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Flying from Paris back to Australia I read for the second, or maybe third time, Erskine Childers’ classic book, “The Riddle of the Sands”. Considered to be one of the first “spy” novels, it’s not a book that grabs you by the chin on the first page. Although prolific and best selling writer Ken Follett calls it the first modern “thriller,” I am not sure I agree. While it was enormously popular when first published in 1903 and heralded the need to defend England’s exposed coastline before what would become WW I, it’s a sailing book at its core. The characters reveal themselves slowly and the plot unfolds with the plodding gait of a shoal draft, gaff rigged yawl tacking against a tidal current. But that’s also what makes it great, sailors understand that it always takes longer to get there than they expect and the extra tack for a better point of sail is worth it.

The narrator, Carruthers, who turns into an unlikely hero, reluctantly accepts an invitation for a sailing holiday in Northern Germany after all of his other holiday plans fall through. He packs his yachting attire in preparation for what he thinks will be a luxury cruise with Davies, a casual friend from his school days. To say he’s shocked when he first spots Dulcibella, Davies’ crudely outfitted 30’ converted lifeboat, is a massive understatement. I have seen the shock that Childers describes first hand when folks turn up on a far flung quayside and first toss their gear aboard Quetzal. The realization that they’ve spent a lot of money only to be condemned to sleeping in a cramped pilot berth, or as a dear friend calls it - an oversized bookshelf - is a bit shocking. However as the passage progresses, and those in the bigger berths roll like unlashed logs while running before following seas, they come to appreciate their tight quarters - just like Carruthers comes to appreciate Dulcibella’s purposeful flat bottom, centerboard design.

Carruthers and Davies shove off into the early autumn fog and mist, navigating through a maze of shifting sandbars and islands that literally come and go with the tide. Davies, with compass at hand, is unfazed, skillfully piloting Dulcibella in fickle breezes and through sudden squalls. He’s always busy, making notes, taking bearings and sketching charts. Carruthers’ frustration eventually turns to admiration. Childers was an accomplished sailor, and had cruised the Frisian coast in his own 30’ yawl, Vixen, and it’s clear that his fictional Dulcibella was based on Vixen. The book drips with nautical authenticity.

Davies is at home on his boat, a sense that I completely understand and sympathize with. Tadji has accused me, justly of course, of “never wanting to go ashore.” Childers writes:

(Thanks to John Kirby, who sent these quotes along after I suggested he read the book after his solo sail across the Atlantic and subsequent passage to Holland.)

The plot unfolds gradually. Davies believes that the German Navy is preparing the islands as a staging point for an eventual invasion of England. There’s a shady character, Dollman, a German businessman whom Davies suspects is actually an Englishman. He tries to wreck Ducibella and kill Davies, confirming his suspicions. Davies is in love with Dollman’s daughter, Clara, adding to the intrigue. Carruthers grudgingly accepts Davies’ theories and together they execute a daring plan to find the truth, including a final escape through a shallow channel in dense fog and then finally a dash out to sea. To Follett’s point, the pace picks up dramatically and the ending is riveting and surprising.

Erskine Childers own life was just as dramatic as his fictional alter egos. Born into a prominent English/Irish family, he was an ardent supporter of the empire as a young man. He fought in the Boer War in South Africa and “The Riddle of the Sands” was clearly meant to show the inadequacies of England’s home front defenses. However, his attitudes toward colonialism slowly changed. He became an ardent supporter of Irish home rule and participated in a stunt to smuggle guns into Ireland to garner publicity for the cause. Although he served in both the Royal Navy and nascent Royal Air Force during WWI, his support for Irish independence continued to grow. He joined the Irish Republican forces and by 1922 was a fugitive on the run. He was captured near Dublin in early November and promptly tried before a military court for possession of a hand gun. He was convicted and sentenced to death. Standing before a military firing squad on 24 November, he stepped forward and shook hands with each member of the firing squad. His final words were, “Take a step or two forward lads, it will be easier that way.”

I returned to Quetzal in mid July and began preparations for our passage from Cairns to Darwin, a 1200 mile sail around Cape York and then across the Gulf of Carpentaria. Relax, after all that talk of mixing metaphors there’s nothing to worry about, nobody gets shot, although we were on the lookout for huge saltwater crocs. My connection to The Riddle of the Sands was our route, or more accurately, which route to take. My instinct was to head back east, beyond the reef and then turn north, heading for New Guinea and keeping well offshore. I am a blue water, deep water, sailor at heart and reefs and shallows unnerve me.

“No offense mate but I think you’re an idiot.” Murray, who ran the chart shop in Cairns was clear where he stood on the matter. ‘If you want to add 300 miles to the route, and then stress about coming back through the reef up north where there’s no good pass, and that’s in good weather, not a gale, well then go ahead do it. I can tell you, nobody does it, not even the big ships, they all take the inside route. It’s well marked, there are anchorages if you need them, it’s easy.

“Really,” I replied, “they actually sail all night inside the reef.”

Murray was struggling to understand how I had managed to sail all the way to Australia in the first place. The notion that I was an experienced sailor, an author at that, seemed highly dubious to him. In addition to ignoring his well honed advice, I also folded - instead of rolling - the charts I bought from him. The act of folding made him turn away in disgust. Forcing himself to be polite, he turned back and tried to smile, adding, “it will be ok inside the reef.” I purchased every possible chart for the inside route, and the guidebook he’d written detailing every anchorage between Cairns and Darwin and told him I’d think about it. He shook his head and mumbled as I left the shop.

