eagles.”

many of them voted to accept it. The electricity was turned off, the ferry route discontinued, and the settlements became ghost towns. Rose Blanche was one of the exceptions. Its local fisherman went to Scotland to learn to work in granite. When they returned, they rebuilt their historic lighthouse and opened it as a museum and tourist attraction. And so, this community at the end of the road lives on.

Residents of our next stop, Grand Bruit, took the government’s offer, and the town is now abandoned except for two families and some caribou that swim the channel between the village and an island that hosts a graveyard. A waterfall divides the village and runs into the small harbour, creating a beautiful backdrop. Grand Bruit reminds us of Faeringhaven, a decaying former Inuit fishing settlement south of Nuuk that declined under similar circumstances. We would never have found Grand Bruit were it not for Ike, whose mother was born and lived there until the end of the settlement. We spent a pleasant night moored with two other cruising boats, a first for us in over four years. We swapped stories and, the next morning, hiked in hills reminiscent of Dartmoor, England.

Next, we headed east to the inhabited township of Burgeo, which doesn’t have much to recommend itself, except what are possibly the only public showers on the coast, a small supermarket, a very safe harbour, and the lovely generous Newfoundland welcome that we’d come to expect. Burgeo also makes a perfect stopover for a morning sail to North West Island and the town of Ramea. This small island situated four miles off the Newfoundland coast bears the full brunt of Atlantic winter storms but has a working fishing port based around the scallop industry. We picked up two pounds of giant scallops for $20 Canadian, which made me very happy that we’d taken a few hours out to visit the place.

By the evening, Santana was moored alongside the tiny, picturesque village of François, located on François Bay at the end of a fjord. Accessible only by sea, François, population 64, is a well-known stop for cruisers. A superyacht was lifting her anchor and leaving the bay as we pulled up and moored opposite a new Garcia 45 on the public wharf. From the top of the escarpment overlooking the harbour, one can see France — Saint-Pierre et Miquelon islands — on the horizon some 30 miles to the south.

Our circumnavigation of Newfoundland was drawing to a close, but there was one last high-sided fjord to visit — Hare Bay with its imposing entrance and nesting sites of sea birds and bald eagles. Santana lay at anchor for the day in the Northeast Arm so Ash and I could hike over and visit the waterfall at the head of Morgan Arm. By mid-afternoon, the sea breeze had

reached the upper end of the fjord. With uncertain holding (the come-to hadn’t felt 100 percent when we first dropped) and a close lee shore, we opted to motor back towards the entrance to look at a small inlet we’d seen when we arrived. There we had a last night alone anchored and laying to two shorelines in three meters of water and out of the sea breeze in a beautiful quiet cove we later learned was Locks Cove.

After an early start, something we hadn’t done for a week, our circumnavigation came to an end in Miquelon. We were greeted by a very friendly French customs officer and handed five spider crabs by a local fisherman — proof that there’s something special about this part of the world and its inhabitants’ relationship to the sea and the visitors who make it there on yachts. We celebrated our arrival by joining the annual Miquelon Seafood Festival, a party hosted by the island’s 250 or so residents and attended by 500 people from neighbouring Saint-Pierre and Newfoundland. After a couple of nights spent sheltering from a strong south westerly, we made an overnight passage to Sydney, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Our adventure on the road less travelled was over. We were heading back to civilization, where two weeks later we hauled Santana out one last time in Canada and prepared to spend a lonely winter in St. Peters at the southern end of the Bras d’Or Lake.

About the Authors

Ashley Perrin is a professional boat captain and owner of Antarctic Ice Pilot, a company offering logistical, expedition leader, and ice pilot services to yachts visiting antarctic and arctic waters. Merfyn Owen is a founding partner of the yacht design and naval architecture office Owen Clarke Design, a former professional skipper, and a double Cape Horner.

Snow & ICE

It is late January in southeast Alaska, and we are preparing our two boats, Bagheera and Snow Dragon II, for a sail, climb, and ski trip to Glacier Bay National Park. The days are cold, dark, wet, and windy, and at times I ask myself, “Why are we doing this again?”

Then I remember the magical winter mountainscapes that are awaiting us, and I get back to work. There are still some maintenance items that need to be taken care of, two weeks’ worth of food and supplies for 10 people to be loaded, and ski and climbing gear to be stored.

There are two different routes from Sitka to Glacier Bay: the outer coast and the inside passage. The outer coast is roughly 150 miles, half of which is open ocean and typically a lee shore with confused seas in the winter. On top of that, the route has several 90-degree curves, which means there is always a stretch that is against the wind. The inside passage is 45 miles longer, has a few narrow passages with current that you need to time correctly, and sailing is often not possible due to flaky wind. The original plan was to take the ocean route if the weather permits, leaving in the early afternoon and sailing through the night to arrive at our destination before dark the next day.

We agree to depart Sitka on February 8, weather depending. The weather forecasts in this part of the world can be quite dismal in the winter, and you generally can’t trust them beyond 25 to 30 hours out. On the day of departure, to get a head start, we bring the

boats downtown to fuel up at the fuel dock and load last-minute gear so that we are ready to go as soon as our last team member arrives. Based on the less-than-ideal weather forecast, and the fact that almost half the team have never been on a sailboat before, we decide to take the more protected inside passage.

We cast off in light rain and motor north with a slight southerly breeze. The cloud cover dampens the daylight to the point that it never gets properly light before night takes over. Ahead of us is Sergius Narrows, where the tumultuous current can reach 9 knots. While we are familiar with these narrows, I am not fond of navigating them in the dark. We use the big searchlights on the spreaders, which light up the water up to a mile and a half ahead, to locate the two unlit buoys that get pulled underwater by the strong current. The wind continues to build after we reach the other side of Sergius, and by midnight it has increased to 25 knots from behind with big gusts coming through the mountain passes. With the next 30-mile stretch being upwind with current against us and pelting sleet, I hail Snow Dragon II on the radio, and we make the decision to find a place to drop anchor and wait six hours for the wind to reduce and the tide to turn in our favor. Surrounded by steep mountains and deep water, it isn’t the easiest or most comfortable place to anchor, but we find good-enough holding on the rocky bottom to make it work.

Morning comes early, and I pull the anchor as silently as possible so that most of the team can continue sleeping. The

Opposite: Erik in the dinghy in snow-covered water after dropping off crew and gear at the beach. (Haley Johnston)

Above: Haley and Devon traversing a stream at beach level. (Ben Hughy)

Right: Devon shows off his skiing qualities. (Haley Johnston)

Below: Snow Dragon II motoring through Chatham Strait. (Erik de Jong)

wind is still strong and against us, but we make good headway. The rain and snow have given way to clear skies and a vibrant sunrise. In Icy Strait, the wind starts picking up from a favorable direction, and we can finally shut the engine down and sail. We hit the incoming tide into Glacier Bay just right and enjoy having several knots with us instead of as much as 6 knots against us.

The wet snow sticks to the sails, forming a layer that is several centimeters thick. I can feel Bagheera rolling slower and farther than usual due to the extra weight aloft. Occasionally, I beat the sails to get the snow off, but the strong wind makes loosening it almost impossible. The unmarked entrance to Reid Inlet, our destination, is guarded by two sand spits. With the snow blowing horizontally and greatly reducing visibility, we decide to anchor in Blue Mouse Cove with the running lights, searchlights, and deck lights turned on so that Snow Dragon can find us. By the time they tie up alongside, there is already 15 centimeters of snow on Bagheera’s deck.

All the gear we are going to need on shore for the day is

collected and made ready during the sail over to Reid. Once anchored, we immediately start transporting people and gear ashore in the dinghy. We get into our ski boots on the beach and strap on our skis at the half-meter thick snowbank that marks the hightide line. Once we’re on the flat, we test the avalanche beacons, perform self-tests for the avalanche packs, and check each other’s gear for completeness. In formation, we skin up the north face of the mountain on the east side of the bay. The going is somewhat heavy in the packed, wet snow. We dig several snow pits on our way up the mountain to assess the risk of an avalanche. One traverse has increased risk, so we space out to reduce the hazard. About an hour and a half later, we reach the 800-meter summit, where we remove our skins, lock bindings, and take off downhill with youthful exuberance, avoiding gullies, trees, and large boulders. The top part of the mountain is so much fun that, halfway down, we put our skins back on and hike up for another run. By the time we make it back to the beach, it is just after 4 p.m. and starting to become dark. Not a bad start to a ski trip!

The next morning, we wake up to the breathtaking sight of snow floating on icy water. I have seen this often in the north, but it is always great fun to share with people who are new to the phenomenon. The layer of snow on the water is maybe 5 centimeters thick, but the dinghy has no problem going through it. On shore the visibility is limited, but the fresh snow is as close to powder as you can get in southeast Alaska, and we enjoy a full day of skiing. When it is time to go back to the beach, we notice that the wind is increasing from a different direction than was predicted. We use the handheld to contact the two people on

board who will ferry us back to the boats. They say that it is a bit of a wild ride, but that all is well. The outboard had been acting up earlier that day, and I can see from the distance that there are difficulties getting it started. Combine that with the 25 knots of wind that could blow the dinghy into a 12-mile stretch of open water towards a towering glacier, and I’m worried. John, one of the people on board, shares my concerns. He is a retired bush pilot, and he is very good at risk assessment. We agree that he will head straight into the wind towards the beach. If the outboard does fail, he’ll be able to drift back towards the boats with a little help from the oars. Luckily none of that is needed, and everyone gets back on board safely before darkness fully sets in.

After dinner, I take the outboard apart to try to figure out the starting problem. I swap out the spark plug, clean the carburetor, and check the fuel lines and filters. This results in enough improvement to last the trip, but the outboard is still not running the way it should be. In the morning, we move closer to the glacier to avoid hiking over a mile in a mixture of deep snow and mud. Today’s focus is ice climbing the face of the glacier and exploring the ice caves. Reid Glacier is extremely slow moving and very stable, and in winter it doesn’t move at all. The glacier face is half a mile from the water, meaning that you can start climbing from the snow-covered gravel at its base. We assess the ice quality with our ice axes and set some arrest anchors low down. All looks good, and I take the lead up the glacier front. The ice is much harder than the waterfall climbing I’m used to. The gear I have is new and takes some getting used to; technology has changed a lot since I last treated myself to new gear. I secure some anchors and lines before returning down to the snowbank to teach the basics to some of the guys that have never ice climbed before.

It is a beautiful sunny day with clear skies — the only one that we will get this trip. Mount Fairweather is showing herself in all her 4,653-meter glory, towering 1,000 meters higher from the water than Mount Everest does from its base camp.

The days are going by fast. We pull anchor and head for John Hopkins Glacier. This inlet is off limits for most of the year as the local seal colony uses the glacier’s icy bits to raise their pups. The mountains rise out of the water on both sides of the inlet and are absolutely magnificent, covered in snow and ice. We turn the corner into the bay and have a good look at the glacier that is about five miles ahead. There are a lot of small chunks of ice floating around, but nothing that we can’t push through. Halfway in, I see a large barrier of ice from one shore to the other. The last two miles of the bay are frozen, with a layer of half-meter-thick ice topped by 30 centimeters of snow. I try to push the bow into the ice, but the ice is not brittle enough to let me get through beyond half a boat length. Instead, I use the ice to scrape the barnacles off the bottom of the hull, while others paddleboard between the floes. One of our guys pretends to be a seal and lays down flat on the board and lets himself drift towards the seals to have a closer look.

Time comes to start thinking about heading back, and we

decide to break up the return journey into three daytrips to accommodate the less-than-ideal weather. We leave Reid Inlet well before light, with 40 centimeters of fresh snow on deck. Since I know we’re headed into rain and above-freezing temperatures, I decide not to clear the snow. By the time we reach the town of Hoonah, where we pick up some milk, the deck is snow-free. We anchor for the night in a very protected inlet just a few miles east of Hoonah and enjoy watching the dance of the northern lights during a brief pause in the cloud cover.

We make it back to the Sitka area early, and I suggest stopping at Kalinin Bay and hiking the trail to Sea Lion Cove. Last year, I and fellow traveler Ben were part of the trail-building crew that did a large restoration project on this trail (see “Something Different” in the 2023 Voyages). The trail has now gone through a big part of the winter season, and we’re both pleased to see that, other than a few fallen trees, it’s in great shape, and we enjoy watching the storm surf on the white-sand beach at the far end of the trail.

The following morning, as we head out of the bay’s narrow exit, Snow Dragon comes to a sudden halt. The engine restarts without hesitation when the key is turned, but shuts off as soon as the crew revs up. I come alongside to hand them an 80-meterlong stretchy tow line and motor ahead slowly, putting tension on the rope. I take it easy and keep my hand on the throttle to make sure that we keep the same speed because the boats are going up and down on the waves at a slightly different rhythm. I misjudge a wave, and the rope snaps in two with an enormous bang. We pull the leftover line back in and attach a thinner rope so that I can throw the tow line back to Snow Dragon. Once we’re reattached, I go a bit faster to keep a more constant load on the tow line. After we enter calmer water, it takes us several hours to discover that the ball valve mounted on the Racor fuel filter is not functioning properly. The handle can turn, but the ball is not positioned where the handle says it is. It’s just a matter of turning the valve a little bit farther than usual to get the fuel flowing freely again. Once this is resolved, both boats continue the last 15 miles to Sitka with everyone on board still wishing they were on the slopes of Glacier Bay. 2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Erik de Jong is a long-distance sailor and naval architect. When not on a voyage, Erik can be found at home in Sitka, Alaska, with his wife, Krystina; their friend, Frances; their adventure dog, Fukimi; and their newly arrived daughter, Kensington. Krystina was not on board for this trip, but her editing brought this article to fruition.

Birds Aboard

As an enthusiastic birdwatcher, I’ve gained a reputation as the “Bird Lady.” Friends often share stories of birds they’ve seen or pictures of birds they want to identify. My sailing friends tell me about birds that landed on their boat. I can see why. It’s very exciting to be alone at sea on your little “floating island” when an avian fellow traveler pays a visit far from its usual habitat. Here’s what I’ve learned about birds on boats, along with a few of my favorite encounters.

Migrating Land Birds

Around the world, boaters are active offshore in spring and fall, when birds are migrating. Some birds migrate over the water, and others end up there due to offshore winds, inexperience, or defective migration skills. We witnessed a dramatic example of this phenomenon on our Able Apogee 50, Joyant, during an October overnight south from Sandy Hook, New Jersey, to Norfolk, Virginia. We left at first light on the day after a front had come through. Winds were northwest 15–20 knots. We were sailing fast, staying close to shore to keep the fetch down. Throughout the day, small birds kept landing on Joyant. The next day, the wind decreased, but birds kept arriving. My list totaled 10 birds (8 species) over the two days:

eastern meadowlark

white-throated sparrow (2)

ruby-crowned kinglet

common yellowthroat

chipping sparrow

palm warbler

swamp sparrow yellow-rumped warbler (2)

These visitors’ lives don’t usually have happy endings. It’s the weakest that need a place to rest offshore. Either they die on board or head off again with little chance of making it ashore due to fatigue or predation. My list included one bird with a round mud ball attached to its leg, one immature bird, and one bird with very few tail feathers chased by five gulls. I made food and water available. We don’t carry birdseed aboard, but I offered sesame seeds from my spice cabinet. Nine of the birds had no interest. Part of the problem was five of the species on the list eat insects, not seeds. The exception was an adult whitethroated sparrow, the perkiest of them all, which both ate and drank. It tried leaving several times but always came back, once being chased by a small falcon. After it disappeared at dark, we feared the worst. But just before sunrise the next morning, it emerged from a cockpit storage space and ate and drank again. When a fishing boat appeared closer to shore west of us, it switched rides. We like to think it survived.

Surprisingly, small birds visiting boats sometimes have no fear of humans. Landing aboard a moving object is a last resort. They often circle the boat several times before trying it. But once they have landed, if you move slowly, they think you are part of the boat. They hop across laps, land on shoulders, sit right on the nav area where you are working, and even go below. The first time this happened to us was in California when we were racing Newport to Ensenada aboard our J-36, Jaywalker, with three parents and three teenagers aboard. A tired little Townsend’s warbler visited and jumped on our friend Dave’s head. Dave froze, and the warbler stayed — a never-to-be-forgotten moment for the entire crew.

Seabirds

I’ve never heard of true pelagic seabirds, like shearwaters, fulmars, and petrels, landing on a small boat. They are at home and self-sufficient on the ocean and don’t need a perch. But birds that live on land and feed at sea, like gulls, terns, boobies, and frigatebirds, sometimes appreciate a rest stop. They are much more skittish than the exhausted land-based migrants and usually stay away from humans. Halfway from the Galapagos to the Panama Canal, three gulls a long way from their comfort zone visited us one morning, but stayed on the bow and took off when we humans got more active.

My favorite seabird-on-board story involves the Inca tern. Most terns are primarily white, but Inca terns are different. They are dark, with white-edged wings and fire-engine-red legs, bills, and feet. The wow factor comes from a few long white feathers just aft of the bill, which curve down and back like a handlebar mustache and are enhanced by a featherless bright-yellow gape beyond the base of the bill. Inca terns only occur in the waters off Peru and northern Chile. When we were on a passage from Panama to Chile in 2014 with Frank Bohlen (ESS) aboard, I studied my sources to see what seabirds to expect. Inca tern flew to the top of my wish list. I always take the early morning watch when birds are most active. One morning, I got my wish. Two Inca terns landed on our dinghy in its davits. They seemed relaxed and soon moved onto the deck. I whispered down through the hatch, “Inca terns on the boat! Bring your cameras.” Tom and Frank were less than enthusiastic until they saw the birds, and then the shutters clicked wildly.

At Anchor, Mooring or Marina

The author’s grandson, Alden Burt, feeds sugar to a bananaquit in the Bahamas.

BIRDS ABOARD HINTS

• You’re most likely to encounter birds at sea in spring and fall when offshore winds cause migrating birds to be over the water and looking for a place to land.

• If a migrant bird does land on your boat, move slowly and don’t try to catch it. It might come to you.

Barn swallows have been our most frequent on-board visitors. They are common throughout the world, migrate twice a year, and feed by catching insects on the wing over water. Both offshore and in harbors, lifelines make the perfect resting places, and they also like the darker spaces down below.

Not all birds that come aboard when you are in a harbor are welcome. Almost everyone has had bad experiences with gulls or with starlings that have just eaten dark-red berries. In the tropics, frigatebirds are notorious for breaking wind instruments when they perch at the top of a mast. Luckily, CCA members have a deterrent for this problem — a burgee on a pig stick.

On the other hand, you can lure several interesting and less-destructive species aboard. Close to shore in the Bahamas and the Eastern Caribbean, small black, white, and yellow bananaquits might land for sugar in a dish and will even look for it below. Since hummingbirds are my favorite birds, I carry a small hummingbird feeder aboard. In Alaska, we were surprised to find rufous hummingbirds buzzing us one rainy afternoon as we entered Lyman Anchorage north of Ketchikan. Tom was in red foul-weather gear, and I was in yellow, so we wondered if they thought we were two giant flowers. I put up the feeder and three individuals continued to visit until we left the next day, even following us out of the harbor as if to say, “Wait! Where are you going with our food?”

Our most surprising bird encounter occurred at an anchorage in Chilean Patagonia. Several days of stormy weather were predicted, so we tied in at the deserted but well-sheltered Caleta Jaqueline. Usually in Patagonia, we would anchor and tie to two trees astern, but here we found a line already tied to the trees by fishermen. Our view from aft was a lovely waterfall. The next morning, a crested caracara, a fierce-looking scavenging raptor that’s nearly two feet tall, lit in a tree very close by. Next it moved to the lifelines and inched its way aft towards us. Hmmm, should we be worried? Its tameness seemed strange until we realized that it was probably used to visiting the fishermen who had provided the rope. We didn’t look or smell like a fishing boat, but it checked us out anyway just in case there was something tasty lying around.

Feel free to share your birds aboard stories with me. I’ll enjoy hearing them.

• Offer food and water, but don’t be surprised if it isn’t accepted.

• If you can ID the species, you might learn what it eats. My favorite on-board ID tools are phone apps: the Sibley Guide to Birds (not free, but it downloads a whole book and bird sounds that you can use without an internet connection) and Cornell Lab’s free Merlin Bird ID (requires internet).

• Take a photo, and you can work on the ID later. Seabirds are skittish when onboard. Photograph them carefully, or you will lose your subject.

About the Author

Dorothy (ESS) has been interested in birds since she was a child and interested in sailing since she met Tom Wadlow (ESS) 58 years ago. Birding dovetailed perfectly with their cruising lifestyle. She looked for birds both at sea and ashore during their 22 years (90,000 miles) aboard their Able Apogee 50, Joyant, and five years (10,000 miles) aboard their PDQ 41 power cat, Felix. There were always new birds to see, and her journals are full of bird lists, which she reported to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s worldwide database, eBird. Along the way, she earned her USCG 100-ton master’s license and enthusiastically shared her hobby with anyone who would listen.

An unexpected visit with 2011 Blue Water medalists Thies Matzen and Kicki Ericson in the Falklands

OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC-LINDBLAD expedition leaders had briefed us that a Land Rover might be available on West Point Island to transport those who didn’t care to make the onemile hike over the hill to see the black-browed albatross and rockhopper penguin colonies nestled in thick tussac grass. Once ashore, I was pleasantly surprised to see Thies Matzen climb out of the ancient vehicle. Smiling at me, he said, “I recognize that face!”

Thies Matzen and Kicki Ericson, winners of the 2011 Blue Water Medal, are the well-established caretakers of West Point Island, having been here since before the pandemic, and they were to be our hosts for this stop in the Falkland Islands. Wanderer III, their 30-foot wooden sloop, was securely tied to a large mooring a comfortable distance from the short pier that is 100 meters below their tidy house and garden. With a 1,200foot mountain, rocky beaches, and plentiful fresh spring water, this essentially treeless 3,500-acre island at the west end of the Falklands archipelago is home to penguins, albatross, seals, and 650 sheep. It seems to be paradise for Kicki and Thies.

We met these amazing sailors of the South at the CCA’s 2012 awards dinner at the New York Yacht Club, where they

received their Blue Water Medal. Now we renewed our friendship, beginning with remembering old stories, such as their South Georgia over-wintering adventures and their incredible slide show in Charlie and Heather Lalanne’s (FLA) barn the day after the awards dinner.

After the hike out to the penguin and albatross colonies, Kicki hosted tea and pastries for their 100 expedition guests, a hospitality they also offer to several other expedition vessels transiting the Falklands. The day was bright, windy, and very cool, but we found the garden, located within a dense clump of cultivated cypress trees, surprisingly calm and warm — a delightful place to enjoy hot tea and cake. The ashes of LarsEric Lindblad, founder of Lindblad Expeditions and the first to initiate tourism in the Falklands, had been spread here among the daffodils and lilies without an obvious marker.

Kicki managed to coerce the expedition leader into dispatching an inflatable with a driver to shepherd us and Thies on a visit to Wanderer III, while she stayed behind with the other guests. Encumbered in our foul-weather gear and muck boots, we clambered aboard the diminutive sloop built in 1951 for Eric and Susan Hiscock, who sailed her around the world. Their remarkable feat and subsequent stories earned them the Blue Water Medal in 1955. Now we were privileged to be down below in the only small cruising boat to have won the Blue Water Medal twice (57-foot Jolie Brise also received the award twice, in 1926 and 1931). Our appreciation for our surroundings deepened when Thies casually reminded us that many famous sailors, including Irving Johnson, had sat on the same settees we were sitting on.

“Now we were privileged to be down below in the only small cruising boat to have won the Blue Water Medal twice.”

Wanderer III remains very much the same boat that the Hiscocks sailed 70-plus years ago. Great credit goes to Thies and Kicki for keeping this historic wooden boat in active service in these high latitudes. She remains traditional, with oil lamps, a wood-burning stove, and diesel for heat. Her few electrical needs are supported by a solar panel and the 18 hp main engine. Thies and Kicki do have a VHF radio and a handheld GPS. Wanderer III is their only transportation to the capital of Stanley, 140 nautical miles away, a voyage they make every six weeks to reprovision or whenever they travel outside the islands. Thies does all the maintenance, and when something below the waterline requires attention, he dries her out on a beach. She has not seen a haul-out in nine years, thanks to copper sheathing on her bottom. Thies and Kicki stay in touch with several other Blue Water medalists, including Rolf Bjelke and Deborah Shapiro (1984) from Northern Light and Tim Carr (1991) of Curlew Tim and his late wife, Pauline, are known for their many contributions to South Georgia, and they ran the museum in the old Grytviken whaling station.

