Seychelles: Islands That Know No Fear

Warm, sweet air washed over us like aromatherapy. After 30-some hours of flying from Boston to Mahé Island off the east coast of Africa, Caroline and I were finally in the Seychelles. Our Moorings 44.3 charterboat was only a five-minute cab ride away. Alleluia.

This was the official start of our honeymoon. Still somewhat deranged from the long journey, we shopped in the wonderfully tiny and disorienting capital “city” of Victoria, just up the road from the charter base, to augment the provisions we’d ordered from The Moorings. It didn’t take long to walk off the airplane-seat cramps, acquire a selection of fresh fish and vegetables at the outdoor market, and take off from the marina. Our first goal was to sleep finally sleep—swinging at anchor off nearby Ste. Anne Island. All we remember about that first night, before passing out, exhausted from the travel, is the starlight, the silhouettes of palm trees against a backdrop of Ste. Anne’s granite cliffs, and the gentle swaying of the boat at anchor. We didn’t wake up until the hot equatorial sun sizzled into our bunk— and the local authorities pulled alongside to collect their fee. It’s a routine we came to know well. What keeps the cruising grounds in the Seychelles stunningly pristine is the fact that many of the islands and anchorages lie within protected national parks. Cruisers pay a visitor fee (US$15 per day) to anchor in the park—a small price to pay to sail in an area that’s not littered with anything except natural beauty.



With our fee paid and the morning coffee just kicking in, we soon had water burbling in our wake; the mountains of Mahé faded into the distance as the more-remote islands, about 20 miles to the northeast, came into view. The prevailing winds in the Seychelles come from the northwest in the winter and the southeast in the summer. Pretty easy. There are winter and summer anchorages, and the northerly winds we experienced last December were light. That was just fine with us. Here we were, plopped down close to the equator on a comfortable boat on the Indian Ocean, and we were anxious to wind down from the manic pace of getting married and then traveling 14,000 miles. Ghosting along, slowly ticking off the miles between Mahé and the islands of Praslin and La Digue, was better than a spa treatment. We slipped easily between them and took a left to the small island of Curieuse, which promised a peaceful anchorage and lots of land-based natural goodness. We didn’t even need to mess with the anchor. There was an empty mooring, obviously waiting for us, as we nosed in and admired the classic scene: a white-sand beach rimmed with palm trees and granite boulders punctuating the shore.



Two nights of well-earned sleep, a day of lazy sailing over from Mahé, and multiple snorkel explorations had done wonders. We were ready for the friendly guys who came to come collect our park fee and soon took to the dinghy. As we approached the beach, one of those big black rocks scattered among the palm trunks started moving—slowly. Curieuse is a sanctuary for giant tortoises. We paid a park guide to show us the tortoise nursery (baby tortoises are cute) and introduce us to the docile adult giants that roam free on the island. Later, happening upon tortoises that weigh well over 1,000 pounds and live to be over 175 years old as we explored the island’s trails made us feel like guests in a Darwinian fantasy world. And this was only the beginning. Back on the boat, the heat of the day was intense; we were easily enticed into water of perfect clarity and temperature.

After several days of solitude on Curieuse, we sailed five easy miles to Praslin’s Baie Ste. Anne so we could replenish our stores. We were greeted with open arms before we’d even entered the harbor. Local fisherman and chief welcomer Robert and his son were smiling and waving wildly to us from their dinghy, pointing toward the mooring ball we should take. We were told about Robert during our chart briefing at the base, and there he was, happily eager to help in the accented English of a native French speaker. “I’ll be back with some fresh fish,” he said. He brought some homemade charcoal, too, and his fee was embarrassingly reasonable.



Normally I’m skeptical about touristy things, but Praslin and Curieuse are the only places in the world where the coco de mer tree, whose fruit contains the largest seed in the world, is endemic. The Valle de Mai impacted me in ways I really wasn’t expecting. These remarkable giant coconuts weigh upward of 30 pounds. As we walked around the lush forest, spotting giant palm spiders, screeching birds, and towering palm trees, we were grateful that it’s still possible to experience something so rare and beautiful in its natural environment. The coco de mer has a reputation as an aphrodisiac, and I can attest that we definitely felt the fertility of the place. Robert’s last gift to us as we were leaving Praslin was a homemade fishing rig (a fishing line and a lure wrapped around a discarded plastic spindle). The lure was skimming along behind our boat as soon as we left the harbor. Eager to sail off some of the heat of the island, we circumnavigated La Digue before eventually pulling into its man-made harbor.

Our sails were pulling comfortably and the sun was red in the west when the line went taut. We caught the first of several fish, a bonito, which sensibly jumped out of my hands as we shot the requisite photo. We tied up stern-to in the harbor. Rental bikes opened up the entire island for us, and several white-tablecloth restaurants gave us honeymooners a break from the daily chores of cooking and cleaning up in anchorages without many cruiser amenities. The bikes gave us a view of this island community that, with its small, quaint houses and a few churches spread out along narrow, winding roads, was reminiscent of the tiny island communities we’d sailed to in Maine—but, yes, a bit more exotic.

La Digue is known for its stunning beaches, so we spent a few days soaking up the rays, the water, the funky vibe, and the restaurant service before we were ready to return to natural wonders. Our time on the boat was winding down, and we’d been advised to visit the Coco Islands for the “best snorkeling in the Seychelles” and the world-renowned bird sanctuary on Cousin Island. Both destinations are a short hop from Curieuse’s little overnight anchorage. Snorkeling around the Cocos was as good as advertised. We swam with school upon school of colorful fish, but the highlight for me was encountering a manta ray in the deeper water where we’d anchored.