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Studying the splotches of reefs, shoals and islands on each chart I began to see what Murray was talking about. The route was wider than I first realized, deeper too and certainly well marked. Still the idea of sailing all night, and of course we had a schedule to keep, while passing reefs and rocky islets by less than half a mile, violated all of my core principles. When the crew turned up a week later I posited the idea of sailing inside the reef, hoping they’d think I was crazy to even suggest such lunacy, such blatantly bad seamanship and agree with me that it was just a stupid idea. To my surprise they were all for it, I wondered if they’d talked to Murray? Jason loved the idea of combining coastal navigation inside the reef with celestial navigation once we were offshore. Bob and Michelle, who sail their Catalina Morgan 381 in the shallow waters off Naples, Florida were unruffled. “We always have to pay attention.” Alejandro, from Costa Rica was also intrigued with the inside route and suggested that we update the chart and logbook every hour. By the time Les, our final crew arrived, the decision was made.

With strong south and southeast winds, Quetzal sped north. It was great sailing with a poled out genoa. We had the main double and at times tripled reefed, to add a bit of horsepower but primarily to knock down the roll and help us track true. I wanted to sail as straight as possible. Quetzal makes very little leeway to begin with and we were also highly attuned to tidal currents. Blasting along at 8 knots, we passed Cooktown and Cape Bedford. At Cape Flattery our route bent west northwest and we popped the spinnaker in the daylight and reset the pole at night. I wanted maximum maneuverability in the dark hours. My caution seemed a bit exaggerated as we we routinely passed and were passed by 800’ ships, clearly visible to the eye, on AIS and on RADAR.

At Cape Melville we opted for the outer passage, although still inside the reef, and the sea was alive with 2 meter seas as the magical southeast winds kept howling. A pod of dolphins played alongside, providing reassurance that we were on course. We dutifully plotted our GPS position on paper every hour, feeling very responsible, very seamanlike. Then I thought about Davies and Carruthers in the Frisian Channels. Our task was to transfer GPS derived coordinates to the latest paper charts, something of a lost art these days. Aboard Dulcibella, Davies was constantly taking compass bearings on shifting landmarks and reckoning speed and leeway. His charts were iffy at berst. Poor Carruthers was heaving the lead every few minutes and calling out the depth. They were often in the fog and, at the same time, trying to save merry old England from a looming calamity! We were cruising sailors just trying to get to Darwin.

One of the good things about getting old, yes there are good things, is that you are able to have a technology perspective. When I first read “The Riddle of the Sands,” probably 40 years ago, GPS didn’t exist and Davies’ navigational skills, while still exceptional, were quite comprehensible. That’s how we navigated. We took bearings, and while we had depth-sounders, we actually carried a lead line in case it failed. (I still do on Quetzal but don’t tell anyone) Position was fluid, you had a sense of it, it wasn’t point to point, follow the line navigation. Of course you never missed an opportunity to plot a fix on two landmarks, or work out a running fix, but you were connected to the boat in a different, more primal way. You were always looking up, never down into a screen. Davies’ navigation skills and instincts probably seem supernatural to readers who have only lived in the GPS age.

As we neared Cape York, we decided to follow Captain Cook, and then later, Captain Bligh and navigate the Endeavour Strait instead of the wider but more current wracked Torres Strait. We timed the tide almost perfectly and sped through the strait, at times touching 12 knots, leaving the Great Barrier astern. That night at Captain’s Hour, we toasted Murray - but I still think rolled charts are nonsense.

John Kretschmer has been sailing professionally for 40 years, logging 400,000+ miles. He is the author of 7 books, including the international bestseller Sailing a Serious Ocean. John Kretschmer Sailing offers training passages, workshops, ­webinars and Captain’s Hour, a monthly meeting about all aspects of offshore sailing. For more information, email John at john@johnkretschmersailing.com

Modern boats are becoming more electrically dependent by the day – navigation, communication, refrigeration, autopilot. Even the supply-side complexity is growing, with solar panels, charge controllers, DC/DC converters, and more. These systems are nothing less than magic when they work and super aggravating when they don’t.

When systems go dark, we need to do some basic troubleshooting - the equivalent of “is it plugged in?” This is where a multimeter comes in - with a touch of the probes, we can confirm if something is powered up.

Specifically, we are confirming that we have DC voltage and enough of it. Modern devices are smarter and more sensitive - they will shut down if they don’t get enough voltage. For example, if your batteries are a little soft and only output 11.8 volts, by the time that voltage reaches your refrigeration compressor, you may have dropped enough voltage to reach the compressor’s cutoff voltage. Probing the input terminals on the compressor, as shown below, will tell the story.

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No sailor sets out to be a marine electrician, but electrical work is hard to avoid on a boat. Today’s boats have complex electrical systems, and the sea is as tough as ever – corroding, jarring, conspiring to destroy electrical connections. And, of course, there is always another gizmo to add.

Electrical work takes some special tools. The basic tools aren’t that complicated, but the rabbit hole of tools can run deep and get pretty specialized. Let’s take a tour through my tool bag, and I’ll try to make sense of this world.

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The harbor at St. George’s can be entered in all but the worst conditions, and, dare I say this, even at night. It’s very well marked and the extremely competent

folks behind the mics at Bermuda Harbor Radio, who first contact you well offshore, keep an eye on you as you approach. There’s no sneaking into Bermuda. If there isn’t space along the quay, and there usually isn’t, the anchorage is protected with good holding. The grilled wahoo is always fresh and the Dark n’ Stormy, Bermuda’s national cocktail, flow a bit too easily in taverns along the wharf. Provisions are plentiful if shockingly expensive and it’s possible to find parts or have them flown in if you can’t find them locally. Aside from a dangerous fringing reef that traces an arc across the northern shore like an offshore barbed wire fence and is littered with wrecks, it’s a perfect landfall.