It was a thrill for us to reconnect with these Blue Water medalists, and we’re eagerly looking forward to our next serendipitous encounter.

Thies Matzen (GER) and Kicki Ericson (SWE) have sailed throughout Scandinavia, the Caribbean, across the Pacific to Indonesia, around the capes of Good Hope and Horn, and into the Southern Ocean. Remarkably, they spent three winters in South Georgia, living aboard full time throughout the extremes of winter. They were also the first couple to get married during the modern era in the little church at the old whaling station of Grytviken. Find their articles about their adventures at cruisingworld.com.

About the Authors

Unbeknownst to us, a younger couple kept track of our travels during our 22 years of building and then cruising aboard our 54-foot Kanter Threshold. Several years ago, they inquired if she was for sale. Multiple adventures later for us and several boats later for them, our stars aligned, and they are now the former Threshold’s perfect new owners. She is in a Newport boat shed receiving a wonderful refit and should be back in the water next summer. Being free from boat responsibilities allowed us to take a long-anticipated expedition cruise to the southern ice on the National Geographic Explorer. Although less adventurous than doing it on our own, it was a fabulous experience to be aboard this state-of-the-art, ice-capable polar ship carrying experienced expedition leaders, naturalists, and professional photographers.

We’re now searching for a smaller, shorter-range boat.

EXPEDITION TO ZAVODOVSKI

Skip Novak makes a memorable sail to the most remote of the South Sandwich Islands

Lakes Station

Running downwind with the twin pole arrangment. Note the 4th reef trimmed amidships to prevent roll and help the re-hoist.

We dropped anchor in 12 meters of water, a long stone’s throw from an unfriendly cliff face, and reality immediately set in as Vinson of Antarctica began to roll unpleasantly 10 to 15 degrees port and starboard. The surging water was alive with chinstrap and macaroni penguins, some heading out to sea and others heading toward shore — if you can call it that. Dion Poncet pointed his binos at an obscure weakness in the otherwise vertical wall of rock. “That’s it,” he announced. “It” was one of the only two known landing places on this tiny subarctic island; both required a grade 2 scramble up 10 meters to gain a safe lodgement.

I trusted Dion. He’d made this landing before, and he’s

famous for getting people ashore in dodgy areas down south where most people fear to tread. The Bombard C5 tender was ready to go on the davits. Over the stern it went, and it came to life, bucking like a bronco snatching at the painter. Seventy pieces of equipment, listed in order of priority on the manifest, were deployed from the forepeak, off the deck, and into the C5. Dr. Tom Hart and I jumped into the tender on a roll. Dion drove us in, gauged the 1½ meters of heave, and put the bow on a sheer, slippery rock face just at the right moment.

Clad in a one-piece float suit in case things went pear-shaped, I jumped semi-confidently and managed to climb to safe ground. I fixed a rope around a massive volcanic boulder and tied a succession of large loops to serve as hand-holds for Tom. We followed a passage through a volcanic labyrinth, then ascended a gentle scree slope to an expansive piedmont southeast of the island’s summit, its gaseous plume trailing flaglike to the northeast in the fresh south westerly. We scoped out a spot on raised ground with good drainage near some small chinstrap colonies and decided it was a good spot to camp. There were penguins up and down the coast as far as the eye could see. I pinched myself and appreciated the privilege of being ashore in this very special place where few people have been and only two parties before us had camped. This was going to be one helluva adventure!

We radioed Vinson skipper Chris Kobusch and gave the go

ahead to start ferrying loads of kit. First to come ashore and be hauled up with a top rope was our personal survival kit in case we became stranded with not much but the clothes we were wearing. Following were provisions, water, fuel, two generators, kit bags, science equipment, tents and camping gear. White water crashes both left and right of this unique spot discovered by Jerome Poncet, Dion’s father, over 20 years ago, but the everpresent surge miraculously cancels itself out under the prow of rock. Nevertheless, our work had to be accomplished in doublequick time because too much swell would mean too much risk.

IMPENETRABLE ISLAND

In January 2020, on the cusp of the Covid pandemic, Pelagic Australis sailed to the remote, windblown South Sandwich Islands in the South Atlantic, far south of South Georgia, my usual stomping ground for a multi-disciplinary science project. Thanks to a spell of uncharacteristically settled weather, we managed to make landings (often swimming in) on four of the nine principal islands: South Thule, Bellingshausen, Saunders, and Candlemass. Our final objective was to get ashore on Zavodovski, the northernmost, smallest, and most impenetrable island in the chain, but

On arrival we had a welcoming committee of one!

arguably the most interesting from a scientific perspective: It’s home to 1.5 million chinstrap and 500,000 macaroni penguins living precariously under Mount Curry, an active volcano (also known as Mount Asphyxia). In fact, the volcano is one reason why the colonies are massive — it creates plenty of snow-free nesting ground.

But Zavodovski, only 2½ nautical miles long from north to south, lives in a washing machine of perpetual swell, and we found the eastern side of the island was awash with seas coaming the tops of the cliffs. Landing, or even anchoring, was out of the question. We could only wish that one day we’d dedicate an entire expedition to unlocking some of her secrets. Now, three years later, here we were.

The South Sandwich Islands are all about plate tectonics.

The 180-nautical-mile-long arc of 11 volcanic cones, some active, demarks the eastern margin of the South Sandwich Plate, which is balanced on the edge of the 7,400-meter-deep South Sandwich Trench. The trench is a subduction zone — the South American Plate to the east is diving under the South Sandwich Plate and creeping west at an average of 70 mm per year. This dynamic interface releases magma from the earth’s crust, which rises and gives birth to the islands and associated seamounts. South Thule, the southernmost island in the chain, sits just above 60 degrees south, on the edge of the winter sea ice band around the Antarctic. Zavodovski Island, the most active of these volcanic islands, is 300 miles southeast of the southern tip of South Georgia. We were truly well below the Polar Front.

The South Sandwich Islands are not in the Antarctic Treaty

Lenticular clouds over the summit and penguins as far as the eye can see.

territory, but the U.K., which owns this stretch of hostile real estate, is strict as can be in its governance. Managed along with South Georgia by the Foreign and Commonwealth Development Office in Stanley, Falkland Islands, the region is officially called the U.K. Overseas Territory of South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands. A hoops-and-ladders bureaucracy limits visitors to scientific expedition (and, sometimes, media) teams. The land masses are designated a specially protected area, and the maritime zone includes marine protected areas and “no take zones” for licensed fishing. This is critical to monitoring and protecting krill stocks for the resident foraging seals and penguins.

The permit process is more than rigorous. The government is concerned about biosecurity and safety. Applicants have to document and demonstrate that they will not be introducing

alien species to these pristine islands, and they have to ensure they can conduct the expedition safely and self-sufficiently. Anyone who has written risk assessments will know what I am talking about: lots of columns, rows, and colors. And no matter how complete one’s answers, there will be lots of follow-up questions. The Q&A can continue right up to departure.

Before we left Stanley, we inspected everyone’s clothing, footwear, and equipment, down to vacuuming out pockets, painstakingly picking seeds out of Velcro with needles, and disinfecting boots, ski poles, tripods, and anything else that can touch the ground with biocide. We had to be hard on each other, and it is amazing what you can find if you look hard enough. Before setting sail, we were visited by Sammy, Stanley’s official fourlegged rat-catcher. She jumped back ashore, still hungry.

BOW ON A RISING MOON

It is 1,000 nautical miles from Port Stanley to Zavodovski, and the weather looked optimum for the outward leg. A moderate westerly by north set in astern soon after we left Cape Pembroke with a course for the south end of South Georgia, and the wind direction never wavered for the next 3½ days.

It’s no secret why more charter boats aren’t doing what we do on Vinson: It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. After a glorious 800mile downwind sail running wing and wing (both jibs out on the poles and the mainsails down), we ran down the course, keeping the bow on a rising but waning moon in the evenings and on the sun breaking the horizon in the mornings. Now that they were temporarily released from their landside responsibilities and worries, the team members were carefree and meditative, and they lounged about the deck in the sunshine amongst soaring albatross and flitting petrels. We made shelter in four days flat. The passage was icing on the cake right from the beginning.

Looking ahead though, there was trouble on the aft starboard horizon. A big low was due to march across our path on day five. This would make attempting a landing on Zardovski

problematic, so it was a no-brainer to nip into Larsen Harbour, an all-weather storm anchorage inside a deep fjord at the southern tip of South Georgia. And lo and behold, there were Jerome Poncet and the Antarctic Peninsula-bound Golden Fleece doing the same. We spent two nights anchored in proximity and crosspollinated the crews. It was a rare treat to have the “father of southern-ocean sailing” and his oldest son, Dion, together in the same anchorage by chance. Jerome was the first person to explore the South Sandwich by small boat, making the trip on Damien II in the ’90s and later on the Golden Fleece. We were in good company.

It is cliché, but lend a thought to Captain Cook and the crew of the HMS Resolution in 1775. While searching for the terra incognita of Antarctica, he fetched up on a group of islands to the south, which he named Southern Thule. Sailing north along the island chain in thick weather, he assumed that he was looking at promontories of a land mass. His assumption wasn’t discredited until 1819, when Captain Thaddeus von Bellingshausen discovered the northern three islands and then sailed south along the eastern side of the southern islands. Various sealing expeditions came and went with little profit. In 1908,

Captain Carl Anton Larsen, who developed the whaling industry on South Georgia, became the first person to land on Zavodovski. Now the islands were firmly on the map, but they remained pristine because all attempts at whaling and sealing failed due to the harsh weather and lack of any natural harbor.

RUNNING FOR SHELTER

Back on the Vinson in Larsen Harbour, it was blowing 40 knots on the outside, with a 6–7 meter swell running. We had to hang in and shelter for three days. The wind whipped through the rigging, and Vinson snatched at the anchor cable in gusts of 50 knots. It had been raining on and off since we arrived and, frankly, it was miserable. We were stormbound in the Southern Ocean.

We finally ran down the 36 hours to Zavodovski and arrived off open roads on January 22 in benign conditions. My job was to call the landings: yes or no? Too cautious and time would be lost; too gung-ho and we’d risk a fiasco. It looked dodgy, but with Dion’s confidence in driving the Zodiac, we made the move and established ourselves on the island.

With generally dry conditions during the day, spitting rain at night, and high winds occasionally peppering the tents with fine volcanic ash, we concluded we’d picked a good campsite at the southeast end of the island, just north of Fume Point. Back in Stanley, I had prepared 45 tent pegs from 25 mm steel angle. Luckily, they could be driven into the hard clay soil with a

five-pound maul and were “bomb proof.” Soft ash with no holding power would have been a different story. We fastened climbing ropes to various pegs like guy ropes and changed them with the angle of the wind, aligning the tents in the direction of the summit. We placed our heavy kit boxes and bags, along with 150 kg of boulders carried up from near the cliff edge (ouch!), on the tent valences. We’d assembled a safe-as-can-be base camp on a totally open and exposed landscape.

We deployed four tents and had two complete spares, knowing that if the shit hit the fan, there would be no escape to the boat, which was anchored 300 meters off the cliff face near that precarious landing. If it was windy enough to bust the tents, it would be too windy to launch the Bombard C5, and the cliff face would be a wash machine. In extremis, we could survive, but it would be miserable.

This outlier in the Southern Ocean is rugged and windy, but we were lucky with the weather during our 10 days camping. The campsite held, Vinson stayed on station, and Chris, Justino, Dion, and Tor were able to trade places ashore to get a break from the 24/7 rolling.

Always with an eye to the weather, we had enjoyed nine days of glorious trekking all over the island, much of it on

The expedition’s camp above the penquins and below the summit of the volcano. (Skip Novak)

moonscape terrain with deeply eroded gorges and all of it above the margins from the cliffs, which were dominated by chinstrap and macaroni penguin colonies, some extending 100 meters upslope.

Our scientific mission revolved around two disciplines. Dr. Tom Hart from Oxford University, who’d landed briefly on Zavodovski in 2011, flew drones to take a census of the penguin colonies. We also tagged 45 penguins with geolocators that record the birds’ whereabouts at sea during winter. Dr. Nicole Richter from RWTH Aachen University in Germany, our volcanologist, mapped nearly the entire island using sophisticated drone tracking software. The high point, in all respects, was being on the summit the morning of the only day in 10 that was sunny and windless — flying, flying, flying, until the drones’ batteries ran out. These two expert drone pilots gathered an incredible amount of data in difficult conditions and will collaborate going forward on their analyses.

Zavo, as we now call it, is a stunning landscape like no other. The coastline’s features hit all the senses — even smell: Acrid Point, Stench Point, Reek Point, Pungent Point, and Noxious Bluff. Mount Curry is classed as an active volcano, and it degasses continually. Its plume of SO2 and other more

dangerous gases, usually streaming out to sea, is to be avoided, so carrying gas masks, helmets, and goggles in rucksacks was de rigueur. Predicting an eruption, however, is impossible. We’d discussed an evacuation plan, but in reality, any evacuation would be an ad hoc, panic situation. We were all aware of the risk and happy to take it: Mount Curry had last erupted violently in 2016!

Once again, our expedition model of deploying small teams focused on their science is proving more efficient and more cost-effective than having those same scientists share time on large research vessels, which, if rumor is correct, is neither efficient nor satisfying.

We evacuated the island on January 31 and were already planning for next year as we sailed for the “mainland” of South Georgia. After all, those geolocators have to be recovered from those penguins, right? 2

Adapted with permission from Yachting World. Find the full version of this article, along with more adventurous cruising content, at yachtingworld.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Skip Novak is one of the preeminent authorities on high-latitude sailing, having spent over three decades running expeditions to Antarctica, the Falklands and South Georgia. He is a veteran of four Whitbread Round the World Races, and co-created the 77-foot exploration yacht, Vinson of Antarctica

on a Cat

Code-zero and jib were frequently set together.

Antigua welcomed us after an Atlantic crossing from Madeira that stretched 23 days because the trade winds had failed to show any sign of life until we touched latitude 17 degrees north. We were comfortably secured at the Falmouth Harbour Marina when a CCA member strolling the docks noticed the burgee flying from Tyga, our Lagoon 39 catamaran. After introductions, he looked the boat over and asked if we’d crossed in that. Having just completed my third crossing on Tyga, I resisted an equally silly response about how, not trusting the big boat, we’d preferred to ride in the dingy. That encounter piqued me, but my purpose here is not to debate the pros and cons of cats — that topic has been flogged to death — but rather to share the tale of a wonderfully fun, rich 18,000-mile, 10-year adventure, which perhaps will dispel some of the negative views that persist.

Growing up in New England, I sailed many years on monohulls, especially with my dad, Larry White (BOS). Even he, a veteran of 11 monohull crossings, enjoyed the advantages of the cat when I hoisted him aboard for his last sail — especially the ease of getting on and off the dock and in and out of the water from the transom.

For six years, I sailed two months in the fall and two in the spring in the Mediterranean with family and friends. Though we didn’t spend winters there, we discovered that they’re doable, particularly in a place like Marmaris, Turkey, which has a thriving liveaboard crowd. Our four winters in the Caribbean usually encompassed four months. We almost always anchored Tyga on the hard between seasons — good boatyards and marinas abounded on our travels — but I still

spent summers on salt water, working on my commercial fishing boat on the Bering Sea in Alaska. During the two years that the pandemic made travel nearly impossible, we stayed in Puerto Rico.

In choosing a boat, I considered my priority for the cruise: fun in the sun, accomplished safely and with a generous degree of comfort. I’ve had a boat sink under me, and I liked that, short of a catastrophe, cats were unsinkable. I also wanted to ensure that my precious cargo — family and friends — came away from the cruise with good memories. We live in a small town lorded over by a ski mountain that overlooks a 1,000-foot-deep lake. There’s nary a whiff of salt air, and CCA’s Pacific Northwest station (PNW) in Seattle is 350 miles away. While I’m lucky to have world-class sailors in my orbit, several people I wanted to sail with were landlubbers, including my wife, Pat, a mountain girl, and my daughter, Tyga, who can get seasick in a jetted hot tub. Plus, my sixweek-old grandson would be joining us. The promise of good times would not have held up on a heeling monohull with a lot of pounding and a seasick crew. With its stable deck and three cabins — one with a king-size berth in the port hull and two roomy private quarters in the starboard hull — a Lagoon would provide the comfort we sought. Her 8-knot hull speed was just fine with me.

The only specific requirement of our crew was to learn to tie a bowline and a clove hitch. Sometimes we sailed with six aboard, and once we were eight, including two surly teenagers who slept on the drop-down table in the cockpit (that was not repeated). Even then, there was plenty of space in the cockpit for lounging, games, and cocktails. I particularly liked how the main cabin’s open aft sliding door and window blended the inside and outside spaces beautifully. Another dividend of

“

I was in the cabin, feeling cocky about exiting the notorious Bay of Biscay without punishment. Then the crew suggested I come up on deck. I was shocked to find a storm gusting to 67 knots, steady at 50 knots.”

the 22.3-foot beam was the ease of launching and stowing the dingy from the stern davits. That same beam precludes the possibility of a self-steering vane, but our Raymarine autopilot was steadfast throughout the adventure.

I bought Tyga straight from the Lagoon factory in France in 2013 and took possession of her, complete with new-boat smell, in Les Sables-d’Olonne. On the third day of sea trials, with a delivery crew heading for the Mediterranean, I was in the cabin, feeling cocky about exiting the notorious Bay of Biscay without punishment. Then the crew suggested I come up on deck. I was shocked to find a storm gusting to 67 knots, steady at 50 knots. With a handkerchief-sized jib, we sailed on a broad reach for two hours to a protected bay with 20-foot building seas. I was overwhelmingly impressed with the boat’s stability and how I had been unaware of the storm’s strength while below. I fell in

love with Tyga then, and I felt I could trust her in anything we might encounter. My trust was well placed.

We rounded the northwest corner of Portugal and set the code zero for a long downwind sail bound for Gibraltar. I realized the value of a good set of headsails on a cat because there is no backstay and, though the chainplates anchoring the shrouds are set quite aft, the mainsail is only useful once sailing on a beam reach and forward. A self-tacking jib, a gennaker, and a code zero, all furling, is the perfect quiver. The mainsail limitations only bothered me a little, as the headsails were convenient to furl and much easier to look at. I was also reminded of the new senses and calculations needed to sail a cat. Since there is minimal heel, it is hard to tell the wind load on the boat. The key for me was watching the apparent wind speed and knowing what the load capacity of each sail was.

Twenty miles off Figueira da Foz, I was chillingly reminded of my folly in 1980, when I was delivering Dad’s 35-foot Hinckley Pilot yawl to the Canaries before our crossing. I was lulled by the calm wind and lazy swell rolling from the west and neglected to consult the Coastal Pilot, which would have told me of the extreme danger of entering the port under those seemingly benign conditions. Just inside the two long breakwaters, we were knocked flat twice and nearly lost everything on the jagged rocks. I told the story, “A Seaman’s Nightmare,” in my book, Wind, Waves and a Suicidal Boat, and in the December 1999 issue of Cruising Club News

The 35-knot Levant that blows easterly through the Strait of Gibraltar was our introduction to the Med’s seven named winds. We would come to know the northeast Bora, southern Sirocco, and the northwest Mistral quite well. Gibraltar was as historic and spectacular as I had imagined. Our arrival there marked the time for slowing down and cruising for pleasure, with Pat and our friends joining. During the next six years, we sailed on and off as far west as Turkey, north to Croatia,

and all the islands in between. Abundant ruins and castles tell stories of the past, not all of them ancient — as recently as 1991, Dubrovnik saw bombs exploding inside her thick walls. We favored the quaint villages and towns — every country has them. Often, we would back up to the town’s waterfront in Med-mooring fashion, delighted with the ease the twin engines afforded. The crew could come and go as they pleased, and we immersed ourselves in the local culture. Often, we would be steps away from a sidewalk cafe serving food and beer.

I should mention a disadvantage of a cat: marinas usually charged one-and-a-half, and sometimes twice, the monohull fees. Marina costs were generally reasonable in the Med, so it wasn’t too painful; not so much on the west side of the Pond, where rates inflated substantially.

I’m often asked to reveal a favorite place we visited. I can’t do that. Each landfall offered a new experience, new people, different smells and sounds, all rich to the senses. Food — sauces, wines, cheeses, eggplant, kebabs — always left distinct memories. I was bent on finding recipes with tomatoes and sampling breads for their distinct local flavors. But my true obsession was trying the ubiquitous olive oils and discovering the uniqueness of each pressing.

One especially memorable cultural connection was an evening with a Croatian family on their small artichoke farm. We got up early and went fishing for the evening dinner with the grandfather, who we called Zorba. Among the places we hiked, Plitvice Lakes National Park in Croatia and trails in Crete stand out. And we saw so many natural wonders! We were

especially impressed with volcanoes, from Santorini’s ancient caldera, formed by a massive explosion in the 17th century, to Sicily’s very active Etna to Italy’s Stromboli, where red lava boulders barreled down the flanks and sizzled into the sea 100 yards from where we drifted. There were small wonders too, like the three-foot fish that kept pace with us for a half hour one night in Sicily, moving through the phosphorescent water like a lit-up torpedo.

There was no shortage of manmade wonders. Sicily is fascinating and cheap. The drive through the hilly country is made nearly flat by the many engineered bridges and tunnels. There is a particular lane in Palermo that, I was told, is for emergency vehicles — and the Mafia. In Greece, the four-mile-long, 80.7-foot wide Corinth Canal is useless to big vessels, but it’s an incredibly convenient shortcut for those exploring on smaller boats. It’s a marvel, with high rock walls that were cut mostly with hand tools 130 years ago. We followed a fancy yacht with barely a foot to spare on each side.

And always the water — the amazing colors, snorkeling, diving, cooling off. The sad news: though we found some coral in the Med, it has been hammered for so long, with inadequate regulation, that it reminded me of a forest after a big burn: dark, wounded, and trying to recover. Still, there are fish. We caught tuna, mahi-mahi, swordfish, and even a reef-loving triggerfish in 10,000 feet of water in the middle of the Atlantic!

Of course, there were shadow days and lessons learned. There was a scary time when my son got dengue fever in Antigua. And there was controlled panic in Croatia when the

code zero unfurled in 45 knots of wind. Luckily, we had muscle on the boat to the rescue, but the sail was damaged. After that, the big sail was always lowered to the deck in any wind over 30 knots. In that same gale, the stern davits buckled on a friend’s new-to-him 45-foot cat after he failed to pull the drain plug on his expensive jet dingy. The dingy filled with water and was never found.

In Barcelona, I made the mistake of filling the fuel tank before storing Tyga for the winter. In spring, we launched the

boat and headed for Corsica. When we were too far and too stubborn to turn back, the engines started to choke. After going through the spare filters — and being forced to motor sail — I spent the remaining miles huddled in the engine rooms, scraping out the clogged filters with a screwdriver so they could be reused. A veritable jungle had grown in the fuel tanks. From then on, I installed larger filters and always added an anti-growth additive. I was again grateful for the dual engines when, twice, the seals on a sail drive went out, and we were able to make port on the remaining engine.

There was frustration: The day before the start of our spring cruise, I slipped on a Greek dock and snapped my tibia. I wrapped my shin tightly in an ACE bandage, and the bone showed perfect healing when I returned home.

We experienced alarm in a Greek boatyard when, just after being blocked, all the masts around us started waving like the spines of a black sea urchin. Earthquake! If it had gone on any longer, I imagined, all the cats would be jitterbugging around each other as the monohulls tipped over.

Some mishaps were humorous (to some), like the time I demonstrated throwing the heavy Dan Buoy MOB rescue bag while proclaiming you’d have to be an idiot or drunk to fall off the cat — at which point my robust toss propelled me off the boat. I was rescued and, once again, had to own my idiocy.