The gratitude meter kicked in strongly as I swam (for a moment) with such a large and graceful being in the wild. We felt almost at home returning to Curieuse to spend the night, and we had time to explore the beach on the northern side of the anchorage before we settled in for teatime. So we beached the dinghy, walked 10 steps to a particularly inviting stretch of sand to lay out our towels, and encountered a curious set of tracks leading up from the water’s edge. Both green and hawksbill turtles build nests for their eggs on beaches in the Seychelles, and as I slowly followed the tracks up into the vegetation near the beach, I found a momma sea turtle laying her eggs. How cool is that? Careful not to disturb her, I kept my distance, but the beauty of seeing a sea turtle laying her eggs as we sunned ourselves on a gloriously empty beach just blew us away.

I don’t know if this was a hint to us newlyweds, but we did feel the Garden of Eden groove intensifying. And that was before we stopped at the bird sanctuary on Cousin. The island is open to visitors only during specific times, and you must ride in the park-service skiff if you want a tour; there’s no dock at the beach. The launch driver timed his run into the beach so he had enough speed through the sizable rollers to propel the entire flat-bottomed skiff above the waterline. Our landing was exciting, and the island was unlike any other place we’d been. This sanctuary is not only for birds, but for all the wildlife on the island. Our tour guide was a young researcher with an encyclopedic knowledge of the birds and reptiles that live there, and his love for this special island was infectious. He led us along the path around the island, through a dense canopy of vegetation, and pointed out dozens of exotic birds. There were giant tortoises, and sea turtle nests, and rare plants, and spiders, and skinks, and…

But what really brought a smile to our faces was finally being able to put the feelings Caroline and I had about cruising in the Seychelles into words. It happened when we ran into a group of white birds perched in tree trunks and simply sitting on the ground watching us walk by. The birds were curious and made no attempt to fly when I approached. Our guide told me it was okay to get up close (but not too close) if I wanted to take a picture. “They have no enemies on the island. No predators,” he said. “They were born here and have never learned to fear.” So that’s what sets the Seychelles apart. It’s not the weather, or the water, or the exotic islands, or the friendly locals, or the easy sailing.

These are the Islands That Don’t Know Fear.

Life Raft Check Up

Having to deploy a liferaft and abandon ship is every offshore sailor’s nightmare. But it could be worse—say, if your boat is sinking and the raft is too. Getting your raft regularly serviced by a licensed facility is the only way to ensure that it will work properly when you need it. If you’ve forgotten about your liferaft or balk at the idea of paying to have it serviced, you do so at your own risk. All liferaft manufacturers require (and do not just recommend) that their products be regularly serviced by a licensed service facility.

Moisture is the enemy of all packed life rafts. It can work its way into a raft stored on deck and eventually damage the CO2 cylinder, its firing head, and any flares stowed in the raft; over time, it may also contaminate the raft’s food supply. Rafts packed in plastic vacuum bags that are designed to rip away when the raft is deployed do a good job of keeping moisture out and generally need service every three years. Non-vacuum-bagged rafts should be serviced annually. Regular service is also required so that any food or emergency gear (flares, batteries, and so on) with expiration dates is replaced as necessary.

I got a firsthand look at liferaft servicing when the licensed technicians at Life Raft and Survival Equipment, Inc.’s service facility in Fall River, Massachusetts, walked me through the process. I soon learned that a raft inspection involves much more than just pulling the inflation trip line to see what happens. Each raft is inspected by a technician who is trained and certified by that raft’s manufacturer. Techs receive frequent additional training and must be recertified every two years.

1) Before the raft is unpacked, the container or valise is visually inspected for damage. Then the raft is carefully unfolded, and the trip line, CO2/N2 cylinder, and firing head are all removed. The firing head is inspected for cracks or corrosion and is replaced if there are any signs of deterioration. The cylinder is visually inspected and is weighed to confirm there hasn’t been a leak; it is also sent out for pressure testing every 5 years (see “Cylinder Test”).

2) The raft is then inflated, using compressed air, to its proper operating pressure. The firing head is tested, by pulling the inflation trip line, only every five years. Once the raft is inflated, the tech checks for visible chafing or tears and makes sure the pressure-relief valves work properly and don’t leak. A thin film of soapy water is spread over each valve; if any bubbles form, there’s a leak. Pressure-relief valves use metal springs that can rust; a malfunctioning valve is, obviously, replaced.

3) The tech also goes over the raft and all its equipment bags with a fine-tooth comb. Are the handholds and righting line firmly attached to the raft? Do all the lights work? All the gear bags containing food, water, flashlight, batteries, flares, and so on are inspected, and any damaged (like this firing head) or expired items are replaced.

4) We observed the inspection of a vacuum-sealed raft brought in for regular service; it was in good shape and was relatively dry. The tech found that the battery sensors (used to turn on the strobe when the raft is inflated) and the safety knife needed to be replaced. Another raft we saw (it was not vacuum-sealed and had not been serviced in over seven years) was soaking wet. All the food and water rations were contaminated, the manual pump and the CO2 cylinder were heavily rusted (pictured above), the firing head showed signs of corrosion, and the flares had not only expired years ago, but were also wet. Obviously, it’s better to find out about these problems sooner rather than later.

5) The body of the raft is put through a battery of tests. First, all the pressure-relief valves are sealed, and the raft is overinflated to stretch the fabric prior to testing for leaks. At this point the fabric and seams are inspected for any sign of deterioration. The raft is then deflated to its normal operating pressure and is pressure-tested (using a digital pressure indicator hooked up to each tube and adjusted for temperature) for over an hour. Even the slightest pressure drop indicates there is a leak that the tech will then locate using the trusty bucket of soapy water.