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We had arrived in Port Vila, Vanuatu a day earlier after a surprisingly enjoyable passage north from New Zealand. Sitting in the cockpit, I watched a handsome cutter make its way toward the mooring field. The boat looked familiar, of course, it was a Hylas 46, one of my favorites and a boat I knew well from my delivery days. I didn’t know, however, that it was “that” Hylas 46.

A few hours later I ran into the soon to be former owner, Chris, and the excited new owners, young Aussies Allie and Adrian. I had met Chris years before in Annapolis, after he bought the boat from the original owners and renamed her SeaGlub. He reminded me that the boat was first called Tempest. I delivered Tempest on her maiden voyage from Fort Lauderdale to St. Thomas in 1998. She certainly lived up to her name as a few days into the passage we were overrun by remnants of the super storm Hurricane Mitch. It’s a story that I’ve told in many seminars and talks on heavy weather strategies and wrote about in my book, Sailing a Serious Ocean. In the chapter, Storm Stories, when I list my top ten storm experiences, it comes in at number 3!

I was a hard working delivery skipper and sailing journalist 27 years ago and fortunate to be able to deliver almost every new Hylas that came down the ways. It surprises many to learn that most Hylas’, especially in the 80s and early 90s, began life as charter boats in the Virgin Islands. Almost all 44s and 47s were first bare-boats with CYC (Caribbean Yacht charters) and even as the designs evolved into the Hylas 46, 49 and 54, many did stints as charter boats before becoming private cruising yachts.

It was late October and Tempest was headed for St. Thomas. It was a route I knew well, having made the passage more than 30 times at that point. It’s also a route that’s easy to underestimate. It’s natural to assume you head south from Fort Lauderdale to the Caribbean but that’s not really the case. It’s a west to east affair. Fort Lauderdale is at 26°N, 80°W and St. Thomas is at 18°30’N, 65°W. For every degree you sail south you have to pound out two degrees east. The prevailing winds are easterlies and become stronger and steadier as you push south. In short it’s a slog, a tough 1,000 miles and I always earned my money.

My friend, the late Dick Jachney, was the owner of CYC, and the chief importer of Hylas yachts. He used to encourage the new owners to join me on the delivery. Dick was a consummate salesman, and that’s also putting things gently, and he’d tell them, “you will love sailing with John, and it’s a beautiful Caribbean sail.” He neglected to tell them that they’d only feel the pitch of the Caribbean on the last day of the passage and only after a week of bashing and crashing to windward. Keeping dreams intact after new owners had just spent several hundred grand only to be puking, feeling miserable, and ready to sell at any price, was good preparation for the training passage business. Full of smiles, new owners Bob and Susan joined me. My dear friend Ed also signed aboard as first mate and cook.

We shoved off on November 3, convinced that Hurricane Mitch was heading for the interior of Mexico, or at worst, the Texas coast. Mitch, a Cat Five monster with sustained winds of 155 knots and gusts over 200, killed more than 11,000 people in Central America. It was a mean spirited, horrible storm. Lumbering north toward the Yucatan Channel, Mitch finally began to fall apart. As the muddled mass of low pressure reached the Gulf of Mexico it was forecast to lose steam and drift toward Texas. It was the perfect time for us to depart.

We cleared Port Everglades, crossed the Gulf Stream and sped east for two days.

The brand new, Frers designed Hylas 46, sailed brilliantly but was very lightly equipped. She had a bimini top for shade but no spray dodger. She had an in-mast furled main and a 135% furling genoa. Her electronics consisted of a compass light, depthsounder, wind instrument and VHF radio. Bob and Susan planned to leave her in charter for a year, to defray costs, and then properly outfit her for cruising the Caribbean. There was no reason to let bareboat charters wear out new equipment.

Ed, our cook, was not doing well. He was down in the dumps after a recent car accident shattered his leg and longed for a blue water passage to lift his spirits. It was not my best decision to sign him aboard and unfortunately the motion of the boat, even with smooth sailing, was tough on him. He gamely hobbled around the galley churning out delicious meals. On day three we strapped into the settee berth as the weather started to turn.

Instead of dissipating, Mitch regrouped and headed east toward the Florida Keys. The storm that 24 hours earlier had been downgraded to a tropical depression suddenly had 45 knot winds with gusts to 60 knots in a newly reorganized tropical storm. Mitch raced across the Florida peninsula. Fowey Rocks Light Station off Biscayne Bay recorded a 63 knot peak gust. Instead of tracking north, Mitch continued to confound forecasters by turning east-northeast toward the Bahamas and briefly regaining hurricane status. It was coming our way.

Once again waves were the wind’s messengers, and soon a pronounced swell rolled in from the south-southeast. By noon the winds were up to 25 to 30 knots from the south, and the trusty barometer on my Casio watch was falling fast. Things were getting interesting. We were flying east under a deeply furled main and headsail. The ride was becoming progressively worse as the seas were transformed into powerful ocean rollers.

In those pre Starlink, pre Iridium, pre weather model days, I tuned my shortwave receiver to the NOAA broadcast. In a scene right out of a cheap movie, just as the computerized voice of Perfect Paul announced, “Tropical Storm Mitch has reformed, and may be upgraded to hurricane tonight,” a wave washed aboard and silenced the radio for good. We later learned that the eye of the storm passed 50 miles north of us. Ironically, 7 years earlier, in about the same place, I rode out Hurricane Bob in a Hylas 44. Strangely, it never occurred to me to change careers?