Roughly half the time, we had lines ashore, but for 540 nights, we were at anchor. Only twice was I annoyed by what I considered excessive boat rocking. The culprits were a wind or tide change and, once, a sudden katabatic wind. Other times, I watched with empathy from our steady deck as nearby monohulls rolled with retching frequency. I also cherish the many anchorages that found us alone because our shallow four-foot draft allowed us access to places that deeper-draft boats couldn’t go.

Four were on board when we started the crossing from Madeira. It was a delightful 23 days because our friends Ben Olson and Cadie Archer are in a band called Harold’s IGA. Music from a roll-out electric keyboard, guitar, and other instruments swept us across the sea in high style. My specialty was percussion, played on the outboard cowling.

Each Caribbean island is unique. The Grenadines became special after a day of snorkeling in Tobago Cays that was followed by a lobster bake on the beach. Nearby Mayreau, with its beautiful anchorages and friendly people, beckon us to return. Dominica is geographically spectacular, with healthy reefs and hot waterfalls and — after being devastated by more than one hurricane — impressively resilient people. Heading north or south, we always stopped on Dominca and took a tour with legendary Seacat Yacht Services. St. Lucia has one of the most spectacular anchorages in the Caribbean under the volcanic spires of the Pitons. Bequia is always interesting with its boatbuilding and whaling history.

In Les Saintes, we rendezvoused with a great friend — and double circumnavigator — Joe Harris (BOS), who was

with his family on a cat charter. While some monohulls would delay a day or more before crossing between islands due to strong trade winds, we never did. Tyga handled even 30 knots of wind forward of the beam with an acceptable degree of comfort and dryness.

There is one thing I would change about the 10-year cruise: I violated the rules of “Cruising with Friends 101”

by not allowing ourselves flexibility between departing and embarking guests. We could have used more time to reach the port and relax after cleaning and working on the ever-present maintenance list.

Otherwise, the cruise was a great success: Family bonds deepened, friendships expanded and strengthened, and people in foreign countries embraced our wonder and appreciation.

About the Author

Chris White spent his youth sailing in New England waters. He was introduced to fresh water and small craft working at the Outward Bound School in Minnesota. In 2013, he bought a catamaran and began a 10-year adventure meandering between Europe and Florida. Chris sold Tyga in 2023 and can now be found on Witchery, his 42-foot Robertson Caine catamaran. He is retired after 45 years (and five boats) as a commercial fishing captain in the Bering Sea. He shares his true salty tales in his book, Wind, Waves, and a Suicidal Boat.

A Lucky Man Overboard

A cruise between Caribbean islands offers up more than expected

One day in the spring before the pandemic, my wife, Tami, and I were motor-sailing our Baltic 47, Masquerade, over a calm, sunny Caribbean Sea from Jost Van Dyke, BVI, toward Culebra, Puerto Rico. About four miles east of the reefs south of Culebrita, I spotted a flash of white water near the horizon. Thinking it might be a breaching whale, I picked up the binoculars and was dismayed to spot an 18-foot skiff spinning in fast circles a couple of miles away. It seemed apparent that the operator had fallen overboard. I’d seen similar situations before: the operator opens the throttle and starts the engine not noticing it’s in gear, and the sudden acceleration sends him headfirst over the transom. Without a

kill cord attached, the boat keeps moving at high speed, often running over and killing the man in the water.

Giving Tami a heads-up, I mashed the throttle and altered course 90 degrees for the circling boat. While Tami searched for the operator through the binoculars, I picked up the cockpit VHF handset I’d installed next to the wheel and called the U.S. Coast Guard.

As we closed with the boat, Tami told me she could see someone floating on his back nearby. She saw him splash, which eased our fear that we’d find a corpse. I updated the Coast

Guard. They informed me that a 33-footer en route from Puerto Rico to St. Croix had been diverted to our position. Its ETA was not for another 90 minutes.

We could now see that the man was uninjured. I slowed down and eased our 60-foot dinghy towline to its end. I could have deployed the Lifesling, but the towline would do the job adequately, and I thought I might need to climb into the dinghy to get a line around him if he was too exhausted to climb aboard or otherwise incapacitated.

I motored in a slow circle around our man, as shown in the diagrams on the Lifesling container, and brought the towline to him. He was far gone, and I had to call him to get him to grab the painter. I dropped our transom swim ladder and stopped the boat, putting the engine in neutral to avoid any chance of injuring him with a turning propeller. We hauled him to the ladder, and he slowly climbed aboard, pausing halfway up to

We didn’t try to talk to ‘Roberto,’ letting him get his breath and accept that he wouldn’t die that day.

”

rest and take my hand. Tami greeted him with a towel and a cool glass of water.

We didn’t try to talk to “Roberto,” letting him get his breath and accept that he wouldn’t die that day (I won’t share his real name here as I don’t want to embarrass him). I let the Coast Guard know that we had him aboard and that he seemed fine and didn’t require medical attention. Roberto took a big swig of water, which came right back up. He was content to sip from then on. We retrieved his Crocs and hat from the water, gave him shorts and a t-shirt to replace the clothes he’d shed after falling in, and let him use our phone to call home.

The Coast Guard informed us that their boat would arrive within an hour. I started to get bored, so I tied a 1/4-inch Dacron line to a throwable cushion, circled Roberto’s still-spinning skiff, and got the line across its wake in an attempt to foul the prop and stop it. It shuddered as it ran over my line, but the prop sliced right through, and the boat kept spinning. I was about to make another attempt when Tami spied the Coast Guard approaching at speed.

The friendly Coast Guard crew ensured that all was well with Roberto and that his boat’s registration hadn’t expired. They apologetically informed us that, due to liability issues, they could do nothing but wait for the boat to run out of gas, and even then, again due to liability, they could only tow it and take Roberto to Fjardo, 20 miles away, not to Culebra, where he lives, four miles away. We assured them we would get Roberto and his boat home safely.

After an hour of waiting for the skiff to run out of fuel, I again got bored and deployed my tangle line. Just as it ran over the line, it stopped dead, finally out of gas. It had been 2 1⁄2 hours since we arrived on the scene and nearly four hours since Roberto fell overboard.

It was sobering to think what would have become of Roberto had we not happened along. Even if he’d survived another 2 1⁄2 hours floating in the scorching sun, he wouldn’t have had the energy to haul himself aboard his skiff.

Waving our thanks to the Coasties, we grabbed his boat’s painter and took Roberto home.

Lessons noted

This was a calm, smooth operation aboard Masquerade, primarily thanks to years of experience and thinking about how to handle various situations, but also to my and, to a lesser extent, Tami’s involvement with Storm Trysail Club’s excellent Safety at Sea and Junior Safety at Sea programs. I highly recommend enrolling in one. Do the same for your junior sailors, too. I learn something new every time I teach at or take one. It’s a fun program run by great sailors, many of whom are CCA members.

Underway on Masquerade, we always have someone on deck keeping an eye out, so we were present to see the skiff spinning on the horizon. Having the on-deck VHF radio meant one of us didn’t have to be below to chat with the USCG. A good set of 7x50 binoculars close at hand helped us quickly find Roberto in the water. In addition, both Tami and I are involved in the operation of our boat and very focused on learning safety procedures. Thanks to seven years of summer cruises and winter conversations, we work as a team.

Three scenarios could have severely complicated retrieving Roberto. If he had been conscious but too tired to climb the swim ladder, we would have dropped him a line with a bowline and used a halyard to drag him up the transom. If he was unconscious, I would have climbed into the dinghy, leaving Tami to maneuver Masquerade while I got a loop under his arms and used a halyard to hoist him aboard. There was no way either Tami or I would have gotten in the water with a panicky victim.

Roberto survived for us to find him because of his relative youth, his good physical condition thanks to being a frequent swimmer, and the highly salty water that made it easy to stay afloat.

Still, his chances would have significantly improved had he been wearing a lifejacket. Practically speaking, he wasn’t — and isn’t — going to wear a lifejacket in the tropical heat. But what he should have done — and will do every time from now on, I’ll bet — was wear his outboard motor kill cord!

About the Author

Andrew Burton lives in Newport, Rhode Island, has been a member of the CCA since 2021, and has logged more than 450,000 miles as a delivery skipper. He teaches passage-making skills and navigation aboard his Baltic 47, Masquerade, when he and his wife, Tami, aren’t cruising.

Captains Thom Richardson and Bob Rubadeau.

ON BECOMING A CAPTAIN

My formative sailing years were spent on a short list of state-of-the-art sailboats in major ocean races along the Eastern Seaboard when Nixon was president. My journey to becoming a professional offshore sailor began with an 8,000mile Pacific Ocean crossing from Sydney to San Diego as captain of the Maxi Ondine. This life-forming event crystalized my core belief that those scalawags you are lucky enough by design or chance to sail with are a huge magical perk of this calling. Paying close attention to the nuances of crew dynamics ensures likely success on your way to becoming a better captain.

The evolution of an offshore captain is a confusing journey with a chart full of hidden reefs and bad advice. Leadership demands searching for that hard-to-find open space between long-held opinions among mismatched strangers where reason, humor, or candor can slip in. Tempers create unreliable shipmates. Coping with people aboard in critical situations is alchemy not science. A prime rule to remember is that heated words often mean the most and speak the loudest after the voyage ends.

IT WAS CHRISTMAS.

Wait … I should clarify that odd observation and fill in the blanks. It was four days before Boxing Day in 1973. The true bluebloods of the offshore racing scene, the uber-wealthy and colorful few, were gathered with their trophy crews and high-tech machines at the docks of the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia. Mary and I were finishing a year teaching school in Sydney, and I was hoping to score a ride aboard a visiting yacht returning stateside.

The docks were full of likely suspects. Everyone was moving at high speed in that semi-controlled state of panic days before a major ocean race. Ondine, scratch boat and queen of the fleet, was easy to spot from a distance. Her two matched spars towered over the rest. Her baby-blue hull seemed as massive and flat as an aircraft carrier; the winches were the size of truck tires. I gawked.

“Captain aboard?” I asked a giant of a Kiwi rebuilding a winch.

“You American?”

“As apple pie.”

“The captain will definitely want to see you. Tell him Mark sent you.” The black, scrub-brush hair jerked in the direction of the bar. This was a completely unexpected turn of events. Mark later told me he thought I was someone else.

Thom Richardson was standing at the bar. He was tall, tan, rail thin, and blond. He looked like a movie star (maybe Stewart Granger from the 30s), visibly British, very upper crust. Looking down his nose at someone looked swell on him. His face had been all over Rupert Murdoch’s tabloids for days; they dubbed him the most eligible bachelor ever — and he was stuck Down Under through Christmas.

I went over my pitch about my racing creds, dropped names, and injected the right touch of competent humility on

my maturing but nascent offshore sailing skills. The whole sell was, “Please, like me, I don’t bitch or whine, and I will pull my own weight and then some.”

“You are American — U.S. passport?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Current, like, you can go back anytime, right?”

My eyebrows went up in twin paradoxes, and I nodded again. What gives here?

“Don’t really need an extra hand for the race, but we are sailing for San Diego mid-January after we fit out in Kirribilli. You want to go?”

Unable to believe my good fortune, I was speechless. Thom frowned, waited, looked at the ceiling, and slowly growled in frustration.

“Okay, you can go on the race. But you got the forepeak and the sail-bag sandwich.”

I blinked, surprised again. Thom’s eyes dropped, and then he got serious.

“All right, no forepeak, but I can’t promise where you’ll dock.”

I gulped and turned slightly away because I felt faint with my good luck.

“Bloody hell.” His voice sank to a whisper in resignation. “Right you are. Go pick any bunk not occupied. I’ll square it with Huey.”

I was in a very fluid negotiation here, and I was scoring all the goals. I kept my mouth shut. I stuck out my hand, and we shook on the deal.

“You do speak English, right, mate?” Thom finally asked with a worried frown.

I bought my new boss a beer. I was basking in the glow of being taken for a real sailor without having to resort to a heavy sell, but the other shoe was about to fall on my runaway ego.

“Fact is, I got a dozen guys lined up for that berth, but none of the rotters is a damn Yank. Jones Act says a U.S.flagged vessel must have a U.S. captain to clear into U.S. waters. Usually, you can’t have a yacht race without a full plague of ballbusting Americans. Now, I can’t find one. Don’t forget your bloody passport.”

TO STARBOARD WAS A NUDE BEACH.

“Steady as she goes there!” Thom bellowed. The crew waited at sloppy attention. The wind ripped a tattoo on the Stars and Bars at the stern. Ondine ran down Sydney Harbor with a bone in her teeth. The afternoon testing of the newly built light drifter had gone well, and now we were on a mission to press the race gear for weaknesses while we were here in a major port where we could easily manage repairs.

“Lively now!”

Thom said, putting into play a hastily sketched and embarrassing plan.

down and began to tug at the rope belt I had put through the loops of my old cutoff jeans that morning. Instead of a tidy and easily loosened square knot, I had laid the final overhand wrong and ended up with a tight, wet “granny.”

I struggled to keep one eye on the depth and the other out ahead where bobbing heads of swimmers randomly appeared. I slalomed past obstacles as my comrades’ grins slowly began to lose their luster — it was a long beach.

The ranks broke in full rout. The crew stampeded back to the cockpit. Their sideways glances and winks served notice that I was still a highly unknown commodity. Failing to drop my own pants was not team-building behavior.

“The ranks broke in full rout. The crew stampeded back to the cockpit. Their sideways glances and winks served notice that I was still a highly unknown commodity. Failing to drop my own pants was not team-building behavior.”

“Preeee-sent to starboard!” The crew, four stout lads in gym shorts, scrambled shoulder to shoulder and straightened their chorus line along the starboard rail.

The boat was close-hauled, and I was at the lower steering station of the tandem wheels. Our girl was moving with determination. The water was barely 20 feet deep, and the boat needed 12 feet to stay afloat. These were those dark medieval days long before the security of GPS plotters. We were so close to the beach I felt I could drag my fingers through the sand.

The multi-national crew looked solemn, nervous. I had barely gotten to them and couldn’t be sure they were enjoying the moment.

“Ready the volley, boyos.”

The rail dipped to a strong random gust, and all hands steadied themselves at the lifeline. Thom spotted the billboard identifying the clothes-optional beach section — a crossing between the haves and the have-nots.

“Smartly now,” he snapped. “Shed the togs!”

At the helm, I was caught by surprise to see five men suddenly bare themselves from the waist down, angling their considerable poundage of glutei maximi out over the rail. Shouts, whistles, and applause came downwind every time we flew by a group of beach-goers sprawled naked on towels and blankets.

Having been left out of the planning for this drive-by mooning, I was now in a quandary. I needed both hands to keep this overloaded beast from rounding up and heading for the beach, but how could I be the only one not inflicting himself to the humiliation of showing private parts unasked? I reached

The crew wandered to the windward winches to bring us on to the other tack.

“Ready about, hard over.”

Everyone moved at Thom’s order, but no one jumped to take the wheel from my hands as I put the 73-foot Maxi through the eye of the wind and lined up on the vaulted “white sails” of the recently built opera house way down the harbor below the green lawns of King’s Park.

“Marking!” I called out.

The tall masts groaned like prod-shocked mules as the crew set up the sheets. She was stretching out fine. Eleven knots easy.

“Marking!” I shared the visual course towards home.

Nick, Thom’s younger brother, finished at the port sheet “organ-grinder” with a flurry of double-armed spins, then slapped me on the back, and disappeared below. Once the mainsheet had joined suit, the rest of the crew ducked out of sight. Thom gave me one long quizzical look. Turning to the hatch, he said, “You alright, mate?”

“What are you going to tell the press gang when they ask about the moons over Sydney? I saw lots of cameras,” I said.

A dark cloud moved across his movie-star face, then he smiled. “Bloody hell, you’re the damn captain, figure it out,” he said, and he disappeared below.

Looks like I was finding my odd place in this pecking order.

ONDINE TOOK LINE HONORS AND THE TROPHY IN

the Sydney Hobart Race, then went on to cross the Tasman Sea and leave New Zealand behind. Two hundred miles east from the South Island, we were now locked into a tough battle with Neptune. Our current gale-strength weather front was just the latest pachyderm in a long line of trunk-to-tail monstrous depressions that were parading along our course.

I stumbled out of sleep after a four-hour bunk-induced coma and fumbled into my dripping foul-weather gear. Nearly every piece of clothing I had aboard was on my body as molding

insulation. I tucked a wet but not yet dripping towel around my neck and zipped the jacket up tight before snugging the hood over my heavy wool cap.

I read the last watch entry in the logbook, made exactly an hour earlier: wind speed, 38 to 47 knots; wave height, 25 to 35 feet; breaking waves; storm staysail amidships; speed, 8.5 to 15.1; course, 110 to 165 degrees; temperature, 46 degrees F. The terrifying entries were scratched in shaky capital letters. It had been bad on my last watch. It was now a lot worse.

I paused at the hatch and listened to the chaos outside, trying to hear above the keening wind for the rush of water along the scuppers. I didn’t want to invite a few tons of Southern Ocean into the cabin as I scrambled on deck. The boat’s movement had no rhythm. Thrown this way and that, the 50-ton boat was skidding along in a ponderous wobble, suddenly lurching past 45 degrees from vertical before slowly regaining her feet. I slid the hatch open over my head.

“A kind Kiwi gesture,” I yelled above the wind.

“Better hurry,” he warned hoarsely. “And hold on.”

He pressed a second safety harness and tether into my hands and was gone below before I could ask why. On leaving the shelter of the hard dodger, I made the simple lifesaving mistake of turning to look forward.

“Fifty-something years later, my neck hairs still bristle at the memory of that biblical doomsday scene. A 25-foot wall of water is imposing in the extreme, and to confront it 1,000 miles from land adds steroids to the fear level.”

Fifty-something years later, my neck hairs still bristle at the memory of that biblical doomsday scene. A 25-foot wall of water is imposing in the extreme, and to confront it 1,000 miles from land adds steroids to the fear level. If you ever have the misfortune to be heading down the face of a wave while rapidly overtaking the one ahead, you’ll find that the perceived height of the monster in your way easily doubles in size.

The sea was moving like a boiling vat of black tar. A figure manned each wheel, struggling in tandem to keep the boat under control. I quickly pulled myself over the washboards with all the grace of an elephant seal. I snapped on my shackle to the heavy wire jackline and cowered under the dodger. One of the two figures moved in my direction.

“Hate to leave all the fun,” Athol shouted in my ear. “I’ll let you have some of the sweetness for a mite, mate.”

I dropped back under the dodger, wedging myself in tight. I looked up and saw Mark, the first mate and helmsman, disappear under a solid sheet of spray. I quickly pulled my arms through the heavy web strapping of the second safety harness and secured it tight across my chest.

When most of the water had tumbled over the stern, I moved aft as fast as my Michelin Man outfit would let me. I followed Mark’s lead, and as soon as I could grab the wheel, I snapped my two tethers into the stout D-rings on both sides of the pedestal. Mark wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. I was worried; farce wasn’t a usual part of his antics. What was so funny?

I learned about gallows’ humor while riding the razor’s edge of disaster for the next two hours. The cycle would begin in the windless trough between two mountains of moving water, where the boat would shake itself like a spaniel at a pond’s edge. Hearing the approaching waterfall high behind us, Mark and I would tug away at each other’s best guess on where to position the rudder for the next big surge. The tandem wheels would spin free from our wet hands as we struggled to keep the bow straight downhill. To be off by 10 degrees meant the boat might be thrown sideways with little steerage or control and the next wave could roll us over as easily as a bathtub toy. We needed speed.

Suddenly, with enough force to buckle our knees, the stern would climb onto the wave like an express elevator, then the bow would plunge at an increasingly steep angle. Gale-force winds would swarm over the stern counter, finding and pushing anything vertical, including our exposed backsides. The boat would be pushed over nearly 40 degrees and accelerate with a neck-snapping lurch. She’d gain speed recklessly and race the wave face like a racehorse in the final furlong.

Surfing may be fun on a small boogey board on a sunny day at a Nantucket beach, but this was brutal. Outpacing the wave, Ondine would use her keel and surf across the steep face. Soon the wave behind us would be at our stern, blocking the wind, and our speed would plummet. The water under the keel would go slack, and we’d lose grip with the rudder. We’d surge along the crest of a three-story canyon, teetering on a crumbling wave with no steerage.

Then things would get interesting.

We’d heel over to the fierce wind and begin to hit 12, 13, 14 knots and plunge downhill, catching up to the wave ahead. It would look as if a solid wall of ocean was suddenly reversing course and coming back at us. The bow would slam into the hillside and bury itself a dozen feet into black water. Mark and I would be slammed forward, our chests smacking the wheels as the boat went from careening in the mid-teens to the low single digits in a split second. Ondine would literally stop dead, lift her bow, and scoop a three-foot-high wave along the decks.

I remember thinking how strange to see each safety-line stanchion leaving a bow wake in the frothing cauldron. We’d hold on for dear life as the cold water poured off the stern and tried to take us with it, then check to see if each other was still standing. Ondine would shake herself like a happy puppy, and the

next wave would begin to lift our stern again. Two hours of this and an another four spent cowering in my bunk quickly wore down my enthusiasm.

We made 1,000 miles of easting during the first four days of our passage and only barely crossed the 50th parallel of south latitude into the Furious Fifties. When the weather showed signs of getting even worse, we had a brief crew meeting and decided to turn north towards the equator, and leave the Drake Passage and Cape Horn until another day. It would be 32 years before I’d get back and scale the “Everest Horizontal,” and I wasn’t disappointed with the spoiled soup of fine weather that time either.

Ondine was 19 days and 3,000 nautical miles from New Zealand when we thought we might be close to our needle in

the haystack — Pitcairn Island. The smart money in the crew’s betting pool was not on when, but if we would sight Pitcairn. One shipmate wondered if we would sight any land ever again (and he was one of the three of us sextant navigators). After dinner one starry night, I calmly predicted that we’d see our goal the next day at breakfast. I don’t think the crew stopped laughing out loud until dawn when the morning watch looked astern and spotted a humped smudge just about to vanish below the horizon. We turned around and made our way to the descendants of the Bounty mutineers.

FOUR GENERATIONS OF SMILING NEW FRIENDS

were seated in the wooden lifeboat tethered alongside Ondine A gap-toothed young teen smacked his hand under his armpit, imitating my energetic attempts at grass-skirt hula dancing at a sweet-16 birthday party the night before. Everyone had called me the “captain and mailman who shouldn’t dance.” The entire population of the island, all 48 souls, had joined together in

the fun.

Just 30 hours ago, when we’d arrived at Pitcairn Island bearing a precious satchel of mail from Auckland, we were strangers. Now we bantered like family. Shocks of bright, unruly red hair riding over freckles were scattered among the happy Polynesian faces, a testament to the diversity of these descendants of the original Bounty mutineers and their Tahitian mentors.

One man’s voice silenced the chatter of goodbyes with a melody. When he reached the chorus, the entire congregation joined in and followed him in an up-tempo round. The sweet voices of women, men, and children chased each other through the verses of In the Sweet By and By, a centuries-old song shared aboard ships embarking on the dangerous sea. Delivered in the strong voices of an ancient seafaring clan thriving on a lonely rock a thousand ocean miles from the nearest land mass, the song welded to my soul. The fact that Ondine’s crew had nearly 5,000 open ocean miles to reach Acapulco, where Mary would join us for the last leg to San Diego, loomed large.

The tempo changed once again as the song came to a close:

Now one last song we’ll sing Goodbye, Goodbye

Time moves on rapid wings

Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye

We part, but hope to meet again Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye ...

It was now up to the old uneasy partnership between sailors and the gods of the sea to ensure that we all stick around to be part of the next chorus to be sung somewhere over the horizon. No one spoke or looked anyone in the eye for a long while. We scurried about the deck, carrying our emotions proudly, like a peacock-feather hat, as we got underway. The running backstay finally took up the strain on the rig like a violin string, and the double-reefed main turned us down wind.

In hindsight, this shared goodbye ritual taught me how to become part of a new crew. Hugging life’s important lessons when they appear is the surest pathway to being a better captain.

About the Author

Left: Mary and R.J. on Ondine in Baja. Below: Ondine, Queen of the fleet.