6) If a leak is found, it’s patched and the whole process is repeated to confirm that the patch has fixed the leak. Once any and all leaks are patched, the raft is deflated using a vacuum pump to help get rid of any air that could complicate the repacking process.

7) Before the raft is repacked, the inspected (and updated) emergency packs are secured inside and the light system is reconnected. The inspected CO2 cylinder is secured in its sleeve, the firing head is attached and often wrapped in foam to minimize chafe inside, and the firing cable for the inflation system is reattached. All rafts are designed to be packed into very small containers, and each has a unique repacking procedure. Most are folded to ensure that the weight of the cylinder will allow the raft to inflate right side up and that none of the emergency packs will be damaged. Once the raft is carefully folded, it’s compressed in a hydraulic press (and/or vacuum-bagged) to help it fit into its container. The serviced raft is now armed and ready to use.

Here’s a piece of advice: Get your raft serviced regularly. When it comes to raft inspections, you can usually pay a little now or a lot later—or worse.

New Neel Trimaran

Check this new trimaran out that just launched over in multihull-crazy France. It comes from Eric Bruneel who left Fountaine Pajot recently. As you could probably guess, this spaceship is designed for fast cruising, and early reports say it should be capable of sailing at more than 10 knots average, and reeling off 300 mile days offshore. It's also reported to be able to get up to speeds in 15 to 20 knot range when the wind picks up It's set up like the big french racing trimarans but with legit living space. It has as a huge square top main, Vectran shrouds and forestay, a big reacher, carbon rudder, and weight distribution is centered to limiting pitching. It's certainly different, and very French, and who wouldn't want to cruise easily at 10 knots. The boat's website is pretty cool too. www.neel-trimarans.com

Hunter's The Edge

Hunter Marine has never been afraid to mix things up and they are doing it again with the launch of a 27-foot, trailerable, water-ballasted motorsailer dubbed “theEDGE”. The hull is designed to carry a 75 horsepower outboard that’s reportedly capable of pushing speeds to 20 MPH (conspicuously not knots). But the boat also carries 330 square feet of sail, a retractable centerboard (drawing less than a foot, retracted), and retractable rudder. With sails up and board down, the boat will move under sail power alone in most conditions. A beam of well over 8 feet provides significant accommodation.


This is a small sailboat with enough engine muscle to pull a water skier. If you want a versatile boat theEdge is definitely that. I guess the McGregor 26x finally has some competition.

Awesome Island X

I'd not been back to Antigua since I left in 1994. After graduating from college and spending three years skiing and surfing, I set off to see the world as a paid deck hand. My first gig was a delivery from subfreezing Newport, Rhode Island, to balmy English Harbour aboard a Swan 65. I had no money, nor a place to stay once we arrived, but how hard could it be, I thought, to find a job on one of those superyachts. I found out; it was hard. So as the months wore on and the little money I’d made on the delivery dried up, I was homeless in paradise, sleeping on the beach. After years of living hand-to-mouth, I was finally ready to return home and join the adult world. Antigua was my crossroads.

I wasn’t consciously avoiding a return to Antigua, but I wasn’t yearning to go back. Then I started thinking: Wouldn’t it be cool to explore the island with my fiancée, Caroline, from the comfort of a well-set-up charterboat? It was.
“Well-set-up” is an understatement. The Beneteau 473 Undaunted we chartered from Horizon Yacht Charters in Jolly Harbour, on Antigua’s west coast, was immaculate, and the service provided by Al and Jackie Ashford and the whole Horizon team was top notch. First stop—Falmouth Harbour, 12 or so miles down the south coast.

We nosed out of the slip and leaned into the wind bending around the southwest corner of the island—a wonderful reentry into the cruising life. We could have tacked our way up through Goat Head Channel between Middle Reef and the mainland, but the engine and autopilot were happy to keep us safe in deep water and heading effortlessly toward Falmouth. Since the annual, and very popular, Antigua Sailing Week was on, I wanted to claim some territory in what I expected to be a busy and crowded anchorage.

Falmouth and English Harbours are must-stop destinations for any Antigua-based charter. Falmouth, a big harbor with good holding, is both well protected from, and cooled by, the easterly trades. Services abound for visiting cruisers, and there are plenty of restaurants, bars, and Internet cafés.

Historic Nelson’s Dockyard in English Harbour is a 10-minute walk from the Falmouth dinghy dock and well worth a visit (you can walk, bring your boat into Freeman Bay and dinghy in, or try to find a space for stern-to mooring at the Dockyard quay). The buzz was electric by Caribbean standards. Every aspect of the Caribbean sailing life—crews in matching T-shirts hustling for provisions, well-tanned liveaboards spending a lazy day ashore, racers recounting the day’s competition, and plenty of visiting charterers, tourists off cruiseships, and locals make this place seem like the epicenter of the Caribbean sailing scene. In many ways it is. We spent a couple of days there while Caroline finished up some work within reach of an Internet connection and I revisited the scenes of my youth. The beach I had slept on had not changed, nor had (except in size and quantity) the big boats in the harbor, and the international crowd. But the road to Shirley Heights had been repaired, and marinas had been built. The buzz of English Harbour offered Caroline a window on my misspent youth, but after a couple of days we were ready for less buzz, more sailing, and a lot more solitude.