By 1600 we had steady Force 9 conditions and stronger gusts. We could hear the storm winds winding up, preparing to blast us, it was eerie and somehow beautiful. We were pressing on with tiny sails, literally bath towels of main and jib, and the boat was handling the conditions well. She tracked true in very confused seas, a key design feature in heavy going. I was determined to make miles to the east while we could, it made no sense to turn back or seek shelter. As we pushed east the system, which was quickly becoming extra tropical, was charging to the northeast. Late-season hurricanes typically become extratropical when they move into more northerly latitudes over cold water. At this point they no longer suck their energy from warm tropical waters but instead from the horizontal temperature contrasts from frontal air masses. Their forward speed increases dramatically and is tacked on to the wind speed of the cyclone.

The wind was forward of the beam and the breaking seas were dangerous. We were hand steering and Bob and I took long stints at the wheel. There was no autopilot or self steering. Susan was not happy and after a nasty fall retired to the aft cabin. Ed was miserable. But Tempest was coping beautifully. The boat was rock solid and once again I felt that perverse privilege to have a court side seat for watching an angry ocean do its thing. I guess that’s a different kind of weather window.

The winds frequently pinned our instrument at 63 knots in gusts and backed to the SE. The seas continued to build, ultimately to 10 meters as we learned later. We were fore-reaching at that point, making 3-4 knots. At times I was underwater at the helm as waves washed over the boat. My biggest concern was chafe on both furling lines, a suddenly unveiled sail would have been disastrous. While we could have kept fore-reaching, we were too exhausted to keep steering and hove to. With the help of the engine we tacked between giant crests and backed the tiny headsail. The boat came to rest about 50° off the wind. Our crabbing to leeward created a slick that prevented most waves from breaking aboard.

The winds peaked around 2200. We learned afterward that several ships and yachts reported gusts over 70 knots. I will never forget sitting in the cockpit watching the wild sea surrounding us. The boat would ride up the face of a wave and slide harmlessly to leeward as the waves pressed under the keel. Mitch was moving fast, at 40 knots, which contributed to much of the wind speed. By midnight the worst was behind us. By 0200 the winds had backed all the way to the northeast and we were underway again, on course and making 7 knots slaloming through, around, and over confused seas. We made St. Thomas in just less than 7 days.

I confess, I had to reread the chapter in Serious Ocean ( and quote from it) and listen to my own webinar on heavy weather sailing to fully recall the details of that nasty day and night 27 years ago. There was also an addendum, about a nearby boat that was rolled over but I am going to save that story for the upcoming article on the strategy of fore-reaching in deep storms. It’s a sad lesson.

Sitting here in Port Vila, remembering that long ago storm, I am struck by the technological developments that have fundamentally changed the nature of offshore sailing. Looking over at SeaGlub, she’s now rigged as a cutter, has solar panels, a wind generator and all the gear necessary for happy cruising and living aboard. But gear aside, the real difference maker these days is access to accurate weather information.

Sailing a Serious Ocean was published in 2014. Of the top ten storms listed, 7 of them occurred before I bought Quetzal in 2003. And those that include Quetzal happened mostly in the early days. As much as I moan and groan about people’s obsession with weather models, and waiting for weather windows, it’s undeniable that GRIB files have made most offshore passages safer. While the long term climate is less predictable than ever, short term weather forecasts based on sophisticated models are incredibly accurate.

Since 2014, Quetzal and I have certainly encountered serious storms, the 2022 Bay of Biscay beating and the Drake Passage mugging in 2024 jump to mind. But we’ve also logged thousands of miles, well over 100,00 miles since then, and we’ve managed to mostly avoid deep ocean storms. Mostly is the key word. The more you sail the more likely you will encounter your storm and you will be tested, and it will be part of your story.

You can’t rely on avoidance alone, not if you plan to cross oceans, sooner or later the window closes, and sometimes it slams shut. But with instant and almost unlimited access to satellite weather data you can make informed decisions about when to shove off and, more importantly, what tactic to adopt at sea to minimize heavy weather. This is a luxury and an example of technology profoundly enhancing good seamanship. We likely would have avoided Mitch if I was doing the same delivery last year.

However, at some point you also have to come to an agreement with the ocean if you want to cruise successfully. Enjoying your time at sea, especially these days when the world can seem torn asunder, is also a privilege. Every passage does not need to be a mad dash between A and B. That’s too stressful and no fun. You are out there for the experience, for the stories, yours and your boat’s. ‘Time at sea is time well spent.’

SeaGlub formerly Tempest, has her own story. Bob and Susan did end up spending years cruising the Caribbean. Chris, her second owner, sailed her far and wide, south to Mexico and across the Pacific in 14 years of ownership. And who knows where Allie and Adrian will take her? The story is still being written, I hope they enjoy every minute of it.

John Kretschmer has been sailing professionally for 40 years, logging 400,000+ miles. He is the author of 7 books, including the international bestseller Sailing a Serious Ocean. John Kretschmer Sailing offers training passages, workshops, ­webinars and Captain’s Hour, a monthly meeting about all aspects of offshore sailing. For more information, email John at john@johnkretschmersailing.com

Even after sailing 100,000 miles I still get seasick. It’s awful and oftentimes discouraging but I keep my spirits up because I love the sailing lifestyle. I know I am not alone, a lot of us suffer from mal de mer and for those just starting out, the fear of becoming seasick is very real. You worry about being unable to stand your watch or enjoy the passage. Some hesitate to leave the dock or even worse, let the stress get so crippling that they turn away from their sailing dreams. The good thing, yes there’s a good thing, is that seasickness doesn’t last forever, especially with proper management and planning. Almost everyone finds their sea legs.

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Four months ago I was lost in a small patch of forest on the outskirts of Opua, New Zealand. It was not my finest moment. I am a navigator, that’s my thing, a navigator first, a sailor second and somewhere after that, a writer of sorts. Even on land I pride myself on my ability to read nature’s signs and my sense of direction is like a finely honed blade. I am the guy who refuses to use GPS in the car and actually buys maps for road trips. I still use my sextant on passages, teach celestial navigation and plot position on paper charts. I don’t get lost.