R. J. Rubadeau (BOS/GMP) is an award-winning author, columnist, journalist, and poet. His career and adventures as a professional blue-water sailor have been chronicled for over four decades in the world’s leading sailing periodicals. Bound For Roque Island: Sailing Maine and the World and Bound for Cape Horn: Skills for Expedition Cruising have both won numerous awards for nonfiction books and nautical memoirs. Rubadeau lives with his wife, Mary, and a posse of grandkids, dogs, and horses near Durango, Colorado. Each summer, Dog Star, the family’s 93-year-old Phil Rhodes-designed ketch, plies the cold, clear waters of New England and beyond, crewed by cherished hardcore friends and four generations of this seafaring family.

Voyagers Mallorca in

On September 9, 2023, 121 CCA members, family, and guests kicked off the long-awaited Mallorca cruise with a party at the Ca n’Eduardo restaurant on the promenade in the city of Palma de Mallorca. Just a week earlier, a significant low-pressure system had battered the island with torrential rains and 75-knot winds, wreaking havoc in the towns and harbors and even causing a cruise ship to break her moorings. Fortunately, our charter boats, supplied by Helen

Whysall and Dawn MacPhee’s Sublime Charters, escaped serious damage. The Mallorca cruise, delayed three years by the pandemic, was on at last!

An independent, self-governing Spanish island of 1 million people in the western Mediterranean, Mallorca is a top vacation destination for Europeans, especially Germans, with 30 million travelers passing through Palma Mallorca Airport every year. It’s

1. Cabrera

2. Agulla

3. Alcúdia

a good choice for chartering. There are ample boat selections, over 250 calas, or coves, to explore, and itineraries can be easily adjusted to accommodate weather and schedules. For our two-week 180mile circumnavigation of the island, 2020 co-chairs Les Crane and Jock Macrae had nailed down charter boats, moorage, restaurants, and venues. After the pandemic, Howie Hodgson, who replaced Jock as co-chair, traveled to Mallorca with his wife, Wendy, to determine which selections were still available. The final itinerary,

bookended by the city of Palma, included four rendezvous locations: Isla de Cabrera, Alcúdia, Sóller, and Andratx.

Located on Mallorca’s south coast, Palma is a wonderful mix of historic Arabic, Ottoman, and Spanish buildings and modern architecture. Founded by the Romans in 123 BC, the city was variously ruled by the Byzantines, Muslims, Moors, Christians, Vikings, and assorted caliphates. In 1229,

James I of Aragon conquered the city and renamed it Ciutat de Mallorca (Mallorca City). King James also started the four-centuries-long construction of the Cathedral of Santa Maria of Palma, which still dominates the skyline. Today, Palma is home to some of the largest and most interesting yachts in the world and the premiere place in the Med for quality yacht maintenance and repair.

We had a panoramic view of the yacht-filled harbor as we gathered in the beautiful sunshine on the terrace at Ca n’Eduardo to hear Les and Howie gave opening remarks. Royal Cruising Club Commodore Nick Chavasse presented the CCA with the RCC medal for cruising services, and Irish Cruising Club Vice Commodore Alan Markey made remarks about CCA’s contribution to cruising.

Cabrera

The next day, Nick and his wife, Margie, and Alan, and his wife, Helen, were special guests aboard Chris and Shawn Otorowski’s Swan 68, Aphrodite, as our fleet of 16 charter boats and six CCA-owned boats set out for Cabrera, about 14 miles off Mallorca’s southern shore. We sailed and motored in the light breeze and arrived at Cabrera for a two-night stay. There are only 24 national park mooring buoys at Cabrera, and Les and Howie’s team had reserved enough for most of our fleet well in advance of our cruise.

The entire Cabrera archipelago is within the Cabrera Archipelago Maritime-Terrestrial National Park, created in 1991 and administered by the municipality of Palma. Cabrera, the largest island, is arid, rocky, and home to rare species of flora and fauna. Except for park staff, it is uninhabited, but it has a deep history of human settlement. Castell de Cabrera, a restored 15th-century watch tower, stands sentinel over the harbor, flying the Mallorca flag. In 1530, Ottoman navy admiral Hayreddin Barbarossa captured the castle and used the island as a base for his operations in the Mediterranean. During the Peninsular War, the Spanish Army used Cabrera to house 9,000 French prisoners of war. At the war’s end in 1814, only 3,600

remained, most of the others having succumbed to starvation, thirst, and disease.

After we arrived, an intrepid group, launched an expedition to the castle and raised the official cruise flag. Their conquest

was brief, however, as a park official had the flag promptly removed. Many of us went ashore by dinghy and explored the shoreside areas or went on ranger-guided hikes in the hills and valleys. We enjoyed a progressive party aboard four of the larger boats, with Howie and Wendy Hodgson happily supplying

Menorca gin aboard their Swan 75, True. Other host boats were the Otorowskis’ Aphrodite; Rod and Jill Hearne’s Nordhaven 57, Keewaydin; and Kip Tatum’s JFA82, Ikiagi. The weather and water were warm and delicious!

Alcúdia, Port de Sóller, and Andratx

One of the hallmarks of CCA cruises is the ample time between rendezvous locations when crews can explore on their own. When the fleet left Cabrera, most boats scattered north along

the eastern shore of Mallorca on their way to our next meet-up in Alcúdia. The east coast, while less topographically interesting than the west coast, has dozens of small, attractive calas. Ernie Godshalk and Ann Noble-Kiley found one protected cala that was only big enough to accommodate their boat. The light wind stayed in the northeast, so they lay peacefully at anchor overnight and enjoyed swimming with the residents of the attractive large homes that surrounded the cove.

While most of the fleet worked its way up the coast, James and Pauline Watlington sailed off to Ciutadella Harbor in Menorca, some 48 miles away. Menorca was a last Republican stronghold during the Spanish Civil War. The British sent HMS Devonshire to broker the island’s surrender to the Nationalists and took some 450 Republican supporters and their families to Marseille.

In Alcúdia, after a squall blew through, we gathered at La Terraza restaurant. A small brass band played during cocktails and, after dinner, crews sang to Jimmy Buffet tunes, substituting lyrics they’d penned on the sail from Cabrera.

Left: Diane and Erwin Wanderer, Dani and Hans Himmelman. Below: Howie’s imported gin from Menorca.

The next day, the fleet rounded the jagged cliffs of Cap de Formentor on Mallorca’s northernmost tip and worked down the northwest side of Mallorca toward Puerto de Sóller. The mountains on this route are significant, with some reaching over 4,000 feet. The calas are exposed to north winds, which can be disconcerting, but they reward with crystal-clear water and sandy beaches.

The second week brought stormy weather, complete with thunder and lightning bolts. Some boats chose to anchor in scenic calas, only to roll, while others arrived early at Port de Sóller and sought safe harbor in marinas such as Tramontana and Andratx. Sóller was a welcome distraction from the weather. We attended a lovely cocktail party at Succulente restaurant, where Gerard Chambre, a well-known French singer who was traveling aboard

“ ”

A trolley connects the harbor to the Orange Express train station, which, amazingly, exhibits original works of Picasso and Jean Miro, who summered in Sóller.

Charles Henri Magnin’s yacht, entertained us with songs that brought people to the dance floor! The rain had blown through and given us some wonderful fresh air that night.

Surrounded by mountains, Sóller’s protected harbor is filled with fishing boats and visiting yachts. A trolley connects the harbor to the Orange Express train station, which, amazingly, exhibits original works of Picasso and Jean Miro, who summered in Sóller. The Hearnes, Stillmans, and others took the train to Palma. Built in the early 1900s and funded by wealthy Mallorcan orange and lemon growers who wanted to get their fruit to European markets more quickly, this narrow-gauge railway passes through 13 tunnels in the Serra de Tramuntana range. The scenery of mountains and orange and olive groves, along with the 100-year-old highly varnished wooden train cars, make this a "must do" for visitors.

Andratx and Palma

The port of Andratx was an unofficial next stop for some boats in the fleet. Primarily a tourist town, Andratx has a nice harbor with a breakwater and some new large concrete piers that provide significantly more moorage (mostly Medtie) than we’d found at other stops. An impromptu party broke out on Aphrodite at the pier, where many boats had docked. Aphrodite’s rum keg made its appearance and BYOhors d'oeuvres were set up on the dock.

Our two weeks now up, we headed to Real Club de Náutico Palma. This beautiful, large yacht club has moorage, an Olympic-size swimming pool, a commanding view of the harbor, and excellent food. (The club is accommodating to visiting yachtsman and worth a stop if you are in Palma, but call in advance to see if you need a letter of introduction.)

Local produce was abundant in Palma.

Encounter with a Rare Resaca

While in Andratx, I kept thinking about the resaca we’d experienced there in 2000. A resaca (or rissaga, the Catalan word for “drying”) is a meteotsunami, which is similar to a seismic tsunami, except the large waves are triggered by an extraordinary combination of conditions:

• A harbor (bay, inlet or gulf) with definite resonant properties and high Q-factor

• Strong small-scale atmospheric disturbance (a pressure jump or a train of internal atmospheric waves)

• Propagation of the atmospheric disturbance toward the entrance to the harbor

• External resonance (shelf resonance) between the atmospheric disturbance and ocean waves

• Internal resonance between the dominant frequency of the arriving open-ocean waves and the fundamental harbor mode frequency

Resacas are rare and restricted to specific locations, such as Mallorca and Menorca. Our experience came after we had side-tied Aphrodite to an inner seawall between piers. It was an overcast day with light rain and wind less than 10 knots. While my crew napped, I wandered out on the pier to look at the Med-tied boats. Turning around at the end of the pier, I noticed the water rising rapidly. In the short time it took me to run back to Aphrodite, the water had risen halfway to my knees and flooded the parking lot damaging cars, and the marina’s entire electrical system had shorted out.

I knew exactly what was happening because I had read a Cruising World article about resacas destroying boats in Menorca years before. I got everybody up, and we proceeded to add fenders and grab loose tires to prevent hull damage. The water, which had risen about 6 feet in a matter of 10 minutes, wanted to push our boat over the edge of the seawall. Four of us pushed off for hours as the water rose and fell, but it finally stopped, and the boat wasn’t damaged. We struck up a conversation with a skipper who told us he’d never seen this happen in the 29 years he’d kept his boat there.

Many unattended decent-size Med-tied powerboats had floated over the pier, and their lines snapped. As the water went down, the boats came down on the pier on their props and shafts with devastating results.

For a scientific explanation of resacas, read the 2006 Natural Hazards and Earth System Sciences article, “Meteotsunamis: atmospherically induced destructive ocean waves in the tsunami frequency band.” — Chris Otorowski

We had a splendid farewell cocktail party with a cello and harpist and then dinner with a demonstration of flamenco-style tap dancing. Some of our group stayed on to further explore the island.

Closing dinner flamenco tap dancing!

Final cocktail party entertatinment at Real Club de Nautico.

NOTE OF THANKS

All in all, it was a great two weeks. Thanks to my co-chair Howie Hodgson who, with his wife, Wendy, travelled twice to Mallorca to see if all the venues selected by my 2020 cochair, Jock Macrae, and me had made it safely through the pandemic. Of the five original venues, only two made the cut. Helen Whysall and Dawn MacPhee of Sublime Yachts did an excellent job sorting out charters and organizing venues. Thanks also to past commodore Bob and Sally Medland for their work on registration; to our sherpas who ferried various swag: Dave Curtin, Ernie Godshalk, Mark Grosby, Potter Hodgson, Shelia McCurdy, Nick Orem, Tim Surgenor and Chace Anderson; and to James Watlington and Sally Medland, who sorted out photos. Lastly, thanks to Wendy, Val, and Mags, who supported Howie, Jock, and me throughout. — Les Crane, cruise co-chair

Chris is the outgoing CCA commodore, having previously served as vice commodore, secretary, and GAM editor. Chris and Shawn live on Bainbridge Island, Washington, and make frequent trips to their 1805 house in Newport, RI. They spend time on the water in their Swan 68, Aphrodite in the Med and Caribbean and will be racing their Swan 39, Rocket J. Squirrel in this year’s Bermuda Race. Chris also serves as secretary of the National Sailing Hall of Fame at the Sailing Museum in Newport and as secretary of the New York Yacht Club Foundation.

“The GGR is a race of attrition. You just got to outlive the others.”

— Kirsten Neuschäfer

An Interview with Golden Globe Winner Kirsten Neuschäfer

“The Golden Globe Race remains totally unique in the world of sailing and stands alone as the longest, loneliest, slowest, most daring challenge for an individual in any sport.” — GGR 2026 trailer.

Interview by Amelia Green (ESS)

On September 6, 2022, 16 solo sailors set off from Les Sables d’Olonne, France, on one of the toughest races in the world, the Golden Globe Race (GGR). The following April would see only three of them finish the grueling competition, whose rules haven’t

changed since the original 1968 contest, when Sir Robin KnoxJohnston become the first person to sail single-handed and nonstop around the world: no boat over 36-feet, no outside assistance, and no satellite weather, GPS, or other modern equipment.

The winner was Kirsten Neuschäfer, who spent 235 days at sea aboard Minnehaha, her Cape George 36. The first woman and first South African to win the GGR, she has been named the Rolex World Sailor of the Year, and the Cruising Club of America has presented her with the Rod Stephens Trophy for Outstanding Seamanship and the prestigious Blue Water Medal.

Meeting Kirsten was an opportunity to be in the presence of light, even though our call began in the dark. Not only does South Africa have a six-hour restriction on electrical use, but heavy rains had damaged Kirsten’s inverter, forcing her to speak to me from her neighbor’s home in Port Elizabeth on the country’s southeast coast. Her comely face, illuminated only by her cellphone, was radiant. No lights are needed when this young woman smiles. Her inner beauty shines on its own. I knew this was going to be a wonderful experience. (The following interview has been edited and condensed.)

Kirsten, you have no idea how excited I am to meet you. Your achievements are remarkable, and while you resist accolades, you join a short list of famous female sailors. Was this the first race you’ve ever done?

Certainly, it is the first single-handed race I’ve done. I’ve done a few little fun races on the South African coast. We’ve got a race between East London and Port Elizabeth, which isn’t very far, 150 nautical miles. Another goes from East London up to Durban, which is about 250 miles. I’ve participated in little races like that for fun, but this was my first true race.

You won the GGR on South African Freedom Day. That must have meant something special to you.

Yes, that was a lovely coincidence. It’s a huge thing; we commonly call it Nelson Mandela Day in South Africa. It is the day Nelson Mandela was freed and marks the first step towards South Africa becoming a democratic country. It means a lot to South Africans because of equal rights for all and the abolishment of apartheid. Of all the people in the world, if ever there was a celebrated person that I would have wished to meet, it it would have been Nelson Mandela. He’s an amazing human.

You only realized you were in first place once you were close to the finishing line. But what about the days before? Were you pushing the boat?

I had been sailing in a thick fog bank, and the first thing that happened was the fog disappeared. That was a relief because I wasn’t sure where I even was. I had an idea, and the depth corresponded to my estimated position, but it was good to have that confirmed. I started getting anxious when I saw a sailboat in the distance, but I soon realized it wasn’t a fellow competitor who I’d thought might be near. Then boats began to come out to greet me to say I’d won.

It meant the world to me to see my mother and the Prince Edward Islanders [who had rebuilt Minnehaha]. I knew it wouldn’t have been easy for them to get to the finish line. When you’re out there sailing, you don’t think too much about what’s happening on shore, but I was pushing the boat hard towards the end, knowing it was now or never. I needed to sail as fast as I possibly could and started speeding up against what everyone had expected. People changed their flights because my ETA was coming forward all the time. It was amazing to see so many familiar faces.

You recently visited Tapio Lehtinen, a fellow competitor you rescued during the GGR. How did it feel to see him again?

It was very lovely to see him on dry land in Finland. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy seeing him in his life raft in the middle of the southern Indian Ocean. Tapio must be one of the most positive people I’ve ever met. I was astounded that he was joking and laughing and smiling. Before I got to his boat, he was on the VHF saying, “The turtles are swimming around my life raft.” He spent 24 hours in the raft and watched his boat go down, yet he remained the epitome of someone positive. I took a huge lesson about the importance of staying positive no matter how dire the circumstances.

That you found Tapio in the Southern Indian Ocean seems miraculous. So does the fact that Tapio saved himself minutes before his boat, Asteria, sank. Finding him wasn’t easy, even though we had a handheld GPS for an emergency. I was following a waypoint, and the GGR committee was updating me on Tapio’s waypoint and the rate and direction of his drift. He saw my mast and sail long before I saw him, even though he was in a bright-orange life raft. He fired off a flare, but it was a parachute flare, and I could see absolutely nothing in daylight with the sun behind him. It was an eye-opener seeing how difficult it is to find even a brightorange life raft on a rolling sea.

You transferred Tapio onto the Bulk Carrier M.V. Darya Gayatri. Have you ever done a transfer from your boat to a ship before?

No, I hadn’t, and that was the scarier part. Getting Tapio’s life raft alongside my boat and getting him on board was easier than the transfer. When I passed his raft, he threw me a line, I pulled him alongside, and he came aboard.

“I grew up enjoying roughing it, thanks to friends who had that ‘go for it’ attitude, even if everything was not 100 percent perfect, even if they didn’t have the best equipment or know if the plan would succeed. That’s been with me all my life, and the more I’ve done, the more I want to do.”

Initially, the ship said I should come alongside and let Tapio climb onto their ladder, but I didn’t want to risk getting damaged. At Tapio’s suggestion, we got as close as we could, and they threw a long line with a float that managed to land on the deck of my boat. We tied it onto Tapio’s life raft, and once Tapio was in the raft, I cut it loose because the procedure had to go quickly, and I needed to get away as soon as possible. They pulled him in towards the ladder, and that went incredibly smoothly.

The media surrounding your GGR win is everywhere. No matter what platform I open, I find this joyful, happy person. Oh, thank you. Generally, I am quite a happy, joyful person. I’ve had a few tough moments where I’ve not been so cheerful. Before the race, when I was in South Africa, I got COVID. That got me down. I had 101 things on my mind about what I had to do for the race, and I was thinking, “Gee, I’m biting off a huge chunk of something here.” But once I was at the start line and past all the pressure and deadlines, I felt an immense amount of relief. Most of the time, out at sea, I felt incredibly happy.

Was there a mentor in your life who personified this attitude? I was quite lucky as a child. I grew up on a small farm outside of Pretoria and had a group of friends who were all about hiking, cycling, and doing outdoor stuff. We liked camping and playing the guitar by the fire. One friend welded some kind of contraption onto his truck, put a Hobie cat on it, and said, “Let’s drive down to Maputo in Mozambique and sail across to this little island called Inyaka.” None of us knew what we were doing, but we went along because it was a grand adventure. We’d sleep under the stars, in the bush, and do whatever we had to. I grew up enjoying roughing it, thanks to friends who had that “go for it” attitude, even if everything was not 100 percent perfect, even if they didn’t have the best equipment or know if the plan would succeed. That’s been with me all my life, and the more I’ve done, the more I want to do.

Did your parents encourage your adventures? Parents today hover; kids can’t even go to the backyard without an identifying beacon.

I don’t think it was quite that crazy when I was growing up. However, it wasn’t very safe in South Africa back then. There was quite a lot of unrest leading up to South Africa becoming a democratic country. When I turned 18 and got a driver’s license, my parents worried when I drove at night because of car hijackings. My parents were protective, even overprotective. We didn’t always tell them exactly what kind of outdoor adventures we were going on, but they trusted that they were a cool bunch of people who weren’t into drinking and parties and discos. One concern my mother had was that some people in the group were older. She thought we might be little nuisance tag-alongs. But the older people looked after us, so things worked out well.

It sounds idyllic, having that level of freedom with a bunch of friends you respect.

It’s probably had a greater impact on my life than I realized in terms of planning my future. As a child, I wanted to become a game ranger or wildlife vet — something outdoors. I didn’t want to be in a city or in an office.

Are you a self-taught sailor?

Yes and no. My father was always very keen on sailing. He liked going to lakes and dams and sailing with us on dinghies, which was a good start. The older guys in my group of friends were

dabbling with sailing and playing on windsurfers and Hobie cats. But ocean sailing didn’t begin until I was about 23, after my bicycle trip through Africa.

I’m tempted to view the GGR as the most important thing you’ve done, but cycling through Africa has had a huge impact on you.

Cycling through Africa when I was 22 was immensely important because I learned so much. It was a beautiful life experience, enriching in every possible way, and it gave me the confidence to follow my dreams. If I hadn’t done that, I don’t know that I would have had the confidence to tackle the Golden Globe.

The Golden Globe was a much bigger, much larger project than buying an entry-level mountain bike and a bit of camping gear and starting to pedal. It was financially a lot more difficult, with many deadlines and everything you had to do to the boat. There are parallels, but it’s hard to compare the Africa trip to sailing around the world because the difficulties were different, and the highlights were different.

What steps did you take to learn about ocean sailing?

I studied for a coastal skipper’s ticket to get a foot into the whole scene. With that ticket and some basic sailing and theoretical knowledge, I volunteered to crew with as many boats as possible

to clock up mileage so that I would get the next ticket, yacht master. That led to the yacht master offshore.

Is it the same as the British Yachtmaster?

It’s similar. We have our own South African sailing ticket, and you must have that specific ticket when you sail in South African waters. Later, I got the British Royal Yachting Academy ticket, which is more accepted worldwide.

Your horizons were expanding. How did you come to crew for Skip Novak’s Pelagic Expeditions?

I knew about Skip because he’d given talks at the Royal Cape Yacht Club in Cape Town. As a child, I had a dream that I was going to explore high-latitude areas and see the Arctic and Antarctic. Having done offshore deliveries for many years, I needed a new scene, job, and challenge within sailing. I emailed every company I could find doing charters around Patagonia, Falkland, South Georgia, and the Antarctic Peninsula. Then, someone told me that Pelagic was in Cape Town with the skipper David Roberts. I met up with Dave, who was happy to have one more crew, but then I got another offer, to sail to New Zealand by the southern Indian Ocean, that I couldn’t resist. When I returned, Dave’s email invited me aboard as a volunteer crew on Pelagic, which was going around South Georgia with a team of kayakers.

My husband, Bob, advocates bumping into things and enjoying unexpected encounters. He doesn’t always plan, but it seems those experiences turn out better than imagined. It has been exciting, especially for someone who knew nothing about sailing. Bob’s attitude brought life-changing opportunities. Small boats turned into dreams of crossing oceans. But I should have started sailing in a dinghy. That’s a nice philosophy through life. I must say, some of the most fun sailing is dinghy sailing. I’ve never felt the wind the way I have on a dinghy. I’ve often thought that must have given me some subconscious wind awareness that I might not have understood if I had learned immediately on bigger sea-going vessels.

Before the Golden Globes, you had Minnehaha refitted on Prince Edward Island. That story has two parts — one of unexpected friendships, the other of an expert craftsman. What did Eddie Arsenault see in you that made him want to take on a major refit?

Initially, the person making the shed available for my boat had asked Eddie to weld a cradle in order to transport Minnehaha by truck. But Eddie, being the very bright person that he is, having a long history of fishing people in his family, and his father being a master mariner, said no. Instead, he asked me to send drawings of the boat so he could see the keel’s shape and think of the cheapest and easiest solution. He looked at the drawings

and said, “You know what? I think you can move this boat on a lobster-boat trailer.” Everyone was thinking, “How is this ever going to work?” and I was getting nervous. But Eddie said, “I wouldn’t be here doing this if I didn’t think it could work.” At the time, this was a 35-year-old man who was incredibly confident and knew what he was doing. After off loading the boat in the shed, he asked if I needed help with the refit. Later, after we got to know each other well, I wondered what had made him jump into this long, hard project. He said, “I watched how you behaved with getting the mast off the boat, getting the boat out of the water, and everything else. I liked your attitude.” I think it was a fun project for him — different from a lot of the work he does, like welding dump trucks and snowplows — but he also thought I was someone he could work with.

I’m not from a boatbuilding background, so I needed to figure out how I’d do it, who I’d find to do it with me, and how much work it would be. The deeper we got into the project, the more things we did, and the more complicated things became. When we hauled the boat out in January, we hoped to launch it by June or early July, but we didn’t launch it until sometime toward October. Even then, we were working as fast as we could and cutting back on some of our ideas because we were running out of time.