All we had to do was sail through the entire Race Week fleet first. As it happened, our departure put us in competition with over 200 racing boats rounding a leeward mark that could have doubled as our intended waypoint. We wound our way through the fleet, taking care not to mess with anyone’s line, and then it was just us. Wing and wing. Water gurgling in our wake. Cruising at last. To avoid bashing to windward along the southeastern side of the island, we retraced our path along Middle Reef, headed for Deep Bay. The biggest effort required was to flop the genoa over as we cleared Johnson Point and started reaching north. Deep Bay is a peaceful anchorage and was our staging point for an island north of Antigua we wanted to explore (I hesitate to mention its name for fear of enticing everyone to go there and spoil it).

We realized why Island X doesn’t get overrun with charterboats when we emerged from the relative protection of the reef that wraps around the northern side of Antigua. The trades were honking. The seas were building, spray was flying, and the boat was heeled well over. Caroline held on tight and flashed me a look that said “I thought this was going to be a peaceful sail. What have you gotten me into?” I’d reefed down nice and snug, the hills of Antigua quickly fell into the distance, and the boat performed beautifully; I assured her that this is the sailing people dream about and tried my best to look very much in control. That didn’t make the passage north any less exciting, especially because for about 18 of the 25 miles there is no land in sight. We wanted solitude, right? Needless to say, Caroline was the first to spot the low-lying island we were headed for.

Things calmed right down as we barreled into the protected waters of Island X’s western side. Our course brought us past a pristine pink-and-white sand beach that we paralleled for about an hour. Do the math. We sailed past this gorgeous undeveloped beach in flat water at 6 knots—6 miles of sheer bliss. There were a couple of cruising boats along the beach, but none were within 2 miles of us when the anchor went down and the dinghy was humming us in to shore.

The beach forms a narrow barrier between the open ocean and a large inland lagoon. The peace was palpable. Chris Doyle’s accurate and informative cruising guide promised that George Jefferies (who answers to Garden of Eden on VHF channel 16) would be available to take us on a tour of the island’s frigate-bird colony. Is this what the Garden of Eden looked like?

George picked us up on the lagoon side of what we were already calling “our beach” at 0900 the next morning. He took us across to the colony in the large mangrove forest where thousands of frigate birds live and raise their young and talked about the island like he was talking about his own family. Quite a contrast to the buzz of Antigua. He then brought us into Codrington, Barbuda’s only village, but not before he stopped the boat in the middle of the lagoon. “I want to check something,” he said. Then he threw a Danforth anchor off to the side (seemingly at random) and started hauling in a trap that was teeming with lobsters. How did he know where it was? There was no buoy, no marker of any kind on a monochromatic stretch of water. After spending the better part of the day with George, it was obvious to me that the island and its surrounding waters are simply part of his DNA.

After lunch in the village, where we were treated like friends, George brought us back to our dinghy. “Man, I like it here,” I said. All Caroline did was smile as she drove the dinghy back to our boat. Of course, after a hard day of visiting the Garden of Eden, we needed to recover with a little snorkel, a long walk on a beach without footprints, and a quiet time of watching the sunset.

We didn’t want to leave, but we wanted to see more of the island too. So the next morning, after George had dropped off some fresh lobster, we decided to head to a new anchorage about 15 miles southeast. It would be upwind for part of the way, but we’d be sailing in protected waters. When the next beach came into view, we had no trouble getting excited about parking for a few more days and exploring a new private paradise. There was nobody there, all the way to the horizon. I didn’t want to get my shorts salty, so I just took them off and jumped in the water to check the hook. It was like we’d sailed into a movie. The few buildings on the shore belonged to Coco Point Lodge, one of the Island's few hotels, but there was nobody in sight.

We spent a few more enchanted days here—dining on lobster in the cockpit, beach, soft sand, sun on the skin. But we knew there was still a rocking little passage back to Antigua waiting for us, and it was only when we could no longer put off leaving that the anchor finally came up and we pointed the boat back out into the open ocean. The trades had lessened a bit, and our angle back to Antigua was a little broader than it was on our trip over, so when Caroline flashed me a look of “Love” rather than “What have you gotten me into,” I knew we’d done good. Plus, we’ll be back in December. After several preemptive honeymoons, being engaged for over a year, and trying to figure out a wedding venue, we realized that this island is the only place for us to get married.

Cape Cod Circumnavigation on a F-24 Trimaran?

It was all going to be so easy and so much fun when we pulled out the charts and kicked around the "Hey, let's circumnavigate Cape Cod" idea. August is the best month of the summer, we thought. Our F-24 trimaran can do at least 10 knots under sail, and we'll be reeling off 50 miles before lunch. The 150 total miles or so will be a snap. We'll leave the Cape to port, explore Buzzards Bay, Vineyard Sound, Cape Cod Bay, and even drag-race past the sunbathers on the outer arm of the Cape, in the open Atlantic, we boasted. It sounded like a great trip.

It started smoothly. My colleague and co-adventurer, Mark Corke, borrowed a brand-new Toyota Tacoma to haul the boat to the ramp, and I filled it up with more food, water, and coffee than we could possibly need. The plan was to cruise in style, not to count every pound, even though the F-24 (like all multihulls) benefits from not being loaded down with stuff. Bob Gleason of The Multihull Source not only lent us the boat, but even helped us launch near his facility in Wareham, Massachusetts, on the northwestern side of Buzzards Bay.