But there I was, stumbling down an overgrown track from my airbnb and not exactly sure which way to go to find the boatyard where my sailboat QUETZAL was on the hard. I had deliberately turned off the main path, to explore a bit, and to find what I thought would be a shortcut. “Ok relax, get your bearings,” I told myself. I was a bit bewildered but thankful that I was alone so no one else would know I was - unsure - of where I was. It was cloudy, drizzly, and completely overgrown with no sun in sight. Pushing through deep weeds I knew, or at least thought I knew that I had to go north to find the road that rimmed the boatyard. The trees were bushy and mossy and the moss didn’t make sense. Then it hit me, moss grows on the south side of trees in the southern hemisphere! I had been walking the wrong way

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Thanks to all of you that made the journey with me through parts one and two. For the new folks joining us here in Part 3, feel free to stick around, but you may want to start back on part 1 and part 2 for some foundational context.

When we left Part 2, we had a working system, but not one that would always work. Lithium systems can disconnect and that disconnect event means that virtually everything electrical on the boat will stop. This is inconvenient any time and downright dangerous a good many other times. We will take some steps to make sure the world won’t go dark on us.

Secondly, we didn’t have all the fusing and switching that we really wanted. I’ll explain what we want and why, and how to go about setting this gear up.

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Despite rocking along on a deep reach before amped up trade winds, by late afternoon it was apparent that we were not going to make it to the reef lined pass into the anchorage off South Caicos before dark. Although I had been through this narrow cut a few times previously, and we had GPS and the latest paper and electronic charts aboard, there was, simply, no chance that I would attempt it in the dark. After three bouncy days at sea we were ready for a break and a few of the crew thought I was being overly cautious. The zoomed-in Navionics chart claimed that the pass into Cockburn Harbor was “an easy, deep cut through the reef with lit markers on both sides.” Sounding like the proverbial know-it-all old salt, and I was younger then, I said that counting on the lights to be working in that part of the world was a fool’s errand and that I knew from experience that once in the harbor it shoaled dramatically. Also, the holding, thin sand over limestone, was iffy at best. An evening approach had all the makings of turning into a scramble we didn’t need.

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It was a trying time. My father was dying, my sister, in her early 20s with three young kids, also had cancer and her prognosis was grim. I was having a hard time accepting the conventional way forward. Planning for a future that could be derailed by a revolt of a few pissed off cells and, if you sidestepped that bad luck, spending the rest of your days chained to a job, seemed a dubious path. I had a different plan. I was going to sail away, have adventures and write books about them. I scribbled Marcus Aurelius’ much abused quote, “live each day like it’s your last” in my youthful journal. It was a weird philosophy for a kid and seems cliched today but it pulsed through me like a religion. I wasn’t angry, just profoundly aware that death was part of my story, part of everyone’s story and I needed to make the most of my time. I was a lousy student but read obsessively. I was steeped in the Stoics, the Existentialists, and most influentially, accounts of early ocean voyagers. Bernard Moitessier, the Hiscocks, the Roths, the Griffiths, Joshua Slocum, Vito Dumas, Robin Lee Graham, Knox-Johnston and Francis Chichester were my professors.

You might have thought that an account of being stove-in by a sperm whale halfway between Panama and the Galapagos would have dimmed my enthusiasm for ocean sailing. The gripping story of watching their boat sink from the life raft with Maralyn calmly taking pictures of her final moments, gave me both chills and a perverse thrill. Strangely, it only heightened my desire to shove off. Although I’d only sailed a few times, and never in saltwater, from the get go I accepted the risk of passage making, indeed, risk was a big part of the allure. Intuitively I knew that without risk there would be no rewards. I internalized every book I read and reimagined their adventures through my eyes. Ripping through “Staying Alive!” I wondered if I would have had the tenacity to survive their ordeal. How would I have coped as ship after ship passed by without noticing them?

I remember the Bailey’s writing style as accurate, honest and straightforward. It was clear that their survival was a result of Maralyn’s refusal to give in to what seemed obvious, that they would run out of food and water, or into a storm that would tear their precarious inflatable boats to shreds, or simply lose the will to live. Maurice wrote that he was a realist and willing to accept death, but Maralyn would not let him give in, she would not let him die. On the 118th (not 117th) day, in a deteriorating life raft and barely afloat towed dinghy, they were picked up by a South Korean fishing vessel.

I didn’t grasp the powerful emotional elements of the story as a kid. I was more interested in their boat, a 31’ Maurice Griffith designed plywood Golden Hind that they finished building and fitting out themselves. It was one of the boats on my “short list” as I mentally planned my escape. It’s funny to remember that because I was a city kid and had never even built a model, the idea of me fitting out a boat was ridiculous. I studied the gear in their survival kit, marveling how Maralyn turned sewing needles into fish hooks but missed the psychological drama that ultimately makes their story timeless. I would eventually find my way to sea, thankfully in fiberglass boats, and the story of Maurice and Maralyn’s ordeal faded away, until a week ago

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Flying back to Paris I read Sophie Elmhirst’s book, A Marriage at Sea. It’s a retelling of the Bailey’s ordeal, but it’s much more that too. And just like the first time around with Staying Alive! I could not put the book down and finished it in one go. It’s a bestseller and it should be because it’s an extraordinary book. Elmhirst opens with the moment the whale rams “Auralyn,” the name of the boat and a combination of their two first names, but then quickly takes the reader back to early days of their relationship. Maurice, an unhappy young man from a troubled family in the north of England, was aware that he was wasting his life but didn’t have the resolve to do anything about it. Then, almost miraculously, he meets Maralyn. She lived with her aunt and uncle, and though she was full of life she also felt trapped. Despite deep differences in personality they fall in love, marry and plot their escape. They would sail away from dreary old England and make a new life in New Zealand.