Is there anything about the boat that surprised you?

Did Minnehaha, an American Indian word for laughing waters, live up to her name?

That’s an interesting question. The boat was faster than I expected it to be. Sailing from Canada to Cape Town was a good opportunity to pick up a few problems and learn about the boat. It’s hard to say if there was something that surprised me because I got to know the boat so well. But I did have a moment in the southern Pacific Ocean where it was probably pushing 50 knots. It was quite a bit of wind and swell coming up behind the boat. I was running dead downwind with twin sails, just flying along much quicker than I would ever have expected. I was over-canvassed, but the boat felt stable, and I thought I’m going to keep going. The boat was so fast that she was shooting a rooster tail off the stern, and I’ve never seen anything like that. That was definitely a moment where I was surprised and was enjoying myself. It was intense positive adrenaline, and I knew I was on the edge of something that I shouldn’t be doing, but it was at that time that I was breaking all the speed records. I didn’t know Minnehaha was going to perform that well. I’ll never forget that moment.

Did you have a large support team onshore?

No. I had a friend who offered to stand in as manager, but to be honest, this was my first race, and no one knew what a manager did, but it seems it’s mainly for media reasons — make appointments, make sure that I’m getting to all planned events. Another friend who didn’t know much about sailing helped arrange schedules, and a friend I know from sailing on Pelagic was a great help with practical tasks.

By sheer chance, I met a South African couple living in Les Sables d’Olonne, who stepped in and helped me with absolutely everything, even some last-minute engine issues. Initially, they offered storage for excess things that I wouldn’t need. I left spare anchors, chain, and mattresses — all sorts of stuff I took off the boat before the race. They were there until the boat was cast off, making sure I had a water bottle and sandwiches in the cockpit

to see me through all the excitement of getting over the start line.

So, the team formed in an unexpected way and worked out well.

Something about you made people want to help. It’s beautiful I encountered so much kindness — just random acts of kindness. For example, a French chef gave me 100 jars of food he had made; that sorted my food for the next 200 days! A builder in Cape Town made me a portable little NAV desk after hearing me on a podcast where I spoke of having to do all my celestial navigation calculations on my lap. That’s just two of hundreds of examples of people being generous with their time, materials, or money.

Were the organizers of the race spot-on with what was required to enter the GGR?

Yes, they were thorough in terms of safety. I made sure I ticked off all the boxes because I didn’t want to get penalties. When we went through the safety check a few days before the race started, I had pretty much everything on board.

I’ve been back now for four weeks or something like that, and I wasn’t expecting the media attention. It was a bit mindblowing that there was so much interest, and in some ways, I guess, I’ve been so busy trying to deal with a lot of it that I’m not sure it has entirely sunk in. In some respects, there were times before the race that were stressful, the most stressful I ever felt, but once I got over the start line and I was out there sailing, I felt comfortable. I felt at home, and I felt like that for most of the trip — I’d say about 80 percent of the trip. I felt like people applauded me even though, in some respects, I was coming back from this amazing, relaxing rejuvenation trip. It felt as if I’d come back from a holiday.

You looked so happy. Of all the images taken that day, the one of you with your mother evokes a deep emotional response. Do you remember what she said to you?

I don’t think she said anything, perhaps other than one of her many terms of endearment she uses for me — and a hug — that said a thousand things in just one gesture. Let’s say words were not needed.

Has winning the GGR changed you?

It’s hard to say. I’m sure it has changed me, but when you have a really big experience like this in life, the changes are there, but because they happen gradually, you need to be made aware of what they are. These kinds of trips don’t just die in your mind. You keep on thinking about them, learning about yourself. And I’ll discover I’ve been changed — some change must happen — but I can’t pinpoint it now, so soon after the win.

I have a growing desire to share what I’ve done and pass it on. I feel incredibly privileged to have been helped to get to the start line by so many incredible people, all who helped fulfill a dream.

BOOK REVIEW

Somewhere South: Sailing Through Polynesia 1977

seapoint books and media , 2023

Review by Don Stabbert, Pacific Northwest Station

Partsailing adventure, coming-of-age memoir, and anthropology study, Somewhere South Sailing Through Polynesia 1977 is the captivating, beautifully written, and artfully illustrated story of Clay Hutchinson’s first foray into ocean sailing.

The story begins with three friends who dream of sailing to distant shores. None were experienced sailors. Undeterred, they bought a sailboat—the beautiful 39-foot double-ended ketch Lille Dansker. Through trial and error in the unforgiving waters surrounding Hawaii, they became just competent enough to set off for Polynesia.

Clay artfully describes the wonder of his first ocean passage. Becalmed in the ITCZ, he writes about swimming with blue sharks. Thirsty for a cold beer, he reminisces about finding the cans burst in the bilge. A thousand miles offshore with no wind, he describes the complete silence that occurs nowhere else. This is not a chest-thumping tale of cheating death at sea but the story of young men learning teamwork, solving problems as they come, and mastering new skills.

Hutchinson’s descriptions of sailing through Polynesia reminded me of a bygone era with fewer cruisers, simpler boats, and no technology to distract from the present. Upon landfall

in Bora Bora, each sailor falls over—unsteady on their legs after a month of sailing aboard Lille Dansker. As they navigate Polynesia, Hutchinson recounts stories of welcoming locals, new experiences, and friendly fellow cruisers. Hutchinson and his crew remain open, curious and make every effort to immerse themselves in Polynesian culture and learn the language as they cruise through the islands.

This story makes you feel like you are on board. It makes the passage feel peaceful, to the point you don’t want it to end. I highly recommend this book!

History of the CCA

during their term of office. Indeed, several notable CCA members became members of the ICC, including Hank du Pont, Bunny and Ruth Byrnes, and Jock Kiely. Bob Drew was elected a lifetime Honorary Member by Former ICC Commodore Liam McGonagle (our own Barbara Watson is an ICC member).”

“In 1979 another race to Ireland was planned, to be followed by a Cruise in Company with the CCA, RCC, and the Clyde Cruising Club to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Irish Cruising Club. This time the race was to start from Marblehead, Mass., and end in Cork. Seventeen yachts braved the cold waters of the Atlantic to participate in the legendary Irish hospitality. This same year the RCC celebrated its 100th anniversary. The presiding Commodores were Peter Comstock CCA, John Guinness ICC, and Ronnie Andrews RCC.”

“In 1985 the Clyde Cruising Club held its 75th anniversary with a Cruise in Company in Scotland. Once again CCA, ICC, and RCC members were brought together. CCA past commodore Jim Pitney organized the CCA fleet. A Cruise in Company in Ireland made sense because some boats that raced to Bermuda could also carry on to Ireland, and others could sail from the East Coast.”

“To celebrate The 70-year Platinum Jubilee of the CCA in 1992, the CCA organized a Transatlantic race to Spain. While no ICC boats participated in the race, several ICC yachts, including future ICC Commodore

John H. Guiness, took part in the Cruise in Company amongst the rias of northwest Spain.”

From Bob Drew’s written recollections: “A CCA 75th event in 1997 was a Winter Cruise in the Caribbean. The CCA chartered the Sea Cloud as the mother ship. ICC notables such as Bernie and Kathleen Cahill were aboard along with Clayton Love Jr. and Betty. CCA Commodore Bob Drew and Mindy were aboard the Knight Hawk along with ICC Commodore Liam and Barbara McGonagle. In May of 1997, Liam and Barbara travelled to Annapolis where the CCA held the gala Blue Water Ball at the U.S. Naval Academy. During a dinner meeting of the CCA at the New York Yacht Club, Liam, on behalf of the Irish Cruising Club, presented the CCA with a beautiful antique telescope to be passed on by our Commodores.“

Alan Markey: “Over 170 boats attended the ICC 75th Cruise in Company in 2004. There were 23 CCA-skippered boats of which 9 had sailed over for the event. CCA Commodore Truman Casner also attended the week-long rally.”

“CCA commodores and their wives are regular guests at ICC annual dinner weekends, and ICC Commodores regularly attend CCA functions. CCA Commodore Bob Drew presented the ICC with a bell in 1996 and a rum keg; Commodore Brad Willauer presented an antique compass, and most recently, Commodore Chris Otorowski gifted the Friendship Cup to be awarded

annually to a member who exemplifies the values of the ICC. At the CCA Centennial, ICC Commodore David Beattie presented the CCA Commodore Chris Otorowski with a unique 5,000+ year-old bogwood carving of a sailing yacht.”

“Over the years, three ICC members have been awarded the CCA Blue Water Medal

• 1983 John Gore-Grimes- for a decade of adventurous cruising

• 1990 Paddy Barry- for cruising St. Patrick, a traditional timber boat, in the high latitudes

• 2005 Jarlath Curnane- for building and skippering Northabout in a four year east to west polar navigation

ICC Commodore David Beattie has now extended an invitation to the CCA to participate in a race to Ireland in 2029 and a Cruise in Company for ICC’s centennial.”

“We at the ICC look forward to many more cruises and interactions between our two clubs!”

History of the CCA

History of the Bond between the CCA and the Royal Cruising Club

The origins of the CCA begin with William Washburn Nutting’s visit with then Royal Cruising Club Vice Commodore Claud Worth in 1920. Worth was the noted author of a definitive book, “Yacht Cruising,” published in 1910. On July 29, 1920, Nutting sailed his newly constructed Atkin-designed 45 ft. ketch Typhoon from Baddeck, Bras d’Or, to Cowes, safely returning to New York in November. He wrote a marvelously detailed book, “The Track of the Typhoon,” in which he painstakingly described the design process and construction of Typhoon as well as his remarkable voyage. His voyage and visit with Claud Worth marked the germinated seed of the CCA.

As Nutting stated in his book:

“The ‘Cruising Club’ was founded in 1880 by Sir Arthur Underhill. A Royal Warrant was granted in 1902 and known thence forward as ‘The Royal Cruising Club.’ Underhill, a well-known barrister in England, served as RCC Commodore for 50 years. The early founders with Underhill were a group of gentlemen based in the city of Birmingham, a long way from the sea, many of whom were also lawyers, and they were reasonably wealthy. And in those days, they had cruising yachts probably around the 30-40 foot length, many of them had paid hands, and they would concentrate on cruising rather than racing. And this developed eventually. So we started to have an annual ‘Meet,’ which is based on the Beaulieu River down in Southampton and that started in 1923.”

“The first interaction with the Cruising Club of America was when

Nick Chavasse, Commodore of the RCC and pilot book author currently working on a guide for western shores of France, shared the following history while aboard Aphrodite with his wife Margie on the recent CCA Mallorca Cruise: continued

Final Voyages

George W. Anderson

Arthur L. Armitage*

Dennis Black

John W. Braitmayer

Charles H. Brewer, Jr,

Blake Cady

Steven K. Chance

George F. Clements*

James K. Cooper

Alec H. Dalziel

James H. Day

George Wayne Anderson

1927–2022

George Wayne Anderson, 95, died at home in Richmond, Virginia, on November 8, 2022.

Born in Richmond on May 1, 1927, George attended St. Christopher’s School, Woodberry Forest School, and the University of Virginia. Upon graduation, he went to work in New York for Loeb, Rhoades & Co., a Wall Street brokerage firm. He later returned to Richmond to work at the family brokerage, Anderson & Strudwick, and was its president for many years.

A lifelong sailor, George Wayne was never more at home than on his beloved sailboats, all named Allons. At the time of his death, his Allons was a 47-foot Ted Hood-designed steel yawl painted in Hood’s signature robin’s egg blue. He skippered the various Allons in Newport Bermuda and Annapolis to Newport

Harry Easom

James A. Eddy

John C. Fellows

Eric B. Forsyth

E. C. Kirk Hall

Merle E. Hallett

Alan G. Harquail

Douglas Hickman

Peter Hoffman*

Richard F. Howarth*

Gilbert H. Jones

races for more than 50 years and cruised them in New England waters annually.

Crewing on Allons was a treasured experience, both relaxing and convivial. I fondly remember George as a mentor in my early sailing career and as a shipmate on Southern Ocean Racing Conference races in the 1970s.

Roger H. S. Langston

Charles E. Morgan

William H. Morton*

William R. Nelson

William B. Purcell

Barton J. Rapaport*

David M. Sinclair*

William Starkey

Robert Stewart

Roger F. Wheelis

* Final Voyages essay was not available at the time of publication

George had lost sight in one eye as a young boy, but it never slowed him down. He was an accomplished pilot and had his own airplane. He once flew to Kennebunkport, Maine, to visit his parents and friends for the weekend and returned to work on Monday with boxes of live lobsters to share with his delighted colleagues.

George Wayne enjoyed singing and playing the piano and accordion. He was involved in a variety of theater and musical organizations, including the Richmond Musical Theater and Lyric Theater. His family remembers him practicing on the piano and accordion for hours in advance of musical productions. If there was a piano present at a party or event, George would often entertain the crowd.

In addition to the Cruising Club of America, George Wayne was a member of Fishing Bay Yacht Club, Fisher’s Island Club, the New York Yacht Club,

the Country Club of Virginia, and the Commonwealth Club.

He was predeceased by his wife, Anne, and his sister, Elisabeth Anderson Bryan.

George personified determination and perseverance. His family and friends might call this stubbornness, but it served him well. He lived life on his terms and let nothing deter him from his objectives. Even advanced age was no obstacle for George. He continued his lifelong passions of skiing, golfing, and sailing into his nineties.

J. Dennis Black

1938–2022

J.Dennis Black, former rear commodore of the CCA’s Pacific Northwest Station, died peacefully at the age of 84 on New Year’s Eve 2022 after living for many years with Alzheimer’s disease.

Den was known for his loyalty, fairness, and helpfulness. He seemed happiest on his beloved sailboat, Raindance, and on the ski slopes, where he would whoop with joy while descending at high speeds. As the owner and operator of JD Black Construction for 40 years, he completed hundreds of successful projects, but he was perhaps most appreciated for the Christmas “homemades” that emerged from the woodshop and for his custom-made birthday cakes.

He was born on Christmas morning in 1938 to Frances “Frankie” Black (née Fredholm) and Lieutenant Commander Hugh David Black in Winthrop, Massachusetts. After her husband’s death at the start of World War II, Frankie returned to her native Washington state and raised Dennis in Poulsbo.

Denny and his wife, Lynn Perham, met at the University of Washington in 1960 and formed a loving relationship that spanned over six decades.

After university, Denny headed

to Naval Officer Training School in Rhode Island. Following graduation, Dennis was asked on which boat he’d like to serve. He replied that the USS Black would be nice. The assigning officer’s chuckles turned to naval bells and whistles when they learned the ship was named for Denny’s father and had been christened by his mother. He got the assignment. He was stationed in San Diego and served two tours in Vietnam as a communications officer. Denny rose before the sun came up but was always home for family dinner, and he never missed any one of his three children’s sporting events.

As a young man, Denny made many trips up the Inside Passage to southeast Alaska on purse seiners. He also fished in and around the Salish Sea. In San Diego, he and Lynn sailed offshore in an 18-foot French Corsair wooden sailboat named Meltemi. In 1980, he made a transatlantic crossing, from the Canaries to Barbados, on Moshulu with fellow PNW Station member Bob Sylvester. He raced Raindance, a Ranger 33, on Lake Washington in the mideighties, and, beginning around 1982, took annual family cruises to the San Juans, Gulf Islands, and Desolation Sound, stopping only when his disease became advanced. Lynn and Denny circumnavigated Vancouver Island on Raindance in 1998.

Music played a major role in Denny’s life. He took cello lessons in Scandia

in the 1940s, sang with classmates at North Kitsap High School in the 1950s, and serenaded his bride-to-be with his Beta brothers, including little brother David, in the 1960s. He picked up harmonica either offshore in Scandia or while purse-seining in Alaska. He sang in barbershop choruses for 30 years, making dear friends, boat partners, and traveling companions.

Denny and Lynn spent many summer “golden hours” on the deck in Kirkland, he playing his harmonica and she strumming the ukulele as the sun set over his beloved view of the Olympic mountains.

Denny is survived by Lynn, three children and their spouses, and eight grandchildren.

John “Jack” Watson Braitmayer 1930–2023

Whenyou shook hands with my uncle Jack Braitmayer, he’d look at you with a twinkle in his eyes. He’d want to share some wisdom with you. He’d want to hear what wisdom you might share. This was doubly true if you were a sailor, for he was a lifelong learner. That is why he enjoyed being a member of the CCA.

Jack acquired his passion for sailing as a boy growing up in Marion, Massachusetts. He attended Tabor Academy, where he excelled in sailing and was made executive officer of the Tabor Boy, the academy’s training vessel. Thus began Jack’s life pattern of leadership and giving back.

Jack attended Wesleyan University and served a stint in the Air Force as a meteorologist. He had a fulfilling career as owner and president of MONA Industries in Paterson, New Jersey. He was generous to the institutions that molded him and served as a trustee for both of his alma maters, as well as the New Bedford Whaling Museum and

the Marion Bermuda Race. He was a past commodore of the Beverly Yacht Club in Marion and a member of the New York Yacht Club and the Royal Hamilton Amateur Dinghy Club in Bermuda. Jack joined the CCA in 2000.

Throughout his life, Jack had sailing in his head. After he settled in Darien, Connecticut, his first cruising boat was a ketch-rigged Choy Lee Bermuda 30, which he named Karina for his two then-small daughters, Karen and Kristina. This boat spent most of its time in Long Island Sound. I remember many lunchtime rendezvous at Ziegler’s Cove in Darien with Jack, his wife, Nancy, and my cousins.

The Choy Lee was a knock-off of L. Francis Herreshoff’s H-28, and Jack was fascinated with the profiles of the clipper-bowed boats from that designer’s drawing board. He noodled for years with sketches of the boat he wanted. In 1968, Alden Yacht Design worked over those sketches, and Paul Luke built the next Karina, a 42-foot ketch, in Maine. This boat was imagined to cruise the New England coast. Not surprisingly, Karina spent more time in the waters of Buzzards Bay than Long Island Sound as Jack and Nancy established a second residence back in Marion. He wanted his daughters and his new son, Eric, to enjoy the sailing grounds he had grown up with.

In 1979, the lure of offshore sailing called, and I was one of a crew of friends and family that Jack assembled to enter the second running of what is now known as the Marion Bermuda Race. The race was rich with memorable moments. We got beat up a bit: we suffered a knockdown, the centerline saloon dining table became loose, my watchmate broke his ribs, and seawater backed into our fuel tank so we were without an engine. We went for three days without a fix (we only had celestial navigation in those days). When the weather cleared, we had a beautiful sail into the finish at St. David’s Lighthouse and then spent a day sailing around Bermuda to

Hamilton. It was typical of Jack’s skill and experience that he calmly laid out his intentions for laying alongside of a rough concrete pier at the Hamilton Princess Hotel without an engine: “Get the fenders and lines rigged on the starboard side. We’ll sail by, then as I round up, drop and furl the sails (main, Yankee, and mizzen), and step off with the lines.” Not one of the tourists on the pier waiting to board a ferry noticed that we were doing something unusual! Karina placed second in her class, and the offshore bug had bitten. Jack wanted to do it again.

A light wind drifter in the 1981 Marion Bermuda race contrasted strongly with the 1979 race, and Jack was back to sketching the next Karina — a 48-foot ketch that retained the sheer lines and clipper bow of an L. Francis Herreshoff classic but was designed for offshore intentions more than his previous boat. Eventually that boat was replaced by a Ted Hooddesigned Little Harbor 46 sloop. All in all, Jack sailed a Karina in seven Marion Bermuda races, the last one in 1993. We took home many prizes from that race, but the Family Trophy was perhaps the one that pleased Jack most.

Jack gave back to sailing in much the same way he gave back to the institutions that were important to him. As an inspector for the Marion Bermuda race, he approached skippers more as a

coach than an enforcer of safety regulations. He wanted each to have the benefit of his experience so that they might gain competence even before the race started. For example, he’d get a laugh describing all of the interesting things he found had been left in various boats by the builders. He’d then pivot to the awkward circumstances in which those items had come to light. Finally, he’d exhort his pupil to not only add a strainer to the intake of the bilge pump, but also periodically pour water into all parts of the bilge to move as much detritus out of hiding as possible before going offshore.

By the time Jack joined the CCA, he’d participated in club cruises with Karina as a motor yacht. Still a sailor at the core, he had added Arylessence, an Alerion 20, to his fleet. In the CCA, Jack found a tribe of likeminded cruising and sailing lovers. He enjoyed, with big smiles, the cruises and lunches until a few months before he passed on July 14, 2023.

Charles Henry Brewer Jr. 1925–2023

Charles Brewer passed over the bar on July 10, 2023, at his home in Moonhole on Bequia Island, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines. He was 98. His earnest partner and wife, Cornelia Haden Brewer, died on Bequia eight months earlier.

Charles grew up on a working farm in East Hartford, Connecticut, spending summers “messing about” in small boats on Long Island Sound. He discovered his interest in design and architecture at Trinity College. This led him to Yale University, where he earned his bachelor’s degree in architecture, and Columbia University, where he received a master of architecture degree.

He joined the faculty at Yale’s School of Art and Architecture in 1954 and

established a thriving practice. In 1977, he was appointed a professor of architecture at Ohio State University and became the department chair, retiring in 1984.

Charles’ intellectual curiosity and energy as a professor, scholar, and practicing architect was recognized internationally. His work won design awards from the American Institute of Architects, and his Vermont ski house was featured in Sports Illustrated. He served on the AIA National Urban Design and Planning Committee, the Arts Council of Greater New Haven, and the Civic Arts Commission for the city of Columbus, Ohio, to name a few.

Charles was a member of CCA since 1988. His other memberships included the Frostbite Yacht Club, Connecticut River Squadron, and the Essex Yacht Club. He had the longest known membership in the Off Soundings Club — 69 years.

Charles raced International 14 skiffs as a young sailor, cruised his Mason 26 in the late 50s, and acquired a 58-foot Seawanhaka Schooner, Stella, in the early 60s, which he cruised between Maine and the Bahamas.

Charles sailed 10 Newport Bermuda Races with Mary and Frank Winder (ESS) — three aboard the Winders’ 46-foot Rhodes ketch, Arabella, between 1960 and 1964, and seven aboard their 48-foot Bill Tripp-designed sloop, Katrinka, from 1970 to 1982. Charles inspired John Winder (BOS), and Joy and Brin Ford (ESS) in the countless Off Soundings and Annapolis to Newport races that they sailed together. The Brewers and Winders also enjoyed memorable adventures and passages in the Mediterranean and Caribbean.

In 1983 Charles commissioned yacht designer Ted Brewer to design and build Rhinoceros, the 42-foot sloop that he and Cornelia sailed on a multiyear, east-to-west circumnavigation. He planned his route to include major port cities across the globe so he could examine their architectural successes and failures. Rhinoceros was a version

of a Whitby 42, modified to include centerboard, deck-stepped mast, and “an extra knot under power.” Launched in March 1984, he and Cornelia sailed Rhinoceros from Fort Myers, Florida, to Essex, Connecticut, for christening with family and close friends. Soon after, they and the Winders departed for an Atlantic crossing to the Azores. From the Azores, Charles and Cornelia double-handed Rhinoceros throughout the Mediterranean, returning to the U.S. in 1986 via the Canary Islands and Caribbean. After a short re-fit, Rhinoceros left for the Panama Canal and into the South Pacific, completing the circumnavigation via Cape of Good Hope and returning in 1989.

On a snowy winter day in Vermont, we were fortunate to recount with Charles some of the highs and lows of his circumnavigation. The deck-stepped mast enabled him to lower the spar, which allowed passage on Europe’s rivers and canals, a high point of their voyage. Charles was succinct about the most trying part of the adventure: “The Indian Ocean.” I asked why. “Tim,” he explained dryly, “the wind, the weather, and the seas.” After a short pause with a wide smile, he added, “And hordes of twirling, slithering, slimy-white sea snakes that really scared the hell out of us.”

In subsequent years, the Brewers explored the Caribbean on yachts

Postcard and Postscript, which drew them to Bequia. Having found their “warm place in the sun,” they “left their anchor down.” They settled in Moonhole, a community of windowless, cave-like dwellings with open rooms and few utilities, requiring an “enthusiasm for simplicity.” Charles described it as “similar to living on a sailboat with leaky decks, without the concern that the anchor might drag.” By 1993 the reconstruction of their home, Ravine Landing, was nearly complete. For the next two decades, Charles and Cornelia were warm hosts to many CCA members, for whom Charles proudly poured his house rum punch.