As with most such efforts, we got started a little late, but before we knew it the laminated sails were drawing, coordinates were punched into our trusty little handheld GPS, and water was gurgling past our hulls. We were doing around 6 knots in around 7 knots of fading northerly breeze. The plan was to reach 7 miles across the bay and spend the first night of our circumnavigation in Quisset Harbor. That way we'd be well positioned to punch through current-ridden Woods Hole with the current pushing us farther up our counterclockwise track to Chatham the next day. We kept our pace even when the wind dropped to spotty zephyrs. Neither of us wanted to spoil the wonderful sensation of speed and quiet by firing up the outboard even as darkness descended.

By the time we got settled on a mooring, it was too late to go into town. So we sat on deck and enjoyed the warm night and the absolutely still anchorage before hitting the rack. Tomorrow we're going to cover some ground, we told ourselves.

The sun was waiting for us the next morning, and Quisset was in our wake as soon as the coffee water had boiled on our one-burner camping stove. (Note: The F-24 has no standing headroom, and the galley consists of a cooler and a camping stove.) We smiled as we popped through Woods Hole before most office workers get to their cubes, but…the wind had shifted. Instead of the screaming beam reach up to Chatham we were expecting, we were beating dead into 20 to 24 knots of northeasterly wind and steep Vineyard Sound chop. I thought the wind was forecast to shift to the southwest, but nobody told the wind. After several hours of beating and a mistaken second hearing of the forecast, I made the decision that put the whole plan in jeopardy. "Hey Mark," I said. "You up for a 25-mile beat to Chatham? Or do you want to use this breeze to blast 40 miles around the other way? If we turn around, we'll be in Wellfleet this afternoon and can ride this northeasterly all the way down the Outer Cape to Chatham tomorrow. We are cruising, after all." Oh, what a dumb decision that was.



So we turned around. And the sailing was great. We were doing 10 knots when we turned the corner coming out of Woods Hole. We cruised past Quisset and on up to the Cape Cod Canal in no time. We were lucky not to be bucking the current in the canal, which can get up to 4 knots; I hadn't checked the tide tables. But even as we were congratulating ourselves for outthinking Mother Nature, the wind faded, as it often does before shifting. We weren't going to make it all the way around the Cape. I just didn't know it yet.

It was nice to get a good meal and stretch our legs in Wellfleet, but I had bad feelings about the next day's itinerary. Thanks to my brilliant "plan," our circumnavigation now hinged on sailing over 50 miles from Wellfleet to Chatham along an unbroken stretch of beach that offers no real harbors (except for Provincetown) in between. If I'm right, we'll scream around the hook of the Cape and down to Chatham in double-digit splendor. But if the wind shifts south, I'll simply scream.

Even in the protection of Wellfleet Harbor, we awoke to halyards humming against masts and flags blown stiff by a chilly breeze. The wind had shifted to the southeast ("It never blows from the southeast in the summer," I whined) and was in the steady low 20s. We screamed past Provincetown until we turned the corner (heading east) and began bashing into whitecaps and a vicious head wind. I screwed up. Turning around once in a trip might have been clever. Turning around the second time was surely not. Instead of leaving the land to port, we ended up sailing circles and still had miles of beating to get back to Provincetown Harbor. Things didn't feel any better when we got settled on the mooring.

August means tourists on the Cape, and especially in P-town. Weary from sailing many miles without getting anywhere, we were greeted by the Fat Tuesday atmosphere of Front Street. The busloads of tourists who came to gawk and chew salt-water taffy made it hard to move or think.

After a bad night's sleep in the chilly, rolling anchorage and the whopping $50/night mooring fee for our little boat, we were ready to get out of there. We couldn't wait for the wind to subside for our outside run to Chatham. No, we had to double back to where we came from—again.

After an uneventful sail back across Cape Cod Bay (past Wellfleet, again), we spent an uneventful night jammed into a marina in Barnstable. We were ready to go home. We were under way early the next morning in light wind and patchy fog. This time I actually—and accurately—read the tide tables, and we transited the Cape Cod Canal at 10 knots with the favorable current, each mile bringing us closer to home. But not yet.

Nasty wind-over-current in shallow-water chop met us on the Buzzards Bay side of the canal. We were less than 5 miles from getting off the boat (at last), but the stiff head wind had returned and we had to head way off to keep from knocking our fillings loose in the seas. And to make matters worse, the fog had closed in to less than 50 feet visibility. We soldiered on down the relatively narrow channel until finally we could bear away toward the peace and ease of Wareham Bay. We even unrolled the gennaker and saw 15s on the knotmeter. Good, we'll get back just a little bit faster, we thought.

Queue the choir. We sailed out of the fog bank into a glorious summer day. Flat water. Warm, humid breeze. An effortless 10 knots, in the right direction. The easterly winds that had plagued our trip were cold and damp; this was summer. The foulies we'd had to wear all week came off. The sunglasses came out of the moldy sea bag. Alleluia!

Half an hour later we were back at the launch ramp. We joked that we should just turn around—again—and start the trip all over again. But in the end we realized that sometimes you're the pigeon and sometimes you're the statue. We'd weathered a perfect storm of bad decisions, a comedy of errors that could have been a lot worse. We're still friends. It makes a good yarn. And I still have the second Cape circumnavigation attempt to look forward to this August.

Catamaran Tech

Catamaran design and construction is old enough for the raw edge of experimentation to have been blunted and young enough for it to still hold some mystique. Misconceptions and half-truths abound about the way a multihull deals with the stresses of wind and water. I asked two catamaran experts to clarify some of them.

Pete Melvin of the multihull design firm Morrelli & Melvin has over 25 years experience designing a variety of cats from Dennis Conner’s controversial 1988 America’s Cup winner, Stars & Stripes, to custom and production cruising catamarans, including the Gunboat 48 and 62 and the Moorings 400. Simon Slater was the chief designer and president of PDQ Yachts.