The book reads like a novel and Elmhirst reveals Maurice and Maralyn’s foibles and frailties that allow us understand them like members of our own family. The book is filled with simple but powerful insights that blend sailing and life. She captures their departure perfectly.

“The sea was rough and frothy as they crossed Lyme Bay. Maurice went below to fix a leaking valve in the freshwater system. When he came back up, he found Maralyn sitting in the cockpit, sobbing. It was the Devon cliffs in the distance, she said. A last sight of England. There is nothing like seeing a place for the last time to erase its imperfections.”

The books of Eric and Susan Hiscock, the patron saints of so many early cruisers, became the Bailey’s spiritual and practical guides. Maurice, always haunted by a sense of inferiority frets over being a good seaman. Elmhirst gets inside his head and describes his inner turmoil with this passage that foretells so much about the drama to come;

“So how did you become seamanlike,” (Hiscock’s phrase ) ……Maurice knew that it involved skill, learning, and a common sense intelligence. But there also seemed to be something more at play: It appeared to reflect character. In a crisis at sea, there isn’t time to ponder or deliberate. You can’t be a defeatist. Things go wrong, and even great sailors make mistakes. People get tired or overconfident. Their judgement skews. You have to adapt. You need to know what to do and how to do it in an instant; to act with a kind of light, unthinking instinct, the way a dancer might shift position mid-flight. It sounded, worryingly for Maurice, close to an art.”

Elmhirst never lets the story wane, describing the beginning of their voyage across Biscay and along the Iberian peninsula with the gait of someone familiar with the pitch of the sea and life on a really small boat. By the time they cross the Atlantic and then make their way to Panama we have a very clear idea of who they are, who they’re not and how they sail. We also know that their marriage, like all marriages, is hard work, a mix of compromise and commitment, of angst and great passion. We know them so well that when she writes: “What else is a marriage, really, if not being stuck on a small raft with someone and trying to survive?” it rings poignant and profound.

I have probably given away too much of the story but what makes A Marriage at Sea an exceptional book is not the chronology of what unfolded but how Maurice and Maralyn reacted and sustained a love affair under the most trying conditions. Not only do they survive but they actually build a new boat and go back to sea. If the book has a flaw, it’s the glossed over personality troubles they encounter on their subsequent voyage to Patagonia. But Elmhirst makes up for it with a heart felt ending. I can’t recommend this book more highly.

John Kretschmer has been sailing professionally for 40 years, logging 400,000+ miles. He is the author of 7 books, including the international bestseller Sailing a Serious Ocean. John Kretschmer Sailing offers training passages, workshops, ­webinars and Captain’s Hour, a monthly meeting about all aspects of offshore sailing. For more information, email John at john@johnkretschmersailing.com

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In part 1 of this series, I discussed why you might want to consider lithium batteries, and some of things that you must manage. In this part, I will show you how to put the pieces together to build a practical lithium battery system. My focus is a little different than some, I don’t want to run air conditioning or an inductive cooktop without a generator, I simply want to get the benefits of a relatively small lithium bank without spending a lot of money on an new alternator/regulatory or going through the work of mounting one.

My goals are:

• More Storage Capacity – We have a 420 amp-hour lead-acid bank now, but only 40%, or 168 amp-hour, of it is usable. A lithium bank would allow us to use 80% of the nominal bank size, let’s target 250 amp-hours of usable capacity.

• Faster Charging – Our lead-acid house bank takes a long time to charge, so long that we seldom get it completely full offshore. When a lead-acid bank sits at a partial charge, its life is impacted. A lithium bank will take all the current we can throw at it and isn’t hurt by being chronically undercharged.

• Save Weight – We’ll take any weight savings we can get, but it’s not a priority. With that said, we should be able to drop at least one hundred pounds.

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Let’s start with our goals, what we want from this battery system, and the constraints.

Goals

• More Storage Capacity – we want to store more usable energy in our battery banks, ideally enough to get through at least a full day on the water. It’s common to have a 400 amp-hour lead-acid battery bank today, but you can’t use all that capacity. Let’s target capacity of at least 300 amp-hours.

• Faster Charging – we want the bank to charge faster and to be able to use all the charging capacity available to use via the engine and any alternative sources. Ideally, we’d like to harness the power of the sun to fully charge during the day and run things all night long.

• Save space and weight – ideally, we’d like to save space and weight, but this is a secondary goal

Constraints

• Minimal System Disruption – We don’t want to rip and replace the charging infrastructure of the boat. We are willing to make some changes, but for example, we don’t want to replace our alternator or add a second one.

• Minimize Cost – Along with not disrupting a lot of what we have, we’d ideally like to avoid spending a lot of money – hopefully not much more than we would replacing lead acid batteries.

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The inscription etched into the stone pedestal is prosaic and reflects Champlain’s diminished historical standing. It notes that along with Pierre Duga De Monts and companions, Champlain founded the first permanent French colony in Acadia in 1606 and then later founded Quebec in 1610. That’s it, no respect for his navigational accomplishments, not even in France, a country that reveres sailors.