In 2013, after years in the making, Charles published Moonhole: The Rise and Fall of an Island Utopia. The book is an artful and honest account of the Moonhole structures and the community’s idiosyncratic founder, Tom Johnston.

Charles’ last yacht, Agwe, a MacWester 26, was an unclaimed rescue that had come ashore in a storm. After refurbishing, Agwe was a fixture in Bequia Easter Regattas every year, with Charles instructing the islanders who crewed for him. His daughter, Kate, recalls Charles commenting that the islanders didn’t seem to absorb the principle of easing the main in a blow; rather, they would insist the boat “liked to be pressured.” Hence the boat often finished dead last, limping in under one jury-rig or another.

A mentor to many students and aspiring sailors, Charles delivered insightful and timely criticism with kindness and an unmistakable motivation to do better next time (especially if going to weather!). I am eternally grateful for having been in these situations within arm’s length of our dear friend, professor, and mentor, Charles H. Brewer Jr. I am a better sailor and better architect for it.

Blake Cady

1930–2023

Blake Cady died at home in Brookline, Massachusetts, surrounded by family on July 15, 2023.

Born in Washington, D.C., to Navy Captain John P. Cady and Elizabeth Cady, Blake grew up all over the world. He attended Moses Brown School in Providence, Rhode Island, Amherst College, and Cornell University Medical College. He interrupted his surgical training to serve on a Navy icebreaker out of Greenland. Blake spent most of his surgical career at Lahey Clinic and New England Deaconess Hospital. He was appointed to full professor of surgery at Harvard Medical School in 1991 and later joined the surgical faculty at Brown University Medical School.

Despite his busy career, Blake always made time for his love of the sea. He owned progressively larger traditional boats, but eventually eliminated “those damn genoa jibs” and switched to the simplicity of the Freedom cat ketch rig, first with the 33-foot Cat’s Cradle, followed by his beloved 38-foot Wobegon Daze. Blake said Wobegon Daze proved to be the right boat for him. “It just needed a few changes, and things would be perfect!” he announced.

Blake sailed Wobegon Daze in many races, including the Provincetown to Monhegan double-handed, Off Soundings, Whalers, Marion to Bermuda, and Marblehead to Halifax races. Blake crewed the 2000 Newport Bermuda Race for Garry Fischer and a transatlantic to Scotland on Garry’s boat, Diva, a Morris 46. He frequently participated in the panel for the Newport Bermuda Race’s Safety at Sea (SAS) courses.

He loved cruising, especially overnight jaunts, anticipating spectacular sunsets and sunrises. One of Blake’s favorite sails followed a Marblehead to Halifax race, recalls his friend Peter Clay. The decision was made to skip the race party and leave Halifax to catch a

strong northwesterly breeze. “We had a spectacular reach up the Nova Scotia coast to the Bras d’Or Lakes,” Clay says. “What a ride!”

Blake dropped his anchor in many places around the world, but clearly his favorites were in the Canadian Maritimes. Blake left Wobegon Daze with Henry Fuller in Baddeck, Nova Scotia, for eight winters, returning each summer for a different itinerary, including circumnavigating Newfoundland. In 1991, Blake, on Wobegon Daze, met up with Garry Fischer’s Tempo, an OC 39, and they cruised Newfoundland together with family and friends.

A Freedom 36 before she was lengthened to 38 feet with a scoop stern, Wobegon Daze was equipped with a two-masted cat-ketch rig instead of the original single-mast sloop rig. The raked-stem hull design offered minimal buoyancy to support the weight of the heavy forward main mast. As a result, Wobegon Daze sailed with a slight bowdown trim that gave her a wet ride and made her somewhat difficult to steer. Blake was known for innovation and challenging the status quo. Always willing to experiment, he approached Newport-based naval architect Eric Sponberg for help. Sponberg advised modifying the bow to a plumb-stem design. Concordia Yachts of South

Dartmouth, Massachusetts, built the new bow directly onto Wobegon Daze’s original bow. It added enough buoyancy forward to support the extra weight of the mast, thus reversing the bow-down trim, and lengthened the waterline by 12 percent for increased hull speed.

A few years later, Blake returned to Sponberg for a more efficient rig. Sponberg designed carbon-fiber rotating wing masts to replace the original non-rotating masts. The mast rotation bearings, mounted above deck on internal stub masts, allowed the wing masts to rotate into the wind while the halyards remained under tension back to the cockpit. With the new rig, Wobegon Daze could point higher to windward and had nearly 35 percent more sail area (including the wingmast area) for greater speed, primarily in lighter conditions. Blake retired from sailing in 2013 and sold Wobegon Daze, which now resides in Connecticut.

“After he sold his boat, I had the pleasure of having Blake, often with his wife, Dorothy, join us on White Wing for cruises from Maine to Bermuda, up the Saint John River, and to Saint-Pierre and Miquelon and the south coast of Newfoundland,” Dan Coit recalls. “Blake was always a most sought-after partner on the dog watch, spinning endless and never repetitive tales of the history of the inner workings of Boston surgery and other topics. This encyclopedic knowledge included clear memories of virtually every place he had ever sailed. We shared so many spectacular and subliminal moments at sea together, including, as he put it, the ‘most frightening experience of his life’ in a stormy wind-blown rocky cove in Newfoundland. What an incredible privilege it has been to have had this man and these experiences enrich my life.”

Blake was a compassionate and skillful surgeon and a born sailor. Whether on a day sail in Buzzard’s Bay, a coastal cruise to a new harbor, or an open ocean passage, he was always as one with both his vessel and his crew.

In so many ways, he embodied the quintessence of what it means to be a member of the CCA.

Peter Clay, Daniel Coit, Garry Fischer and Eric Sponberg

Steven K. Chance 1945–2023

Steven K. Chance of Santa Fe, New Mexico, died on January 28, 2023, after a short illness.

Born in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, on July 9, 1945, he grew up in Malvern. He attended the Haverford School, Wesleyan University, and the London School of Economics. He graduated magna cum laude from the University of Pennsylvania Law School in 1972. He was a partner of Dechert LLP in Philadelphia.

Steve was on the water at a young age and spent summers sailing dinghies at Mantoloking Yacht Club on Barnegat Bay, New Jersey. He raced and cruised with family and friends and became a CCA member in 1975.

A sailor’s farewell is best conveyed through the recollections of shipmates, and Steve Chance’s sailing buddies, CCA members Jon Wright and Chris Willits, have plenty of sea stories to share. They paint a picture of a bright, articulate friend who started sailing early and mainstreamed inshore and ocean racing into adulthood.

Jon Wright recalled the launch of their “three amigos” sailing syndicate. The lads had commissioned a Briton Chance-designed Offshore One to be built in Germany, but the builder went bankrupt with the boat in the mold. Thanks to Steve’s legal acumen, and Jon and Chris’s networking ability in the sailing community, the project was revived. The boat-in-the-mold was loaded aboard a ship and transported across the Atlantic to Heritage Yachts in Florida, where owner and kindred spirit Charley Morgan finished the build, and Sundance was finally commissioned.

Over the next six seasons, her trio of owners campaigned her up and down the Chesapeake Bay. Some might point to her tally of wins as a sign of the partnership’s success, but Steve, Chris, and Jon felt the big victory was in their smiles and feelings of time very well spent. “Steve was the smartest guy I’ve ever sailed with!” says Jon, an America’s Cup veteran.

Chris writes that he and Steve were friends for 70 years. “We played Little League baseball when we were boys in Philadelphia. He was an exceptional athlete and scholar. He was organized and fun to be with. He loved to travel, and when he went to work in Brazil, he picked up Portuguese with no problem at all. He always had funny and intelligent answers to anyone’s questions. He read constantly and was always interesting to talk to.

“I sailed many miles with Steve, including two Newport Bermuda Races on Challenge, owned by Fenny Johnson, and Mandate, owned by Morgan Barker, both CCA members. We also did many East Coast races together. He owned a Hinckley Picnic Boat named Nor’easter after his grandfather’s yacht. Steve’s father, Henry Chance, was also a CCA member and took Steve and me on my first ocean race on Hirondelle. Steve raced and cruised with CCA members Chip Schutt, Sonny Neff, Jack Wright,

Fenny Johnson, Jim Madden, Morgan Barker, and Arnie Gay, among others.

“Steve served as commodore of Mantoloking Yacht Club and was a member of Corinthian Yacht Club of Philadelphia. He loved the water and the challenges of sailing and racing. I recall him as a superior navigator and seaman. We vacationed together many times to Maine and the Abaco Islands by boat. He was a wonderful friend.”

James K. Cooper 1945– 2023

Our CCA-SAF member of 33 years, James K. Cooper, set sail on his final voyage on October 22, 2023.

Jim was born in Manhattan, on April 9, 1945. His family moved to California, and Jim grew up in San Francisco, where he graduated from the Towne School and City College of San Francisco. Jim and his wife, Joanne, had three boys, Tom, John and Chris, and the family cruised together on the family’s yachts. The Cooper family is close-knit, and they attribute their closeness to the many miles they sailed together. They write:

“Jim, a sailor at heart, spent decades navigating the vast seas. He and his family shared the helms of various vessels that danced with the wind. From the maiden voyage of the Ariel named Beau J to the racing triumphs aboard our Newport 30, our sails were etched with tales of joy and camaraderie.

“Our Sceptre-41 became the vessel of family bonds, cruising through the serene beauty of the San Juan Islands, British Columbia, and tracing the contours of the Pacific Coast.

“Four decades of setting sails gave way to a humble transition, yet the spirit of adventure remained unwavering. Our powerboats, from the Kadey-Krogen to the Nordhavn 57 and the Wasque 32, carried us through diverse seascapes. Each journey, be it a leisurely day on San

Francisco Bay or an extended voyage to Hawaii or Mexico, bore witness to Jim’s meticulous curiosity, unwavering love, boundless compassion, and unbridled enjoyment.

“Yet, in this seafaring tale, Jim was not a lone captain; he shared the helm of life with his co-captain and wife, Joanne. Together, they steered through the waves of existence, creating a tapestry of experiences that would forever define their shared voyage.

“The friends who sailed alongside Jim on these adventures were not mere passengers; they were the vital crew members, the cherished souls who added color and depth to every nautical escapade. In the canvas of Jim’s life, each one played a unique and irreplaceable role, filling his sails with laughter, camaraderie, and the warmth of shared moments.

“As we bid farewell to the captain who embraced every journey with a twinkle in his eye and a heart full of passion, let us remember Jim not only as a sailor but as a beacon of love, curiosity, and joy. The wind may carry his physical presence away, but the ripples of his spirit will forever dance upon the waters of our memories, ensuring that his legacy sails on, undaunted and eternal.”

Jim was an active participant in and generous contributor to SAF events. For example, during one of our station’s

annual fall cruises to Tomales Bay, Jim went to one of the area’s several oyster farms and bought enough oysters for all three dozen or so CCA cruisers. He then shucked and barbecued all of the oysters by himself for everyone on the cruise. Jim always made sure that his crews ate well. When asked about one of Jim’s yachts, a crew member would likely say, “She is a good feeder.” That says a lot about our late San Francisco Station shipmate Jim Cooper. We will miss him.

Alec H. Dalziel

1934–2023

Alec Hardie Dalziel, 82, of Mansfield, Texas, passed away on January 15, 2023. He was a member of the Cruising Club of America’s San Francisco Station for 49 years.

Alec’s father, Don Dalziel, was a longtime member of the CCA and, in 1975, the SAF Station’s rear commodore. Alec was a watch captain on three of the four transoceanic voyages that earned Don CCA’s John Parkinson Trophy.

Alec actively raced each of his family’s five yachts, including the 62-foot ketch Natoma, the last yacht designed by Philip L. Rhodes, which was launched in 1975. He made his first coastal voyage as a teenager on the family’s ketch, Dutch, and then proceeded to put thousands of blue-water miles under his keel. He sailed to Hawaii ten times, including eight Transpacific Yacht Races from Los Angeles to Honolulu, one Pacific Cup race from San Francisco to Hanalei Bay, and, just to keep in practice, a down-and-back cruise with family in 1989. Alec cruised to Tahiti in 1964, and he went south of the equator to New Zealand and cruised back to San Francisco in 1980 and 1985.

Alec immensely enjoyed the Dalziel family tradition of having a black-tie captain’s dinner on the last night of

a Transpac race. Sailors said that the Dalziels may not win every yacht race, but they never lost a party. Alec was a big reason for that.

I witnessed Alec’s seamanship firsthand when my wife, Kristi, and I were invited on an overnight cruise aboard Natoma. We sailed around San Francisco Bay on Saturday and anchored for the night in Clipper Cove, adjacent to the then-active U.S. Navy base at Treasure Island.

After a domino tournament in the main salon, we went to our bunks. Thump! In the wee hours of the morning, we had dragged anchor and fetched up alongside a Navy barge. Alec immediately understood the situation and motioned for me to come topside. He started the engine while I weighed anchor. We repositioned the yacht, reset the anchor, and were back in our bunks before anyone else woke up. Alec had calmly directed the operation without speaking a word.

Alec grew up in Berkeley, California, attending Berkeley High School and the University of California, Berkeley. He earned his law degree from University of San Francisco Law School.

Alec lived for many years in the Bay Area and in Geyserville, California. After his wife, Nancy, passed, he joined his daughter, Laura. and her husband and children in Texas. He lived in Mansfield for almost ten years.

Because of the distance, Alec rarely attended our SAF meetings, and unfortunately, many of us did not get a chance to know him. But those who sailed with him, including Bill Edinger and me, enjoyed his company and his great sense of humor. Alec’s brother Bruce described Alec as a “CCA loyalist” because even while living in Texas, well away from blue water or a CCA station, he retained his membership in the SAF Station.

Fair winds, friend.

Bob Hanelt with Jean Dalziel Armstrong

James “Jim” Henry Day 1943–2023

Jim Day died on August 4, 2023, just three weeks after celebrating his 80th birthday. He is survived by Susan, his wife of 53 years; their daughters, Cynthia and Cassandra; their son-inlaw, Kyle; and grandchildren Alex, Emily, Andrew, Cole, and Kady, and numerous family and friends.

Jim was born in Evanston, Illinois. He was a graduate of Escambia High School in Pensacola, Florida, and a veteran of the U.S. Navy, having served as an aviation technician on Super Constellation aircrafts from 1960–64.

From 1966–69, Jim was captain and navigator aboard CCA member Carl Heintz’s 75-foot DeFever motor sailer, Wanderlure II, in a circumnavigation that included 360 ports, 70 countries, and five crossings of the equator. He met his future wife, Susan, in Edinburgh, Scotland, on the trip. After completion of the trip, a Wandelure crew member, CCA member John Wells, hired Jim to work for Pacific Bell, starting in San Diego. He became a global account manager, with Disney as his favorite account.

Jim and Susan married in 1970. They became part-owners of a 57-foot staysail schooner, Maramel, and cruised the California waters. They were

members of the Aventura Sailing Club at Dana Point, sailing many weekends to Catalina with their girls.

Jim retired from AT&T in 1998. That year, he made the transition from sailing to power when he bought John Wells’ 1960 48-foot wooden trawler, Pau Hana II. Pau Hana was the first boat CCA member Art DeFever designed and built after his fishing trawlers. Jim and Susan cruised the California coast, Channel Islands, and Sacramento Delta. They were nominated to the CCA SOC station in 2001.

In 2002 Jim and Susan moved aboard Pau Hana full time and left California for the Pacific Northwest the following year. The first five years they wintered in Sidney on Vancouver Island. CCA member Gary Meisner convinced Jim to join the PNW station, where they took part in all the club cruises and two international cruises, Baja in 2006 and the PNW international cruise in 2014. They loved the PNW station. They cruised to southeast Alaska three times, circumnavigated Vancouver Island, and sailed to Haida Gwaii, formerly British Columbia’s Queen Charlotte Islands.

CCA-PNW past Rear Commodore Gary Meisner fondly reminiscences about the three successive summers spent cruising with Jim and Susan: “We alternated days being the lead boat for those summers in Alaska and around Vancouver Island. Jim and Susan were

great cruising friends, and his skill in navigation and seamanship, gained through his years in the military and as a charter captain, was unparalleled.”

In 2016 the Days sadly sold Pau Hana and moved to Jacksonville, Florida, where their family lives. Jim was boatless for only six months before buying 44-foot Marine Trader, renaming her Wanderlure. The summer of 2019 saw them cruising the Intracoastal Waterway as far north as Philadelphia, with family joining them there and in Baltimore and Washington, D.C.

After a short battle with cancer, Jim passed away and was buried at Jacksonville National Cemetery with military honors, followed the next day by the spreading of some of his ashes over the Intracoastal Waterway.

Harry Easom

1934–2023

Harry “Hank” Easom set sail on his final voyage on February 14, 2023, after a long illness. Before he died, his family and many friends celebrated his lifetime achievements with a tribute shared by only a few of the most celebrated San Francisco Bay sailors: they launched a buoy named in his honor. Unfortunately, Hank was too ill to attend the launching, but his friends drove him to the top of Yellow Bluff so he could see his racing mark tugging against the tidal currents. The location, where the waters roar in and out of San Francisco Bay through the Golden Gate, is well known to racers.

Members of the Corinthian Yacht Club San Francisco, and Sausalito yacht clubs raised money to buy the buoy and its ground tackle. They unveiled it to Hank on Saturday, January 14, 2023, at his nephew Scott Easom’s rigging loft in Point Richmond. It was a tearful, yet joyful moment when the shroud hiding the buoy was dropped and Hank saw his name.

A number of CCA members watched from their yachts when the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers launched the Hank Easom Buoy on February 7, 2023. Now, racers will think of Hank and his legendary sailing career whenever they round the mark.

Remarkably, just three days before the buoy launching, Hank raced his yacht, Serenade, in a Golden Gate Yacht Club mid-winter regatta. He finished first in his class, first in his division, and first overall by 30 minutes! In his eighth decade of yacht racing, and only ten days before his passing, Hank once again proved his racing prowess.

Hank was born, raised, and lived his whole life in Marin County in sight of San Francisco Bay. He grew up in Belvedere and began sailing dinghies at age 7, often with his dog, Rowdy. He joined Corinthian Yacht Club and became CYC’s first junior commodore. When he was 13, he landed a job working at Clipper Yacht Harbor in Sausalito on the condition that he buy a Clipper kit and build a 20-foot dinghy. Hank commuted to work in his Clipper, crossing Richardson Bay between Tiburon and Sausalito, a distance of three miles.

In 1952, when he was 18, Hank joined the U.S. Coast Guard and spent three years in the North Pacific during the Korean War. It was the longest amount of time that he ever spent away

from Marin County.

On his return from active duty, Hank founded Easom Boat Works in Sausalito, where he built and repaired all manner of watercraft for 35 years. He was known for his “craftsmanship, innovation, work ethic, and honesty,” according to his daughter Jan.

Hank was nearly unbeatable at the helm of Yucca, his 1937, eight-meter sloop, which he owned and raced from 1964 to 2017. Yucca showed her transom to many of us who raced against her on San Francisco Bay. In summer, Hank raced El Toros on Pinecrest Lake in the Sierra Nevada, where he had a family home. It is a competitive fleet up there in the mountains, and every afternoon when the breeze kicked in, Hank was out there kicking — well, let’s just say Hank was out there winning races.

Hank owned a number of yachts, all of which he raced competitively. He crewed on ocean racers in races to Hawaii and in the Southern Ocean Racing Circuit, Mexico, and elsewhere. He was a master tactician and was welcome aboard most any yacht from 8 to 80 feet.

Hank also gave back to yachting. He served on the board of San Francisco Yacht Club in Belvedere and was twice named its yachtsman of the year. St. Francis Yacht Club in San Francisco, where he was a director, also named him yachtsman of the year. Hank was a member of the CCA-SAF Station for 47 years and an honorary member of the Sausalito Yacht Club.

Hank was a friendly competitor and good friend to many sailors on San Francisco Bay. We will miss him.

James Arnold Eddy made an indelible impact on the lives he touched before passing away at home in Irvine, California, at 92. An extraordinary

husband, father, grandfather, greatgrandfather, brother, and friend, Jim navigated life with unwavering kindness. He made the world a better place for many. We will miss his friendly smile and helpful and positive nature, as well as his lifelong devotion to his family, sailing, and numerous activities and organizations.

Catalina Island was Jim’s happy place. He fell in love with it as a child on a sailboat at Howland’s Landing. For over 80 years, you could find him there with family members or friends on weekends from Memorial Day to Labor Day. Many, though not all, will miss his 0800-cannon blast to post the colors. For the past 40 years, that was on his beloved Callisto, an iconic Cal 40.

Jim was a huge supporter of the Cal 40 Class. His raced offshore, competing in many Mexican and transpacific events. Jim’s last of five Transpacs was as skipper aboard Callisto. He instilled a love of sailing in all of his four children, two of whom, James III and Park, became CCA members.

Jim was the former rear commodore of the Cruising Club of America’s Southern California Station and senior staff commodore of Los Angeles Yacht Club and Transpacific Yacht Club. He also served as a director of the Pacific Coast Sailing Foundation for many years.

Jim was born in Los Angeles and

attended University of Southern California as an NROTC student. He graduated in 1952 and served in the U.S. Navy as navigator on an aircraft carrier during the Korean War. His entire professional career was spent at California Federal Savings and Loan, retiring in 1990.

He met the love of his life, Janet Ewart, at USC, and they were married for almost 70 years. They had a great partnership, embarking on many ventures and adventures. Many of those were local and international CCA cruises. They never missed an opportunity to gather with family and friends. An avid sports fan, Jim delighted in coaching and supporting his children and grandchildren’s sporting endeavors.

Jim and Janet were active members of La Canada Presbyterian Church for many years. After moving to Orange County, they joined St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Newport Beach. While Jim did not talk about his faith often, he lived it in the way he interacted and cared for those in his sphere. His faith in Christ became very important to him over the past five years, and it was important to him to share it with others on his passing.

Jim was an ardent supporter of USC and served in many Trojan groups. His license plate was “USC DAD,” which he inherited from his father, Arnold Eddy.

He was a master Mason and a member of Scottish Rite, Al Malaikah Shriners, Trojan Shrine Club, and the Royal Order of Jesters. He was a director for life of LA Philanthropic Foundation.

Jim is survived by his wife, Janet; sister, Beryl Kohl; daughter, Beryl Cianci (Jon); sons James III (Lisa), Park (Linda), and Andy (Myra); ten grandchildren, and one great granddaughter.

James (Jim) A. Eddy III

JohnJohn C. Fellows 1924–2022

C. Fellows Jr. of Harrogate in Lakewood, New Jersey, crossed the bar on June 18, 2022.

Jack was born on December 29, 1924, in Scranton, Pennsylvania, to John C. Fellows and Laura Reidy. The family settled in Toms River, New Jersey, where Jack attended the public schools. He graduated from the Peddie School in Hightstown, New Jersey.

During World War II, Jack served in the Army Air Corps as a flight engineer. He received battle stars in Europe for the Battle of Britain, D Day, the air war in Europe, the Battle of the Bulge, and the air war over Germany.

Jack married Nancy Ill of Glen Ridge, New Jersey on December 22, 1950, during his junior year at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, New York. After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering, he worked with his father at a landsurveying company in Toms River. The firm grew into a major business. He sold the company in 1987, but remained engaged in its entrepreneurial efforts until he retired at age 84.

Jack’s preferred relaxation was frostbite sailing his pram at the Toms River Yacht Club’s Robbins Parkway location. He savored cruising and racing along the Atlantic Coast, and he participated in the Block Island Race, Newport Bermuda Race, and the Annapolis to Newport Race. He enjoyed making long passages with his crew, sailing the quiet coves of the Chesapeake, and exploring the coast of Maine with close friends.