Why are catamarans so weight sensitive?
Slater: It all comes down to drag caused by wetted surface. The most efficient shape for a hull in terms of wetted surface is a hemisphere. The hulls of a catamaran, however, require a long, skinny shape. It is advantageous to avoid excess weight in cats because as weight increases, the long, skinny hulls sink relatively lower into the water than broad-beamed hulls. This results in a disproportionate increase in wetted-surface area, which increases surface drag. Monohull performance will not suffer from overloading as much as a cat will because the hull is closer in shape to a hemisphere. However, it’s important to point out that surface drag affects a cat’s speed only in lighter winds; the adverse affects dissipate as wind speed increases.
Melvin: Since most of our cats are performance oriented, we are always looking for ways to save weight. Keeping the weight down creates a spiral effect of positive results, just as increasing weight gets the spiral going in the other direction. Less weight improves a cat’s speed potential and motion through the water and reduces overall loads. Reduced loads mean you can build the boat lighter. But every boat is a compromise, and the challenge of cruising catamarans is to find the right compromise between light weight and cruising comfort.

What are the main structural considerations on catamarans? How do they differ from monohulls?
Melvin: Engineering the hull laminate of a monohull or a cat is very similar. You design a laminate to withstand the pressures exerted by hydrostatic and slamming loads. These pressures are similar for similar-sized monohulls and catamarans. The transverse structure of a catamaran encounters some loads that are not present in a monohull. The two hulls need to be held together and resist a variety of forces that are trying to move them relative to each other. The main forces to contend with are those created by mast compression, plus the bending and torsional loads created by one hull trying to rotate relative to the other when one hull is on a different wave than the other. Designers normally incorporate a set of transverse beams or bulkheads that span across the catamaran and are firmly anchored to both hulls. On a cruising catamaran, there is typically one bulkhead under the mast and at least one other that spans across near the aft end of the boat.
Slater: We use finite element analyses to determine material requirements in heavily loaded areas, such as the front crossbeam, the mast support, chainplate locations, and the mainsheet traveler support on the hardtop. With these analyses we can build a beam that weighs only 350 pounds but will withstand 60,000 pounds of loading. We calculate how strong the main transverse beam must be to withstand compression loads, how the hull sides must be reinforced to dissipate shroud loads, and how to carry the mainsheet loads down from the traveler on the coachroof to the aft beam.

How important is bridgedeck clearance?
Melvin: It all depends on how you plan to use the boat. Bridgedeck clearance is not as critical on smaller coastal-cruising cats that don’t go too far out into the big bad ocean, but on offshore boats that will be subjected to big seas, higher bridgedeck clearance is essential to minimize pounding. We look for bridgedeck clearances on cruising catamarans to be between 4 percent and 6 percent of the length of the boat off the water. This height simply makes it easier for waves to pass harmlessly between the hulls rather than pounding up underneath the bridgedeck. As well as having suitable bridgedeck clearance, a cat should have underbody surfaces that are relatively smooth.
Slater: All cats will pound from time to time, especially in steep chop. The critical design factors to consider to reduce bridgedeck slamming are bridgedeck clearance, rig weight and height, bow shape, and keeping the weight out of the ends of the boat. The combination of these factors in correct balance will give a much smoother running boat and give far greater levels of comfort. As anyone who’s experienced catamaran pounding can attest, it’s an unpleasant, nerve-wracking experience. Higher bridgedecks reduce pounding. Less pounding is faster, minimizes structural stress, and, most important, makes for a much more comfortable ride. It should be realized that the designed height of the deckhouse and topsides will be relative to the bridgedeck height, so it is important to balance “sleekness” against the consequences of insufficient bridgedeck clearance.

How do sophisticated design tools and construction materials benefit cruising catamarans?
Slater: The desire for greater luxury and comfort makes the integration of weight-efficient design and construction critical when creating a catamaran. Cutting-edge design tools and lightweight materials create the foundation for a vessel that will deliver first-rate performance and ice for the gin and tonic. These luxury cruisers will never win a race against PlayStation, but they will perform decently while providing substantial comfort.
Melvin: What materials you choose depends on what the cat is intended to do. If super-high performance is a high priority and you are willing to pay the price, building a boat with carbon fiber and other exotic materials can reduce overall weight and increase sailing performance considerably. Many fiberglass cruising cats can be light and fast—it’s just that a cat built with lighter and stiffer materials will be lighter, faster, and more expensive.

What factors are involved in designing a cruising cat’s underwater profile?
Slater: Start with a length-to-beam ratio for the hull of at least 11 to 1. This is tougher to do in smaller cats, but becomes increasingly easy to achieve as a cat gets bigger. From that point a shape that looks elegant will, in all likelihood, perform well. Because water is so dense, changing the boat’s course quickly uses large amounts of energy. In other words, when designing any shape that runs through the water, the water should not be surprised at the direction that it is being asked to take. I believe that keeping the transoms relatively narrow and maintaining as flat a run aft as possible are important factors in design when I am considering this “no-surprise” rule.