As some of you know, I am writing a book about an Atlantic voyage that took us north, nosing above the Arctic Circle, and south to Cape Horn and on to the South Shetland Islands of Antarctica. Quetzal, my much loved and almost 40 year old Kaufman 47 cutter crisscrossed the Atlantic in both hemispheres. I have been sailing for more than 45 years and have logged plenty of miles in all the world’s oceans, indeed, Quetzal is spending the austral summer in New Zealand as I write. But the Atlantic is where I feel at home, it’s my ocean, my place of worship. It’s where I’ve gone to work most days, escaping the shackles of land life. The book is as much about that mighty ocean as it is about our voyage. The Atlantic is a storyteller’s dream sea, and when it comes to Atlantic sailors, one person stands above all others. I’ve read so much about him I think of him as a friend, or at least a brother sailor.

It’s not Columbus, or John Cabot, or Ponce de Leon and his silly fountain. It’s not Lief Ericsson and his questionable vines or Martin Frobisher, one of my favorites, and his gold that turned to dust. It’s not the Pilgrims aboard their leaky Mayflower. It’s not more modern yachtsmen and women like Eric Taberly, Frances Chichester, Clare Francis, Philippe Poupon, Loïck Peyron or Mary Falk. I think you know where this is heading, yep, it’s none other than Samuel de Champlain. From 1599 through1633 he made 27 Atlantic crossings and never lost a ship under his command. The only ship he did lose was when he seized command of a leaking bark from a panic stricken skipper. Champlain hastily raised the main, clawed off a deadly lee shore and managed to drive the vessel ashore safely, saving the entire crew who would have surely been lost otherwise. And these were not the tropical and mid latitude passages of Columbus and the Conquistadors that followed in his wake. Champlain plied the stormy, foggy, ice laden seas of the North Atlantic. Crossing these treacherous, essentially uncharted waters was his near annual commute.

He is thought to have been born in the once thriving seaport of Brouage near La Rochelle sometime between 1570-80, nobody knows for sure and his early life is a bit of a mystery. He was likely born a protestant and converted to catholicism, maybe out of belief and maybe out of necessity, he was definitely ambitious. A persistent rumor is that he was the illegitimate son of King Henri IV, and it might explain his unusual access to the much loved and much hated monarch. As an adolescent he sailed the bay of Biscay, fishing along the coast of Spain and as far north as England with his father, a captain and ship owner. By his own account he learned to navigate, cope with storms and like most sailors, he was always sketching pictures of sailing ships and dreaming of distant passages. He spoke French with the strong Saintongeais accent of the region, and smatterings of Basque, Spanish and English. After his apprenticeship at sea, he joined the army and remained a soldier his entire life.

Champlain, whether Henri’s son or not, had a knack for making friends in high places. As a courtier, he would carefully navigate the reigns of two Kings, a Queen Regent and a devious Cardinal throughout his life, always promoting his enterprise in New France. As a young man he was able to find a berth aboard a Spanish treasure galleon sailing from Spain to the New World, an almost unheard of feat for a foreigner as Spain fiercely guarded her colonial possessions. He had an insatiable curiosity about new lands and people and while in the Americas he sailed to Cartagena, Panama and Vera Cruz. He even traveled overland to fabled Mexico City.

He returned to France committed to exploring the great, mostly untrampled continent on the far side of the Atlantic. Using his connection with the King and his own funds, he joined an expedition to what was then called Acadia, a large swath of land surrounding the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The tired old ship with an encouraging name, La Bonne Renommée (Good Reputation) was captained by a Saint Malo sea dog, François Gravé Du Pont, who would become Champlain’s ocean sailing mentor and lifelong friend.

They survived a rough crossing and landed at Tadoussac at the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, a site first visited by Jacque Cartier 60 years earlier and where Grave Du Pont had established a fur trading post. Champlain was entranced with the clear waters teeming with fish, seemingly endless forests and the handsome native peoples. Promoting a vision of peace and humanity in this new land, what he would call New France, would become his life’s calling. It was, ultimately, a failed vision as New France was plunged into war, exploitation and ruthless land grabs as European countries fought each other and the native people, vying for dominance in a bountiful land.

Champlain is best known for exploring the Great Lakes region and North American coastline, producing beautiful and accurate maps and charts. He also established working alliances between the French colonists and native peoples, honoring their land rights and traditions. But he was not a saint, far from it, and not above using force while assisting his allies in their disputes with other tribes. Still, compared to his fellow explorers he was a virtual Mother Teresa. Almost 400 years after his last sail, his reputation ebbs and flows as historians try to balance a narrative of daring discoveries with the relentless full press of colonialism. One thing that is not in question is Champlain’s seamanship. He was a master mariner.

Champlain was a prolific writer and while he wrote thousands of words about what he did and where he went, he wrote very little about himself. Fortunately, he wrote a lot about handling ships, the crew and navigation. In describing the qualities of a good captain, he wrote:

“He had better not be a delicate eater or drinker, otherwise he will be frequently upset by changes of climate and food. He must continually be on his guard against scurvy. He should be robust and alert and have good sea legs and be indefatigable so that whatever accident may befall he can keep the deck and in a strong voice order everyone to their duty. He must not be above lending a hand to the work himself, to make the seamen more prompt in their attention.”

He ran a tight ship but was anything but a tyrant. He was no Bligh as this statement notes:

“A good captain should punish ill-doers severely and reward good men, gratifying them from time to time to with a pat on the back, praising them but not overdoing it so as to give no occasion for envy - that gangrene that corrupts the body and if not promptly quenched leads to faction and conspiracy among the crew.”

He apparently ran a pretty strict Captain’s hour, stating:

“He should never let himself be overcome with wine for if an officer or seaman becomes a drunkard it is dangerous to entrust him with responsibility, he might be sleeping like a pig when an accident occurs and be the cause of the loss of the vessel.”

Champlain was paying attention when he was at sea.

“He should turn night into day, watch the greater part of the night and always sleep clothed so as to be ready to come on deck promptly if anything happens. The captain should keep a private compass below and consult it frequently to make sure the ship is on course.”