Members of CCA’s Chesapeake Station remember him as a skilled and organized rear commodore who steered a steady course. He often alluded to his time as fleet captain and how well he was trained by Rear Commodore Ned Shuman, a veteran U.S. Navy pilot, former Vietnam POW, and a 1979 Fastnet Race sailor. He also served as commodore of the Toms River Yacht Club and was an active member of the

New York Yacht Club.

Jack became president of the Garden State Philharmonic in order to support his wife, Nancy, who played the French horn. He gave each of the seven 40-footers that he owned over the years the same musical name — Sinsonte, which is the Spanish word for mockingbird, a species known for its diverse and complex songs.

Eric B. Forsyth

1932–2023

Award-winning

electrical engineer, Blue Water Medal sailor, and author Eric Boyland Forsyth passed away on August 22, 2023, after a short illness. He was 91.

He was born in Bolton, England, in 1932 and attended Bolton School. At Manchester University, he joined the Royal Air Force Reserves, where he completed pilot training and became a fighter pilot. He and his fiancée, Edith, a physician, moved to Canada in 1957, where they married, and Eric completed a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering at the University of Toronto.

Eric’s passion for sailing was ignited in 1960, when he was recruited to work at Brookhaven National Laboratory on Long Island. He took up the “local

sport” while working his way up to key managerial roles and completing a master’s degree in electrical engineering at Columbia University. He sailed the Great South Bay on a 16-foot baby Narrasketuk, once even venturing to Montauk Point, a 14- to 17-hour sail.

Several times, starting in 1961, Eric and Edith chartered bunks on a 78-foot ketch operated by one of the first sailors to offer charters in what were then the unspoiled Virgin Islands. They were entranced by the tropics. The islands were still under British colonial rule, and the inhabitants enjoyed a leisurely if somewhat poverty-stricken way of life. There, they met a couple who were planning a New York-toEngland crossing on a 46-foot cutter, and they signed aboard. The transatlantic crossing convinced them to buy their own boat, Iona, a 35-foot Dutchbuilt sloop. In 1968, they took leaves of absence from their careers, sold their house, and sailed Iona to the Virgin Islands, where they lived aboard with their 3-year-old son, Colin, and a cat, until the money ran out. By 1970, Eric was back at Brookhaven, and Edith had opened a private medical practice.

Eric Forsyth’s long and distinguished career at Brookhaven included managing the superconducting power transmission system and serving as chairman of the magnet development committee for the ISABELLE project. As chairman of the Relativistic Heavy

Ion Collider, he led the team that designed the machine’s superconducting magnets, which later were the basis for the magnets used in the Large Hadron Collider at the European Organization for Nuclear Research. For this work, Eric was presented with the annual Herman Halperin Award, the highest recognition for power transmission research given by the Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers. He was a fellow of the Institution of Electrical and Electronic Engineers (IEEE), a registered professional engineer in Canada, and a chartered engineer in the EU. He was an acknowledged world authority on the application of superconductivity.

Meanwhile, the Forsyth family had expanded to include daughter Brenda. Eric’s passion for sailing grew, and he acquired a new boat, a Westsail 42, which Edith named Fiona. Over three years, Eric built and outfitted his yacht from a bare hull. He retired in 1995 and joined the CCA that same year. For the next 20 years, he sailed Fiona nearly full time with many different crew members. He made two circumnavigations of the globe, cruised the Antarctic and Arctic regions, and traversed the Northwest Passage. In 2000, the CCA awarded him the prestigious Blue Water Medal for his 1998–1999 cruise to Chile and the Antarctic. Eric received nine other medals between 1998 and 2018, but the Blue Water was his favorite.

Eric’s memoir, An Inexplicable Attraction: My Fifty Years of Ocean Sailing, was one of Kirkus Reviews’ 100 best memoirs of 2018. Eric went on to write and publish three historical novels depicting the adventures of an RAF pilot in the turbulent 1930s and 1940s, when Great Britain was gradually drawn into war with Germany: Wings Over Iraq (2022), Wings Over the Channel (2022), and Wings Over Germany (2023).

Eric is survived by his son, Colin; his daughter, Brenda Hollander, and her husband, Robb; and granddaughters Fawn and Gabriella. He was preceded in death by Edith in 1991.

Brenda Forsyth Hollander

1934 –2023

Kirk Hall was born to sail. As a boy, he sailed with his father, who owned a house in Southwest Harbor, Maine. His many passions included ocean racing and surveying yachts, and he was a member of both the CCA and the Corinthian Yacht Club of Philadelphia.

Kirk was born on August 20, 1934 in Merion, Pennsylvania. He passed away on September 13, 2023, in Chestertown, Maryland.

He was in the class of 1953 at Episcopal Academy in Pennsylvania and graduated from Amherst College in 1956. He earned a law degree from Villanova University Law School in 1961 and commenced private practice. He subsequently became assistant general counsel of Philadelphia Electric Company, retiring in 1992.

Kirk cruised and raced various sailboats, including his own along with his three sons. His favorite sport was spreader diving, according to his son Daniel: Kirk would climb the mast to the spreader and stand on the outboard end while the crew got the boat rocking side to side, timing his jump so he’d be thrown far out into the water.

Kirk’s love for the sea is well known to many who have sailed with him. He sailed countless ocean passages on both large and small boats. He realized his ultimate goal of living aboard his yacht, Serenade, while sailing throughout the Caribbean and then circumnavigating the globe with his wife, Gisela. Over a 15-year period, they visited many countries, of which their favorite was South Africa.

My earliest recollection of Kirk was when he was foredeck crew racing on my father’s Nevins 40 sometime in the early 1960s. Kirk and I became good friends. Over the years, we did many passages together to and from Bermuda, either racing or delivering yachts back home. Kirk’s quiet demeanor was always

appreciated during a frantic sail change, spinnaker launch, or rounding a mark. He always exuded confidence honed over many years of sailing. Together we attended the survey training at Chapman School and became members of SAMS. We then became partners in a small marine service business, which included prepurchase surveys, yacht deliveries, and insurance claims due to damage.

Besides sailing, Kirk loved skiing, scuba diving, woodworking, choral singing, and folk music.

Kirk was no ordinary man. He was a true explorer. He had an incredible depth of memory, and I was amazed at all the details he recalled about the people and places he and his wife encountered during their world travels.

He was always onto the next challenge or endeavor. Even while he battled Parkinson’s disease, he always had a bright smile and a zest for life. No matter where he is now, he will always be sailing somewhere.

Alife so rich, so full, it is difficult to capture. An incredible voyage forever tucked away in the hearts

of all who knew and loved him. In his lifetime, Merle Hallett would sail the world. As a child growing up on Munjoy Hill in Portland, Maine, he rented a little boat for 25 cents an hour and taught himself.

He bought Handy Boat in Falmouth, Maine, in the late sixties. He developed the yard into a major yacht destination, complete with a restaurant, a chandlery, a repair yard, a sail loft and a mooring field of some 300 boats. He always made the time to mentor the many young people who were drawn to the yard, hiring them to work in the restaurant and the dock store and to drive the launches, providing three generations of youth with training and encouragement.

One former employee said it best, “Merle was my role model, my friend, my teacher and mentor, and when I was an adult, my inspiration. He was a legend.”

To the larger community, Merle’s contributions were many and notable. He co-founded the MS Regatta with his close friend, Dan Wellahan, raising over $3 million for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. He was president of the American Boat Builders Association and the National Ensign Class. He sat on the board of directors of OPSail 2000, and the Storm Trysail Club. He was also on the advisory councils of the United States Coast Guard and of Pearson Yachts and was awarded the title of director emeritus of the Gulf of Maine Ocean Racing Association for his many years of dedication to the sport. Merle also was named a Paul Harris Fellow by the international Rotary Foundation.

As Merle grew Handy Boat Yard, his reputation as a racing sailor also grew. He won both national and international trophies. One of the first was the 1972 National Ensign Championship followed by first in his class in the Newport Bermuda Race and then the Transpac. After winning a series of offshore races, from the Monhegan Race to the Yarmouth Cup to Maxie Regattas in Europe on Kialoa, as well as

the PHRF New England Championship and the 1985 Block Island Race Week, Merle received the 1986 Yachtsman of the Year award. He was inducted into the Maine Sports Hall of Fame in 2021.

Whenever possible, he loved having his wife, Barbara, and one or more of his children aboard. For 25 years, as winter approached the shores of the Maine coast, Merle Hallett set sail to the Caribbean on the Wings of Time with his lifelong friend, Dodge Morgan — a dead run to a longer sun and calmer seas.

Merle named all his racing boats Scaramouche after the character in the French novel who was “born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.” He lived and worked by a strict code — “perfect is good enough,” he often said, quoting his friend Ronnie Butland.

Merle lived what he loved. He said that after he bought the boatyard, he never worked a day in his life. That life touched so many others, and all benefited from his warmth, wisdom, and great generosity. He once told a reporter that if he could spend the day with anyone of his choosing, it would be his father, and he would spend the day listening.

He held memberships in the Cruising Club of America, the Storm Trysail Club, the Portland Yacht Club, and the Centerboard Club.

As much as he loved sailing, he also loved music. For 26 years he played the acoustic bass professionally, forming his own band, the Star Makers.

Merle Hallett died at his home in Vero Beach, Florida, December 13, 2022. He was 94 years old. His wife, best friend, and first mate, Barbara Hallett, and his children, Cindy, Jay, Connie, Richard, and Will, all share the great gift of his life. For Merle, a grand new voyage on a calm and peaceful sea has just begun.

Alan G. Harquail 1928–2023

Alan Giles Harquail Jr. of Annapolis, Maryland, passed away peacefully on October 12, 2023, at the age of 94. Born in Brooklyn, New York, on November 27, 1928, Alan grew up in Scarsdale. He attended Dartmouth College, then went on to earn a doctorate in dental surgery from the University of Pennsylvania School of Dental Medicine in 1954. He married Vivian Small that same year. After completing his surgical residency at Boston City Hospital, he was inducted into the U.S. Navy Dental Corps in Annapolis, Maryland, as a lieutenant junior grade and was stationed in Newport, Rhode Island. He served on a ship in the Mediterranean during the Korean War.

After the service, he and Vivian moved to Serverna Park, Maryland, where he practiced oral surgery for the next 30 years. He was an avid sailboat racer and cruiser throughout his adult life.

Alan bought his first sailboat, a Herreshoff 23 named Harky and joined the Annapolis Yacht Club in the 1960s. After logging ocean miles with Cruising Club of America members, he joined the CCA. He also was a member of the Sailing Club of the Chesapeake, Ocean Cruising Club, and Wianno Yacht Club.

His next boat was Lark, an Alberg 30, the hot racing boat in the late 1960s. He went on to own a progression of boats, which he successfully raced on Chesapeake Bay. They included the C&C 35 Stinger and Sybarite, the Heritage one-tonner Goldfish, and the Frers 36 Bluefish. Alan won many Chesapeake Bay round-the-buoy and distance races, as well as the Chesapeake Bay Yacht Racing Association High Point trophy a few times.

Alan loved ocean racing and for 30-plus years participated in numerous Annapolis to Newport (A2N) and Newport Bermuda races as either crew or watch captain on other yachts or captain of his own yacht. In the A2N races, he placed in the top three of his class at least five times, including first places in 1987 with Bluefish and 1989 with Insight, his Gulfstar 40. He was excited to place third in class on Insight in the 1992 Newport Bermuda race.

Alan had a dedicated crew, including his son and daughter, who raced with him for many years. He taught some of his crew how to sail when they were just out of college, and they remained close friends throughout his lifetime. Several went on to race with fellow CCA member Rick Born on his J120, Windborn. The crew love to tell stories of their ocean adventures with Alan, like their tradition of a 5 o’clock happy hour no matter the weather conditions and

the time during a Bermuda race that they heated up their cold casserole on Insight’s engine block because the stove wasn’t working!

Alan transitioned to cruising when he retired in 1991, and he and Vivian set off on a 20-plus-year sailing adventure. His family named him “Captain Courageous” and Vivian “Captain Cautious.” Together they logged over 50,000 miles on three different boats. After using Insight for a few years, Alan purchased a Sabre 42, aptly named Janus, after a god with two heads. Several years later, he bought a new Tartan 4100 centerboard, which he also named Janus. The Harquails cruised Chesapeake Bay, the East Coast from Florida to Maine, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland, the Yucatan Peninsula, Guatemala, Belize, and the Bahamas.

Alan’s favorite times with the CCA included Maine summer cruises, Chesapeake Bay fall cruises, and the winter skiing gams in Park City, Utah, where he would lead a ski group to Alta for the day. Alan and Vivian enjoyed meeting up with the CCA members while sailing the Exumas and Abacos, ports up and down the Eastern Seaboard and at the CCA meetings and parties in the Annapolis area.

They also chartered with different sailing clubs and other yachtsman to travel to Norway, New Zealand, Croatia, Greek Islands, England, and other places around the world.

Alan was always full of energy and determination and was blessed with an infectious smile. He and Vivian were co-captains in the sailing, skiing, and travel adventures they enthusiastically pursued together, and he loved spending his retirement years on the water with family and sailing friends.

Dougles James Hickman

1952–2023

There is an old Nova Scotia fishermen’s saying: “A man who dies in his bunk in his boat is halfway to heaven.” So it was that on July 29, 2023, Doug Hickman passed away in his beloved steel pilot-house sloop, Black Sea , while crossing the Bay of Fundy on his way to a CCA Bras d’Or Station cruise. Fortunately, his crew was his capable brother, Brian, who safely piloted the yacht to Tiverton, Nova Scotia, the closest port, under dreadful circumstances.

Doug and I had been friends for 60 years, and we cruised together for 45 of them. We met in fourth grade in Saint John, New Brunswick, and discovered that our respective parents had powerboats and that we were both boat crazy. Doug was aboard my ketch, Glooscap II, for her offshore cruises from Bermuda to Newfoundland. A better shipmate one could not have. Doug was strong, capable, and generous. He could fix almost anything, and he did so with a smile. He was a great boat handler.

In his early twenties, Doug had the opportunity to deliver, in December, a newly built 40-foot motor yacht to Florida for a local businessman. He graduated to the command of a Chris Craft Constellation 57 when the owner upgraded. Eventually he returned to Saint John to take over, with his brother, a well-established plumbing firm founded by his grandfather before World War I. But boats and sailing were his passion, and other offshore opportunities presented themselves: deliveries from Norfolk to the British Virgin Islands and from Sint Maarten to Newfoundland, and a trip with me from Bermuda in Glooscap II. All the while, Doug rebuilt and cruised extensively in Renegade, a 36-foot Nova Scotia schooner. In 2003 he acquired the very capable Black Sea.

It is a measure of his easy demeanor that in 2004 he boarded Glooscap II for

a cruise to Newfoundland to participate in the Route Halifax–Saint-Pierre Ocean Race. Without a word being spoken, he stowed his small bag and foul-weather gear and tended to the fenders as I backed out of the berth. Over a couple of days, including an overnight run-in fog, we made Halifax for the start of the race. Festivities in Saint Pierre were followed by a cruise along the south coast of Newfoundland. It was three weeks before there was any mention of returning home and relieving his brother and business partner. I asked only that he see me to the mainland. A weather window allowed a safe passage from Burgeo to Baddeck. His brother arrived with remarkable speed to fetch him. His lovely wife, Claire, was ever patient and supportive.

Cruising with Doug, Claire, and their sons, Josh, and Greg, was always a delight. There was never a raised voice, never any drama. I was spoiled when Doug assigned the boys, in their tender, to be my launchmen. I was singlehanding, and I was told not to launch my dinghy.

Doug was a past commodore and volunteer extraordinaire at the Saint John Power Boat Club. He had also been a long-standing member of the Royal Kennebeccasis Yacht Club. I was delighted to propose Doug for membership in the CCA. Alas, the tenure of his membership was only a few years. Sadly,

cruising plans for his yacht will go unfulfilled. His retirement was a scant 15 months. Life is not always fair.

As I write this, I have just returned from the cruise we started together. It was an emotional one, as I retraced familiar coastal runs we’d done together. Doug always had crew, and I usually sailed single-handed. Doug insisted on docking first and taking my lines once Black Sea was secure. It was so typically courteous of him. I miss our VHF banter, the little things of close friendship, his storytelling, his delight in having the latest news. He was always up for a side trip or an adventure. We both did our own boat work, and we talked about our projects almost daily. He just loved being on his boat, and it was infectious.

Although Doug passed on the first day of our cruise, I carried on as he would have wished me to do. Thanks to fellow CCA member Dave Arenburg, I borrowed a car and returned to Saint John for Doug’s celebration of life. Much of my usual joy in cruising evaporated that day, but great memories are aiding in the healing process.

H. Gilbert Jones

1927–2022

H.Gilbert Jones, sailor, raconteur, supreme barrister, lover of good cigars and fine scotch, a savant domino player, and a man without anxiety, entered Valhalla November 28, 2022, at the age of 95.

Born in Fargo, North Dakota, on November 2, 1927, to Rev. Harold Gilbert Jones Sr. and Charlotte Chambers Jones, Gil grew up in New Haven, Connecticut. After graduating from Hopkins School, where he was voted “Most Brilliant” at age 16, he went on to Yale, where he graduated with an engineering degree in 1947.

Eventually Gil went on to his true calling, arguing the law to a captive

audience. After attending Michigan Law School and UCLA Law School, Gil was admitted to the California Bar in 1957. Tan and handsome, with a sonorous voice and rapier mind, he acquired a storied legacy within the L.A. legal profession. Often the ladies who lunched would flock to the courthouse to witness the dissection of his opponents. Gil was a founding partner in Bonne & Jones in 1961 which became a leading law firm in defense medical malpractice litigation. He had a strong affiliation with the American Board of Trial Advocates, having served as Los Angeles Chapter president (1980) and national president (1988.) During his six decades of membership, he forged enduring friendships amongst his brethren. He respected, championed, and practiced law until his passing.

In 1964, Gil transformed from a 36-year-old bachelor to a husband and father when he married Julie Squier, a vivacious single mother with three young children. A 50-year love story ensued. Julie shared Gil’s sense of adventure and spontaneity. They traveled often but also greatly enjoyed home life surrounded by family and friends at a table cluttered with food, drinks, and games.

Throughout his life, Gil owned several sailing yachts. To sail with him was to be on an adventure since his attention to voyage detail was less than his preparation for trial. He had no fear; existential threats at sea presented opportunities for heroic survival and sea stories. Over the years, his crews were subjected to a fire, foundering, collisions, exploded sails, and encounters with various nautical substratum. There were several man-overboard incidents which involved the skipper himself as the victim. Fortunately, he was a robust swimmer, which served him well into his 90s.

His major voyages included sailing from California to Europe in his classic 48-foot S&S yawl, Aurora, racing in the Transpac in his Moody 65, Bonaire, and cruising Mexico in

his 63-foot steel Rhodes motorsailer. There were also multiple cruises in the Pacific Northwest, Mediterranean, and Caribbean.

All of these voyages involved an intrepid and entertaining captain, along with a delighted but wary crew who knew their captain well. By divinity, safe harbor was always attained with all souls joyous about surviving and regretful about returning to shoreside life.

He was a master of five-up dominos. To be his partner was daunting. He would carry you along as the game progressed. He was a facile counter of tiles and his storytelling was seen by opponents as an effort to thwart concentration. If his partner bungled a move, it was instantly communicated by a look of pained disdain. Penance was often accomplished by attending an afterhours post-mortem review involving off-color limericks, tumblers of scotch, and more playing into early hours.

Gil was the 1997–99 commodore of the Transpacific Yacht Club, and the commodore of Newport Harbor Yacht Club in 1998. His board meetings consisted of stories and laughter in between the business at hand. Adjournments often occurred past midnight, with drinks in the bar after the bartenders went home.

His proclivity for irreverence and embracing life knew no bounds and brought him hundreds of friends, many

of them generations younger since he greatly enjoyed such company. He travelled widely into his 90s and never passed on an invitation to any social event.

The day before his passing, he told a story which no had ever heard about meeting Nikita Khrushchev at the Santa Barbara train station in 1959. Khrushchev was on an 18-car train tour of the West Coast. Gil happened to be nearby and joined the waiting crowd as Khruschev stepped off the train. The cold war notwithstanding, Gil worked through the crowd and soon found himself face to face with the Soviet premier (and his burly security team). They shook hands and made brief small talk through an interpreter. Hearing that Khruschev had recently discussed the merits of bourbon and vodka with Vice President Nixon in Moscow the month before, Gil invited Khruschev for a drink at a nearby bar. Reluctantly, the premier demurred after his security detail told him, “Net.” Khruschev then smiled and presented Gil with a hammer-and-sickle lapel pin. Ever the optimist, Gil thought if he had managed to get Nikita into the bar, there was a good chance the cold war might have dissipated.

His family included his sister, daughter, two sons, eight grandchildren, and 12 great-grandchildren. His beloved Julie Squire Jones predeceased him in 2014. His family also extended to hundreds of friends and sailors from Newport Harbor Yacht Club, the Los Angeles Yacht Club, the Transpacific Yacht Club, the Cruising Club of America, and many members of the Los Angeles legal profession.

He was truly blessed to have Ann Harvey in his life. Her company, care, and love buoyed him and made his final years some of his happiest.

Roger H. S. Langston

1939–2022

Roger H.S. Langston of Cleveland, Ohio, passed away on October 20, 2022, after a short illness and complications of Parkinson’s disease.

Born in August 1939 just before the start of World War II, he and his twin brother, Charlie, were raised in England and the United States, and they considered both home. Roger was educated at a small village school in Northumberland in northern England before the family moved to the U.S. in 1947 when his mother accepted a position with the United Nations. He graduated from Columbia University and McGill Medical School and specialized in corneal surgery at Massachusetts Eye and Ear.

In 1972 he accepted a position at the Cleveland Clinic, where he practiced until his retirement in 2014. For a number of years, he was chairman of the resident education program and was responsible for training many of Cleveland’s ocular surgeons. He was a respected member of the clinic’s board of governors. What Roger loved most about his job was interacting with his patients, many of whom became lifelong friends.

Roger did not come from a nautical family, though it could be said they were happiest when mucking about in vile weather. That proclivity, along with having friends with homes by the shore, lead to a life afloat. The model yachts that Roger sailed on Kensington’s Round Pond as a child metamorphosed into sleek one-design racers in Manhasset Bay and transatlantic cruises to the U.K., Scandinavia, the Med, the Caribbean, and beyond. Of the many boats he would own, Calypso, a 40-foot cutter built by Nick Nicholson, was his most cherished.

Roger kept Calypso in Maine, usually at Cushing Island in Casco Bay or in South Freeport. Charlie based his Swan 48 in Scotland, and from there they cruised Ireland, the British Isles,

and Scandinavia. Keeping yachts on opposite sides of the Atlantic has its logistical drawbacks, but it naturally followed that the brothers spent many hours sailing together as friends and competitors. As twins and members of the same clubs, including the CCA, they could borrow each other’s neckties, clean shirts, and dry shoes as needed.

Roger leaves two children and nine grandchildren who think that there is nothing more perfect in the world than a well-found yacht basking in the morning sunshine of a secluded cove in Down East, Maine, the Outer Hebrides, the skerries of Scandinavia, or tropic reefs and atolls — not a bad legacy at all.

Charles E. Morgan 1927–2023

Legendary sailboat racer, sailmaker, and yacht builder and designer Charley Morgan died on January 6, 2023.

Charley was a notable Tampa Bay sailor when he opened a sail loft in St. Petersburg, Florida, in 1953. Through that business, he met yacht designer George Luzier, who got him interested in designing boats. His first major offshore-sailboat design won the 1961

Southern Ocean Racing Championship. That was Jack Powell’s 40-foot yawl, Paper Tiger, a conventional aft-cockpit centerboard cruising yacht built to the Cruising Club of America’s rating rule. It was a bold departure in that it was built with a fiberglass hull that incorporated steel-frame elements. Paper Tiger’s repeat win of the SORC in 1962 was a substantial factor in establishing fiberglass as the construction method that would transform the yacht-building industry.

In the period of 1962–1968, custom yachts designed by Charley Morgan won multiple major yacht races. These included Dick Dungan’s Sabre, a 38-foot sloop, Homer Denius’s Maradea, a 60-foot yawl, and Jack Eckerd’s Panacea, a 52-foot yawl with an owners’ cabin aft of the cockpit. These yachts were built to the CCA rating rule, which enabled substantial yachts with moderate draft and cruising accommodations to be competitive with yachts whose designs favored racing characteristics such as light weight, deep keels, and minimal accommodations.