How do the beam-to-length ratio of each hull and centerline-to-centerline beam affect a cruising cat’s stability and performance?
Melvin: The heavier a cat becomes, the wider each hull needs to be. But performance improves as the hulls get longer and skinnier. The same holds true for centerline-to-centerline beam (the overall beam measured from the centerline of each hull). Long and narrow is faster than short and wide. The narrower you can design the boat (while preserving overall stability) allows the boat to be lighter, faster, have a better motion, and so on.
Slater: The issue of the length-to-beam ratio is partially answered in the previous question. To understand, let us be extreme and say that a hull that is as wide as it is long would be really slow. We intuitively realize this. The opposite is not so intuitive until you realize that a hull that is, say, 100 times longer than it is wide will develop huge amounts of surface drag. These days we need to install equipment on cruising boats that was historically not even in the market for the relatively small boats we are talking about. Lightweight diesel generators (300 pounds), air conditioners (100 pounds), inverters (60 pounds), battery banks (200 to 300 pounds), and wiring harnesses around 130 pounds are now the norm. This obviously puts constraints on how relatively skinny the hulls can get and still float all this stuff. Increasing the distance between the hulls provides greater transverse stiffness but must be limited to what is practical, considering the handling, docking, and haulout issues associated with congested waterfront real estate. Additionally, wider bridgedecks carrying accommodations suspended above the water increase the weight load carried by the hulls.

What’s the difference between keels and daggerboards?
Slater: Daggerboards give the best speed and fixed low-aspect-ratio fin keels are the most convenient—it’s that simple. The boards are going to give better performance to weather and off the wind (they can be retracted to reduce that dreaded wetted surface), but they add quite a bit of weight and complexity to the boat. Fixed fin keels are not as efficient to weather and add wetted surface off the wind. They do not need to be controlled or looked after and can generally withstand a bigger wallop than a daggerboard. Additionally, they usually add to the buoyancy of the boat (and they do not require trunking in the accommodation spaces).

It’s clear that catamaran design and construction is both art and science, and that designers and builders strive to make effective compromises. If the designers have done their homework and the builders have carefully controlled weight without adversely affecting strength and stability, the boat will be a good one.

Beneteau 523

Groupe Beneteau is the largest sailboat manufacturer in the world. It comprises four separate companies—Beneteau, Jeanneau, Lagoon, and CNB—that operate independently but share economies of scale. At first glance, Beneteau and Jeanneau may appear to be competing for the same buyers, but in reality each line is designed to fill wide (and separate) swaths in the marketplace. Jeanneau has had great success with distinctively styled deck-saloon boats, while Beneteau has established a strong foothold with more traditionally styled cruisers and racer/cruisers. So when I approached the new Beneteau 523 on the docks in Miami and was struck (yet again) by the fact that the majority of new sailboat designs are evolutionary rather than revolutionary, I wasn’t all that surprised. Measuring slightly over 52 feet, the 523 is part of Beneteau’s Flagship line and represents a natural progression up from Beneteau’s smaller models.

On deck
My first impression was that the boat’s proportions seemed right. That’s no small accomplishment with 16-foot beam to accommodate a spacious interior and freeboard tall enough to provide considerable headroom. The 523’s appearance benefits from its low-slung coachroof. The cockpit is both functional and comfortable. Dual helm stations are separated from the cockpit by molded-in steering pods that allow the helmsman to have a comfortable seat, access to all controls, and excellent visibility on either tack. Meantime, crew in the cockpit can stretch out on 6-foot-long teak-trimmed seats or have lunch at the sturdy (permanent) teak cockpit table with fold-down leaves. The split helms provide easy access to the walk-through transom and swim platform below. The cockpit also contains several large lockers that can easily swallow dock lines and fenders.

Belowdecks
The 523 will appeal to anyone who longs to trade up from a smaller boat. Going down the companionway steps brings you into a bright, airy saloon that would be a perfect place to spend a rainy afternoon at anchor. The interior layout is noteworthy for the intelligent use of the available space. The linear galley running along the starboard side of the saloon offers considerable counter and stowage space. The forward-facing nav station at the base of the companionway steps has a good-size chart table and a comfortable contoured seat. The dining table is offset to port and has room for six to eat comfortably. The long, curved seat that runs along the outboard edge of the settee will make an excellent seaberth (on the starboard tack); a bench seat set amidships has fiddled counter space and a bank of drawers built into the backrest. This obviously provides good stowage for cutlery and the like and makes a sturdy (and necessary) brace point for moving around in the saloon.

I was particularly impressed with the master cabin forward. It has an ensuite head and a 6-foot, 6-inch-long walk-around double berth with a high-density-foam mattress. The cabin is furnished with two large hanging lockers, several cabinets with vented doors, a dressing table, a bench seat, and two drawers under the berth. The two guest cabins aft are smaller (each has a double berth and a small hanging locker), and each also has an ensuite head.

Under way
The breeze never topped 10 knots for our test off Miami Beach—not ideal to determine top-end speed or to see how a boat performs in heavier weather, but enough to determine basic characteristics and light-air performance. Cracked off a bit from hard on the breeze and with the sails trimmed for maximum power, we were able to get boatspeed to nudge 5 knots in the zephyrs. No doubt this results from a high sail area-displacement ratio—18.7—and a D/L ratio of a surprisingly low 132. This is a light boat for its size, and it was devoid of cruising gear. The downside to this nimble light-air performance will likely be a need to reef early when the wind picks up. We tacked through 95 degrees. The helm was light and responsive, and the boat cut quietly through the water. The helmsman can easily trim the jib (with the push of a button) from behind the wheel, but another crewmember (or a push of the autopilot and several steps forward) will be needed to trim the mainsail, which runs to a cabintop winch.

The boat was well-mannered under power. Backing out of our tight slip in the marina was effortless thanks to the optional bow thruster. The boat stopped quickly and pivoted predictably when we needed it to. Top speed under power was 7.6 knots, and excellent insulation kept engine noise to a minimum.