Ocean going ships were evolving during Champlain’s years at sea. Writer, David Fisher, notes that most of Champlain’s crossings were in vessels between 100-300 tons, mid-sized ships typically around 100’ in length. The French called them, navires de moyen calibre, and they were essentially sleeker and better sailing galleons. They were usually three masters, the foremast was raked forward, the mainmast aft, and the mizzen was fitted with a fore and aft lateen sail for better windward performance and ease the load on the helm. A forward sprit sail, though square rigged, could be sheeted tight, again to help con the ship to weather. Renowned marine historian Samuel Eliot Morrison claimed that Champlain writes of ocean passage making from the perspective of someone who clearly understands the sea, a sailor carefully monitoring the motion and pitch of the ship. Champlain noted that he often hove-to by dropping top sails, and backing the courses, a sailing technique that never goes out of fashion and a topic I am writing about very soon.

Champlain’s abilities as a navigator and cartographer go hand in hand, and he had few rivals in his day. He writes about the importance of dead reckoning and how when the ship is beating to weather, it is vital to make progress, not just sail north and south, something all sailors understand. He was one of the first navigators to use the modern English log, a length of calibrated line with tied knots, to measure speed. He was a master with the lead, and notes how coming onto the Grand Banks south of Newfoundland when approaching North America, sounding the bottom was vital in fog. He was also skilled in using the astrolabe, the predecessor to the sextant, for measuring the sun’s altitude at local apparent noon, and he carried ephemeris with declination tables to measure latitude. He also used a back staff, which he called a, crossbow, to observe Polaris, the north star, in the evening and a useful technique for finding latitude and direction. Although, like many mariners of his day, his latitude readings at sea were not all that accurate.

What was accurate, and also beautiful, were the hundred of charts and maps he created. He wrote, “there is nothing so useful for navigation as the nautical chart,” and even in this age of electronic navigation, I still agree with him. He should be considered in the same class as Captain Cook when it comes to early nautical cartography. His charts are all the more impressive considering how limited his instruments were. His last chart of the North American coast, from Delaware Bay to Southern Greenland, was published in 1632 and could be used for navigation today.

Sometimes I feel the a character in the song, you know the one, but in this case, 400 years too late. It would have been nice to sail with Samuel de Champlain, I am sure he would be a good shipmate with a lot of stories to share. Alas

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John Kretschmer has been sailing professionally for 40 years, logging 400,000+ miles. He is the author of 7 books, including the international bestseller Sailing a Serious Ocean. John Kretschmer Sailing offers training passages, workshops, ­webinars and Captain’s Hour, a monthly meeting about all aspects of offshore sailing. For more information, email John at john@johnkretschmersailing.com

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Dragging anchor was a fact of life in the not so long ago ‘old days’ but fortunately, is much less common today. Cruisers have never slept better thanks to the improvements in ground tackle. However, if your boat is like Quetzal, and you are using G70 chain to save weight in the bow and add more overall rode, there’s definitely a technique to setting the anchor, especially in less than ideal bottom conditions. You don’t just plop the anchor and chain over the bow, hit reverse and wait for the anchor to pull the boat up short. There’s more nuance to it.

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There has been a quiet change in the ground tackle world over the last 40 years. In 1990, typical bluewater boats carried a Bruce or CQR anchor and two hundred fifty feet of 3/8” BBB chain. These days, similar boats carry spade-style single fluke anchors and three hundred feet or more of 5/16” high-tensile chain. Anchoring performance is up, weight is down, how can it be? We will start with an overview of the developments and then get a practical view of how to apply these new developments. John will follow up with an article on the specific techniques he uses on Quetzal with a Spade anchor and high tensile, G70 chain.

Old Generation Anchors

After we left the world of fisherman pattern anchors behind, the CQR, developed in the 1930’s, was the preferred anchor. This pivoting plow-style anchor, was designed to plow into the sea bottom and hold tight. Unfortunately, they were tricky to set and tended to keep on plowing under load, drawing a furrow across the bottom as the boat dragged anchor.

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Our metro stop is directly across the square (or place in French) from the Arc de Triomphe. Every time I climb the stairs and feel the welcome rush of fresh air I am greeted by the magnificent Arc with the Eiffel Tower standing sentinel across the river. It’s a spectacular view, one that I never tire of and a daily reminder to thank Tadji for making Paris our home base when we are not at sea. I must confess, however, the Arc does not inspire images of General Charles De Gaulle marching heroically down the Champs Elysee with the French tri-color flapping in the wind, and I have no desire to burst into a full throated rendition of ‘La Marseillaise’. When I see the Arc I think about the enduring power of the Roman arch, the perfect architectural marriage of form and function. And from that course of thinking it’s only a short mental tack, following the precise curves that elegantly support the massive structure - to envisioning the ideal hull shape of a blue water sailboat! I know, it’s pathetic but I have sailboats on the brain, a rare but well documented disease - but for the record I am actually humming the Marseillaise as I type.

Paris is not exactly landlocked, with your mast shipped by truck or strapped on deck you can reach the English Channel by way of the Seine, or the Mediterranean via the Seine, Soane and Rhone, and even the Bay of Biscay by canals that eventually connect with the Loire, but it feels landlocked to me. Fortunately for my sanity I have been thinking a lot about Quetzal lately and corresponding with the talented team of electricians, engineers, painters and carpenters in Opua, New Zealand. They’re masterminding a few important repairs, some indulgent upgrades and a slew of never ending maintenance projects in preparation for another busy sailing season in 2026. I will be discussing these projects next week, along with the many refits and significant gear choices we’ve made through 23 years and nearly 250,000 miles of sailing Quetzal during our monthly Captain’s Hour Q&A.

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