Charley Morgan and Bruce Bidwell formed Morgan Yachts in 1965. Morgan Yachts built custom yachts, along with very successful production boats such as the Morgan 24, Morgan 34, and the Morgan 38. Charley was elected to membership in the Cruising Club of America on June 16, 1967.

Morgan Yachts was acquired by Beatrice Foods, a Nebraska conglomerate in 1968, and Charley stayed on as president. That year, Homer Denius hired Charley to design a beautiful, fast offshore racer named Rage. Optimizing the design to conform to racing rules was not a priority, and Charley tanktested hull forms. Rage met expectations, winning its first contest, a 1968 Block Island Race Week event. Following Rage, Charley undertook the challenge of designing, building, and helming a 12-meter yacht, Heritage, for the 1970 America’s Cup, a quest that has inspired people of all ages to undertake great challenges and, if they fail, to come back

onto the field with undiminished effort and enthusiasm. In 1971, Morgan Yacht Corporation introduced the Out Island 41. Reportedly, over a thousand of these boats were built, and they remain ubiquitous today. The OI 41 was a safe, low-maintenance (fiberglass, of course) mid-size cruising sailboat boat that offered a family an extraordinary amount of usable space, topside and below, and privacy, at a reasonable price. Commentators have opined that no other boat has introduced more people to cruising in a sailboat. The OI 41’s transformation of the yacht charter industry was Charley Morgan’s second great contribution to our sport. Charley left Morgan Yachts in 1972.

Charley won the Star Class North American Championship in 1972 and the Star Western Hemisphere Championship in 1974. He started another yacht-building company producing powerboats and sailboats. He encouraged young sailors and sailing organizations. He was a lifelong student of and contributor to the science of fluid mechanics. His artistry enabled his yacht design. In his later years, art became his avocation. Throughout his life, he inspired everyone who sailed with him or worked with him. His life story will continue to inspire.

William R. Nelson 1941-2023

William R. Nelson passed away on January 4, 2023, in Olympia, Washington, with Lessley Shirley, his partner of 26 years, and his six children at his bedside.

Bill was born in 1941 in Tacoma and graduated from Peninsula High School in 1959. He attended Washington State University and later graduated from the University of Puget Sound. He proudly served as a lieutenant in the U.S. Army, stationed at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. He ran a successful printing company in Tacoma.

After family and friends, Bill’s true love was sailing. He was a founding member of the Tacoma Corinthian Yacht Club and a member of the Tacoma Yacht Club, where he started the Junior Sailing Program. He began racing in Geary 18s in the early 1960s and later graduated to the 6-meter class. He raced several boats in the Victoria-Maui International Yacht Race, among them Merlin and Lucille, and twice took his crew across the country to compete in the Lloyd Phoenix Trophy in Annapolis.

He fielded perhaps the best pure sail-handling crew in the Northwest and was well-known for roasting a baron of beef as they sailed toward the finish line. He treated his crew to nine holes of golf following every Saturday Corinthian Yacht Club Race. During one of those races in heavy weather, he lost a crewman overboard, circled around, and deftly retrieved the fortunate soul without starting his engine or losing his race position.

His favorite vacation was cruising. When Bill could no longer sail the big boats, he and Lessley bought a waterfront cabin and enjoyed a small flotilla of smaller boats. In recent years, they moved into a new waterfront house on Eld Inlet, in Olympia, where Bill was ecstatic to look out at the water every day. His wind-blown hair and the crow’s feet around his blue eyes told of his years spent on the water and the laughter he

shared with so many.

Bill was preceded in death by his daughter, Heather Nelson. He is survived by Lessley Shirley; his children, Heidi (Michael) Stephens, Amy (Jeffery) Keenan, Adam (Elise) Nelson, Emily (Robert) Morgan, Hannah Nelson, Libby (Colton) Marten; stepdaughter Kin (Tyler) Jamison; and 14 grandchildren.

William

Brian Purcell of Punta Gorda, Florida, and formerly of Greenwich, Connecticut, passed away February 19 from COVID-related illnesses. He was a kind, gentle person with a quiet sense of humor, and he was a friend to many people from grade school, high school, and his sailing adventures.

Bill grew up at the Indian Harbor Yacht Club, where his father was the manager for over 40 years. He learned about the waterfront early when he was entrusted to run a harbor launch, and he continued to master his water and sailing skills. He maintained a Loki yawl, raced Dyer dinghies, participated in junior sailing programs, and became a sailing instructor at American Yacht

Club in Rye, New York. He competed in the first Storm Trysail Block Island Race Week, raced in New York Yacht Club and Indian Harbor Yacht Club events, and participated in Vineyard, Block Island, and Long Island Sound regatta events. He crewed on racing yachts from the mid-1950s onward, including five Marion to Bermuda Races.

Bill and I met in 1986 on a Wednesday night “beer can” series at Indian Harbor Yacht Club. We immediately became soulmates and bought our first boat, a 1986 Kettenberg 41sloop, a week before we married. Over the years, we owned a Hinckley Bermuda 40, an Albin 40-foot trawler, a 44-foot Kong & Halvorsen Island Gypsy trawler, a 34-foot Mainship Pilot, a Grand Banks 36-foot motor yacht, a 38-foot Eastbay Sedan, and a 27-foot runabout.

We sailed and cruised at every opportunity. In 1997 we bought a beat-up Island Gypsy trawler, Drumbeat, and lived aboard her off and on until June 2004, when we continued “The Great Loop,” our circumnavigation. We then moved full time to Punta Gorda, Florida. Alas, we never found southern cruising to compare to glorious New England.

I want to tell you about a rescue on the St. Lawrence River after an alpha storm. On July 24, 2001, Bill and I locked out of Basin Louise, Quebec City, to take the upriver trip on the St.

Lawrence to the marina at Trois Rivieres. Despite a good weather forecast, we were struck by a severe thunderstorm with continuous lightning, heavy rain, poor visibility, violent gusting winds, and our useless radar. It was the worst electric storm we’d ever been in.

The storm finally passed, and Bill saw a wisp of smoke where there should not have been one, on a broad expanse of the St. Lawrence River. Using binoculars, we saw a powerboat on fire and four people in the water: a man, a woman, a teenage girl and boy, and a small dog. We called mayday to Canadian Coast Guard in Quebec City. The people in the water swam to Drumbeat, and Bill then radioed the Coast Guard that everyone was in good condition. Twenty minutes later, a red Coast Guard rescue boat came alongside.

Before the Coast Guard boat left with the rescued Langois family, the crew gave us a “thumbs up.” Later, the Langloises sent us a lovely wood plaque, that said, “For the rescue of the Langlois family, we are thankful.”

William Purcell was an active CCA member and served as a director and chair of various committees and functions. He was a member of the Isles Yacht Club in Punta Gorda and the U.S. Power Squadron.

Holley Purcell

1940–2022

William Kennedy Starkey crossed the bar on November 5, 2022, at home in Galena, Maryland.

Bill was born in Trenton, New Jersey, on August 25, 1940, and grew up on the Starkey Farms in Galena and in Yardley, Pennsylvania. He attended Princeton Day School in New Jersey and St. George’s School in Newport, Rhode Island. In 1963, he graduated from Middlebury College in Vermont, where he met his wife, Barbara. They moved to Maryland, and Bill earned a master’s

degree in agricultural engineering from the University of Maryland.

Bill’s lifelong career in farming and keen interest in agricultural technology cemented him to the land, but his passion for sailing tied him to the sea.

Maine was a home away from home, and it’s where Bill first put a pair of spruce oars and a rowboat to good use. He explored the coastline of Blue Hill Bay and learned how to negotiate tidal currents and Maine’s omnipresent fog. During the height of summer, the latter often remained offshore, but he knew “fog had a mind of its own” and could return with a hint of an onshore breeze.

Bill cultivated a fondness for onedesign racing as crew aboard the Atlantic Class sloops that converged at Kollegedgwok Yacht Club in Blue Hill each summer. He believed designer Starling Burgess was technically well ahead of his time when he launched his first Atlantic in 1928. Bill preferred the cool summer weather and reliable southwesterly breeze that makes this part of Maine an Atlantic Class haven and a CCA favored summer destination.

Bill loved to race, and he loved to cruise. He sailed a Transatlantic Race, ten Newport Bermuda and Annapolis to Newport races, numerous Marblehead to Halifax Races, and Atlantic Class races with some of the most experienced sailors in the country.

Friends remember Bill as a good shipmate who understood how sailboat systems worked and was always ready to solve a technical problem. His version of cruising went well beyond the Down East runs from the Chesapeake and back. His meanders with others stretched beyond the bays and harbors of Novia Scotia to Hudson Bay and the coast of Labrador and also included cruises in the South Pacific and the Caribbean.

Bill became a CCA Chesapeake Station member in 1997. For many years, he cruised with family and friends aboard his Tom Gilmer-designed 32-foot Allied Seawind II ketch, Meander. He was a regular aboard Newbold Smith’s

trilogy of sloops named  Reindeer and was part of the crew that engineered a successful crane-assisted launch of the first Reindeer, a 20,000-pound Sparkman & Stephens-designed Swan 43, at Hudson Bay, where there were no travel lifts or marine railways. Later, in the Labrador portion of that cruise, an ailing transmission gave up the ghost.

CCA-CHE member Ted Parish recalls that they came up with a replacement, with Bill supplying the creative engineering and Ted twice plunging into the frigid Labrador Sea to remove and replace the shaft.

Cruising and racing moored Bill Starkey to a seafaring life, while farming afforded him an anchor on land. He harnessed the best of both worlds.

1932–2023

Robert N. Stewart, a longtime resident of Portsmouth and Dover, New Hampshire, passed away suddenly on April 2, 2023.

The son of Malcom Stewart and Jean MacLeod, Bob was born in Boston on January 27, 1932, and grew up in Scituate, Massachusetts. He was a spry and zesty athlete all through his life. As a young boy, his love of the sea took root as he sailed a variety of small craft.

Bob attended Boston University on a baseball scholarship. After graduation, he served in the U.S. Air Force, stationed in France. After his discharge, he taught mathematics in private schools in both Montreux and Leysin, Switzerland. Back in the U.S., Bob taught mathematics at Rumsey Hall in Connecticut and Walnut Hill in Massachusetts. Bob’s love of sailing and the sea changed his focus. In 1971, he began working for Moran Towing, a marine transportation and harbor services company. Rising through the ranks, Bob became an active tugboat captain and harbor pilot with

endorsements to pilot the entire east coast of North America. He was with Moran for over 40 years, serving the last 20 as division vice president and general manager in Portsmouth, NH.

In the late 1970s, Bob purchased a 37-foot Casey yawl named Tam O’ Shanter. He sailed the Maine coast and competed in the Eggemoggin Reach, Marblehead, and Opera House regattas for many years. In 1987, Bob traded his yawl for his beloved 44-foot K. Aage Nielsen-designed sloop, Adriane, built in Italy in 1962. Bob continued sailing along the Maine coast and racing in regattas, and, at age 69, he skippered Adriane in the 2001 Marblehead to Halifax Ocean Race.

Bob served as crew in numerous inshore and offshore yacht races, as well as countless deliveries. He competed in more than a dozen Newport to Bermuda and Marblehead to Halifax races and sailed the coasts of Scotland and Norway with fellow CCA members. Bob socialized at numerous Boston Station gams and events. The New York Yacht Club Seamanship Committee regularly sought Bob’s expertise on matters of safety and seamanship.

Onshore and offshore, Bob’s many shipmates and friends could count on him for assistance and guidance. He was fondly referred to as the boaters’ “offshore insurance policy” because

of his experience and steady hand at the helm. He was often the most knowledgeable person aboard, but his humility would never allow him to flaunt that gift.

His marine experience came into play one dark, foggy night while crossing the Bay of Fundy during a Halifax race. The helmsman asked Bob to come up from his off-watch sleep to help identify dozens of small lights across a wide swath of seaway. Sailing in a fresh breeze, wing and wing and with a large chute, the helmsman’s concern was obvious. After a moment to shake the cobwebs, Bob replied, “Those are small fishing dories out of Yarmouth using a sea anchor for the night. Don’t hit any of them.” With a nod and a wink, he promptly went below and back to sleep. Understatement was a signature of his humor, and it served him well.

On land, Bob was a “guy’s guy” and a gentleman. He was quick with a laugh and a joke but always ready to pull out a chair for a lady. He was fond of desserts and often skimmed the dessert menu before ordering the rest of the meal. He was the definition of a renaissance man. His knowledge spanned a variety of subjects.

Bob was a member of the Cruising Club of America, the Corinthians, the Portsmouth Yacht Club, and the New York Yacht Club. He also served as president of the Boston Chapter of the Propeller Club for several years.

He is survived by his wife, Davia Wood Stewart of Portsmouth; his two children, Anna Stewart and Scott Stewart, both of Gloucester, Massachusetts; and countless shipmates. Services were private, and Bob’s ashes were returned to the sea.

Bravo, Zulu Bob.

Roger F. Wheelis

1935–2023

Roger Wheelis, a pathologist in the Pacific Northwest for 40 years and a sailor for even longer, died on April 11, 2023. He was a resident of Bainbridge Island, Washington.

Roger often quoted a childhood favorite, The Wind in the Willows: “Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing — absolutely nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.” He shared his passion for sailing with Margo, his wife of 50 years. Together, they explored the San Juans, the Canadian Gulf Islands, and the coast of Alaska.

Quiet harbors and the simplicity of life aboard a boat brought Roger and Margo a sense of wonder and calm. They sailed from Puget Sound to the South Pacific twice: In 1983, aboard their Fast Passage 39, Grasshopper, which took them as far as the Cook Islands, and 10 years later on their Hallberg-Rassy 42, Marijka, making it as far as New Zealand, when a change in his medical partnership forced them to return home.

Roger was also crew on and member of the Ragtime syndicate in the 1976 Victoria–Maui International Yacht

Race. Even after losing Margo, he continued cruising both single-handedly and with new friends. He loved his Cruising Club of America cruises and sharing stories of life at sea.

He was born in Charleston, South Carolina, and grew up in West Los Angeles. He attended the University of Southern California, where he met Margo Jackson. They married in 1959, and their daughter, Pam, was born two years later.

Following in his father and grandfather’s footsteps, Roger pursued a career in medicine, attending the University of Southern California Medical School.

His attention to detail and love of research made the choice a perfect fit. He loved his work.

Deeply curious, Roger never stopped learning. He loved questions, answers, and everything in between. Swapping stories, asking questions, and exchanging jokes connected him to family and friends. He was meticulous and believed the joy of things came not from owning them, but from maintaining them. He had a deep appreciation for the world around him. Every goldfinch was a marvel, every meal was the best ever, and every sunset was spectacular — especially if it was witnessed at anchor on his boat and accompanied by a Mai Tai.

Roger was inspired by his family, often wondering out loud how he’d gotten so lucky. He was beyond proud that one granddaughter followed in his footsteps, pursuing a career in medicine, and the other followed Margo, pursuing a career in teaching. He was funny, thoughtful, sensitive, and profoundly loyal. He will be deeply missed by those who loved him.

Roger is survived by his daughter, Pam (Wheelis) Shor, his son-in-law Marc Shor, and his grandchildren, Ryann Shor and Miller Shor.

Guidelines for Final Voyages

PROCEDURE

• When you hear of a member’s death, please notify the relevant station’s rear commodore, historian, and the Final Voyages coordinator/editor as soon as possible. Please do so if in any doubt that the information has not been communicated. You may be the first to notify someone. All appreciate expediency in such times

• The RC will coordinate with Final Voyages and advise for an Eight Bells announcement to be sent to notify the CCA — flag officers, webmaster, Voyages, and others beyond the deceased member’s station.

• The RC and historian will coordinate with Final Voyages to arrange for a member familiar with the deceased to write a Final Voyage essay and obtain a photo for due publication in the next edition of Voyages, Final Voyages section.

LENGTH

• Write-ups should be a minimum of 250 and a maximum of 700 words.

ESSENTIALS

• The obituary should primarily honor the member’s involvement in the CCA. It should describe the member’s life and achievements in sailing, and his or her contributions to the sport and to the CCA.

• Please include the persons full formal name, including prefixes, suffixes and middle name, the year of birth and date of death.

• Include BRIEF professional, military, and educational credentials, if desired. Obituaries written for newspapers or general-interest media are usually not appropriate for Final Voyages, but may be posted on the CCA website in the interim.

• Sailing-related anecdotes are most welcome.

• Include the Final Voyage’s author(s) in the footnote at the end.

FORMAT

• Type single-spaced text in a Word file and italicize yacht names and book titles. Use only one space between sentences, provide full names rather than abbreviations, and do not use prolonged capitalization.

• All text should be in one font style and free of formatting (other than italics for boat names and book titles).

• Photos should be sent separately from the text file. Please do not embed photos in the Word file.

• Please email the Word file and photos as email attachments.

PHOTOS

• High-resolution, uncropped, digital images are best, sent in JPEG, or TIFF, format.

• When possible, a photo of the person out sailing or on a boat as a part of the sailing tribute is a nice to have.

• We can fix photos that are under- or over-exposed and do some color-correcting. Out-of-focus shots are a problem, and rarely can we salvage low-resolution digital images.

• For additional details about photos, see Guidelines for Photos.

DEADLINE - October 31, 2024

• Obituaries received after that date will be held for the next annual issue of Voyages.

Send Final Voyages Material to David Curtin, Editor: finalvoyages@cruisingclub.org or: dcurtin626@aol.com

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark,

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.

Guidelines for Photos

OWNERSHIP

• Photos submitted must be your own or you must obtain the photographer’s permission and provide appropriate author credit. We are happy to give credit for photos published.

FORMAT

• High-resolution digital images (ideally set at 300 DPI or PPI, dots or pixels per inch) are essential.

• TIFF and JPEG are the best digital formats. Please do not send other types of files without asking us first.

• We can fix photos that are a little under- or over-exposed; do some color-correcting; and, rarely, improve low-resolution digital photos, but we cannot salvage out-of-focus images.

• If you have only prints, slides, or negatives (for historical articles or obituaries), please have good digital copies made locally, then send us copies of the digital files.

IMAGE QUALITY and PHOTO SIZE

• When shooting digital photos, set your camera’s “Image Quality” and “Picture Size” to “High” or “Best.” Anything less, and the photos will likely be too small to use in print.

• Please DO NOT send laser, inkjet, or desktop photo-printing software printouts; photocopies; newspaper or magazine pages; or any low-resolution digital images. Photos become unusable when scanned or digitally resampled.

• To be sure your photo will print clearly, check the pixels by running your mouse over the image file in your browser, or right-click on the file itself and select “Properties” to see pixel counts. The relationship between digital image pixels and maximum print size is as follows: 600 x 900 pixels = 2 x 3 inches; 1200 x 1800 pixels = 4 x 6 inches; 2400 x 3000 pixels = 8 x 10 inches. The more pixels a photo has, the better the clarity will be when printed.

• Please note that some online photo storage services automatically compress photos to a smaller file size. Read the fine print before using these services. Ideally you should save your best photo files on a drive that keeps them at their full, original resolution.

PHOTO EDITING

• We prefer photos NOT to have been edited, cropped, or color-corrected beforehand.

• If you have edited the image at all, you should save it at the highest quality. Better still, save it as a TIFF, a lossless file setting.

• If you decide you must edit the shot, please go easy, particularly on saturation and contrast. What looks good on screen can often look terrible in print.

PHOTO SUBMISSION

• Please limit the number of photos submitted to your 10 or 12 best images per article—easy to say, hard to do.

• Please include a separate CAPTION LIST as a Word file, with BRIEF information for each image (location, people’s names, and boat names). Label each caption and image with a number or title that we can tie back to your article. Captions can easily be edited and refined once the article layout and design have been prepared, and it is difficult to know which photos fit your story most effectively without having a caption list upfront.

• Send photo files as email attachments, or use a reputable web-based service such as Dropbox (dropbox.com) or WeTransfer (wetransfer.com). These are currently among the best electronic methods for sending many digital photos and other files at once.

• If you submit photos by email, send a message describing how many emails with attachments will follow, then forward the image files in small batches. We will confirm all images received.

• If an Apple user, please be certain files are JPEGs or TIFFs that are Windows- and PC-compatible.

Guidelines for Articles

LENGTH

• From 1,000 to 3,500 words. Any article in excess of 3,500 words will be returned to the author to be edited.

FORMAT

• Word document with no embedded formatting or photos. Please send photos separately.

• Type single-spaced text, italicize yacht names and book titles, and use only one space between sentences.

• If you use word-processing software other than Word, please “Save As” or “Export” to convert your file into Word.

• Include dates and miles covered on your trip.

• Send files as email attachments, or upload via Dropbox or WeTransfer along with your photos (see Guidelines for Photos - Photo Submission for further information).

STYLE GUIDE

• For authors new to Voyages, we can supply a comprehensive Voyages Style Guide. It will help us immeasurably if you look at this prior to submitting your article.

AUTHOR BIO and BOAT INFORMATION

• Please include a short sailing-oriented biographical sketch and good digital photo of the author, the boat’s home port, and the author’s CCA station.

• Please note the station for each CCA member named in your article in the following format: Name (BOS/GMP).

• Include a brief description of your boat and, if possible, any other boat(s) mentioned in your article, including home port, designer, builder, model, and year launched.

MAPS and CHARTS

• Please include a digital image or photocopy of a map or nautical chart showing the places you visited, with your route clearly marked.

DEADLINE FOR 2024 ISSUE - October 25, 2024

• Manuscripts submitted after the deadline will be held for the following year.

Send Articles and Photos to: Voyages Editor - Dan Biemesderfer voyages@cruisingclub.org or: daniel.biemesderfer@yale.edu

Last Words from the Editors

Ami and Bob Green

Three years. Where did they go? It seems like yesterday that Commodore Willauer called and asked if we’d be willing to take on the volunteer job of co-editors of Voyages. We said yes, you took a chance, and we’re forever grateful to have had the opportunity to work on a lifeenriching project.

An inauspicious start — part pandemic, part hip-tendon repair — could not stop your sea stories from arriving by email. The words and images spilled onto the pages, leaving a mark on our imagination. Each of you gave a piece of yourself, something you wanted to share. You told tales of bravery, survival, coming of age, and adventure. You took us into the Ukraine, the Antarctic, and Southern Ocean storms. We met macaroni penguins and caracara birds, swam with dolphins, and watched the northern lights. There were sunrises and sunsets in Maine, Alaska, the Caribbean, and at sea. We sailed in foreign and familiar waters. For all of this, thank you.

pieces together, has shown unlimited patience and a sense of humor. We hope she’ll visit us and come for a sail. Hillary Steinau of Camden Design Group 2 and artist Tara Law ✧ brought their unique artistry, often surprising us with thoughtful, spectacular layouts.

David Curtin, Final Voyages editor, stepped on board with the 2023 edition and has worked tirelessly to find, refine, and reveal our deceased members’ stories.

Voyages doesn’t happen without the support of the leadership. Commodore Otorowski, with his larger-than-life personality and energy, has been supportive during our tenure. Thank you, Chris.

We are leaving a group of professional women who make this magazine sing. Their voices remain behind the scenes, but their mark is indelible. We cannot go without thanking them. Virginia M. Wright, editor and writer, has been the first person we turned to; her high standards improve everything on the page.

Over the past three years, Claire MacMaster of Barefoot Art Graphic Design , our chief designer who brings the magazine

We leave with a sense of joy, knowing we played a brief part in the history of Voyages. It’s time to turn our editorial tools over to Dan Biemesderfer, who will bring his vision to these pages. The club will be in good hands with Dan, and we hope his experience behind the desk is as satisfying as it was to us.

After four transatlantic passages spanning the better part of eight years, we sold our Alden 46,  Scallywag II, put aside crossing oceans, and returned to coastal cruising and occasional racing. If you come upon a 36-foot maroon vessel with Eroica stenciled on her stern, please do not hesitate to come alongside and give us an opportunity to say hello and share a story or two.

Second Shots

Bonus images from the issue ...

THE PLACES WE CRUISED