Conclusion
The 523 shows that a new boat design doesn’t have to be revolutionary to be effective. Its lines are pleasing, traditional, and nonthreatening. The accommodation plan makes excellent use of the available interior volume (especially in the master cabin)—not by reconfiguring a traditional layout, but rather by skillfully executing subtle refinements and enhancements. The boat is manageable enough for a cruising couple and big enough to accommodate three cruising couples. Its long waterline and light displacement promise good speed potential. If you’re looking for more interior room and don’t mind only having one seaberth in the saloon, the 523 is well worth a look.

Andrews 28

The Andrews 28 sportboat is Canadian builder Sylvana Yacht’s answer to the question “Can you build a boat that’s fast, stiff, easy to sail, and easy to trailer with enough interior space to be a comfortable cruiser as well?” It’s a question that builders have been trying to answer for years, and at first glance, the Andrews 28 may be on to something. I took a test sail off Annapolis, Maryland, to find out for myself.

Construction

The hull and deck are vacuum-infused with knitted biaxial and unidirectional fiberglass, closed-cell PVC core, and vynilester resin. The keel trunk is integrated with the overall hull structure and has substantial layers of fiberglass for stiffness. Additional fiberglass and high-density foam are also added where deck hardware is mounted. The rudder is molded of carbon fiber and injected with high-density epoxy foam. The retractable keel consists of a stainless-steel strut surrounded by a fiberglass shell, and a lead bulb.

On deck

The high-aspect ratio carbon foil sits in a carbon sleeve, which is mounted to solid gudgeons on the transom. This is a clever way to benefit from the simplicity and responsive helm feel that comes with a tiller controlled aft-mounted rudder, while also making it easy to retract/remove the rudder (just pull it up through the sleeve). The tiller is also built of lightweight carbon. In other respects, the deck layout is similar to what you’d find on most modern 28-foot sportboats. The transom is wide open (except for the rudder mount of course), the mainsheet and traveler controls are right where you want them, and the cockpit is big enough for a racing crew but also has backrests cruisers will like.

Accommodations



So, the boat is fast, stiff, and trailerable. What about the accommodations? The 28’s profile may appear a bit tall when compared to other sportboats, but you can see why when you step below. There’s no hunching and hitting your head on a low-slung coachroof. The 5'10" headroom is a boon. The saloon has padded seats and several storage cubbies, and is more comfortable than some other amped-up sportboats. There’s room for two to sleep forward in the V-berth and room for two more in the saloon (good sea berths). The carbon settee table hinges up to reveal the lifting eye on the top of the keel. The galley actually has a little counter and sink, as well as a stove, and there’s even decent headroom in the head. It is perfectly comfortable for a night between races or on a weekend cruise.

Under sail

We had about 6-8 knots of breeze for our test sail and the boat really seemed to love the light stuff. We were cranking along at an easy 6 knots upwind without working too hard. It was easy to keep the boat in the groove and the helm was alive, just as you’d expect from a relatively lightweight, tiller-controlled boat.

Tacking the 103 percent jib took the elbow grease out of grinding in a bigger genoa and frankly, we didn’t seem to need any more upwind sail area. The 1,290 pound retractable bulb keel drawing 7 feet (this is how you build a boat that is easy to trailer as well as being stiff and fast) kept the boat on its feet and the sail plan hit the sweet spot between being sufficiently powerful as well as being easy to handle. The real fun happened when we turned downwind. That’s when we hoisted the 1,065 square foot asymmetric on the retractable carbon sprit and really took off. Sailing hot, tight reach angles, boat speed punched into the eights and was hovering in the 7’s; not bad for a 28 footer in hardly any wind. The 28 has a current PHRF rating of 94.

We were having so much fun, we lost track of where we were, and then Sploosh. We bumped the bulb into the mud at the mouth of the Severn River. No problem. We just rigged the portable winch on the cabin top, fed the hoisting line through the hole in the deck, and hoisted the keel until we were free. The keel is not designed to be adjustable under way, but this little escapade shows how beefy the keel trunk is (no damage), and how useful it is to be able to lift the keel when you need to. The keel retracts until the bulb meets the hull and the hull sits flat on a low trailer and can be easily launched from a ramp.

Under power

The boat has a 10 horsepower Yanmar diesel with a Saildrive unit and folding propeller. It has plenty of power to push the boat up to 7 knots, but the boat’s light air performance is so good that you may not want to turn the engine on except when the wind speed dial reads zero.

Conclusion

It sailed like a witch in the light stuff. The lifting keel saved us lots of trouble getting off a shoal. I didn’t bump my head too much down below, and the helm has a responsive feel that brought a smile to my face. Seems like Sylvana Yachts answered all the questions they were asked.

Warren Light Craft sailing trimaran/kayak

Man, was I surprised when I showed up at Warren Light Craft's shop in Salem, Massachusetts, to test sail their new sailing kayak. I've sailed other kayaks with add on "sailing" kits before, and the "sailing" capabilities always seemed to be more gimmick than real. Not so with Warren Warren Light Craft's 15 foot cored carbon fiber sailing kayak. It's a stiff, fast, high perfromance trimaran (all carbon construction, spectra shrouds, square topped full batten main, ruler furling jib, long traveler) that's lightweight (68 pounds all up), super easy to rig, and a blast to sail. And it's jaw dropping gorgeous to boot. I don't do this very often, but I have to give this boat (it's honestly two high end boats--superior kayak and legitimate high performance car toppable trimaran) a 10. Total rave. Check it out.