The conversation flows freely from crocodile reports in the Solomons and anchorages in the Louisades to safety measures in Papua New Guinea waters. For every nautical mile we head north, the information becomes scarcer. And as we creep up the Vanuatuan archipelago it is the anchorages that become our libraries, each of their boats a book filled with fresh intel about the less traveled lands ahead. But if less information means more of the magic we’ve encountered over the past three weeks, I’m all for it.

We met our dinner hosts the previous day as we shared a steep sandspit for an anchorage in heart of the Maskelyne Islands. The reason we were all there was the same. Dugongs. These gentle yet elusive marine mammals are rumored to be here en mass and we were hoping for a rare opportunity to swim with them.

Local knowledge is key, so we met the principal of the local school and bundled into his cousin’s outrigger, accompanied by a few of his students.

“Do you think we’ll see some?” I ask hopefully

His mouth relaxed into a kind smile as he chuckled out his response – “I think so”.

Within seconds of plunging into the water it was clear that we weren’t alone. A nursery of around 20 dugongs gracefully enveloped us. Majestic mothers watched on as their curious calves glided toward us for a closer look, flapping their mermaid-like tails and inviting us to play. Known for being shy and guarded with their distance, this welcome into their pod was a true honour.

But as we prepared our boats to sail east the following day, we knew were about to experience something even more unique.

Sailing to Pentecost is one of the few ways to reach its shores - a place with no ports, no hotels, and zero tourist infrastructure - where life is still rooted deep in local tradition (kastom). After a day of sailing, we pull into a wide bay dwarfed by a massive, jungle-draped ridge that runs like a spine down the island. The local chief navigates us to the north of the anchorage to ensure we stay well clear of sacred ground. We have arrived just in time to witness one of the most perilous rituals on the planet: The Naghol Land Diving.

Once anchored, the chief aligns his hollowed-out canoe so that it sits side-to with Jacqeau. We thank him for permission to anchor and ask him what his village needs. Trading is the heartbeat of cruising life in these remote islands - it’s a symbiotic relationship where locals rely on sailors for provisions, and we rely on them for fresh produce. After a brief negotiation, the deal is sealed: flour and sugar in exchange for a heavy hand of bananas and fresh local cabbage.

The next morning, a collection of sailors met some locals on the beach. After a game of human tetris, we successfully managed to squeeze sixteen adults, five kids, and a tuna into the back of a single pickup truck and began our ascent. Ultimately, our snug arrangement turned out to be a blessing; pressed together, we served as a makeshift suspension system, easing the jarring ride up the steep, bumpy dirt road.

Thick, wild and wonderful vegetation explodes out the sides of the roads. Huge, majestic Banyan trees wrap themselves around their neighboring giant ferns dappled with pillar-box red hibiscus. Half an hour later we reached a clearing with a neat village off the side, the truck slammed to a halt, and we set to work disentangling ourselves.

Our guide was called Bartholomew, a man with a wirey face, tufts of wispy grey hair sprouting out the top of his head and an old rainbow umbrella as a walking stick. He introduced us to the chief, who approached with a broad smile before beckoning over the women of the village in their intricate, hand-woven grass skirts. We were welcomed warmly as guests, each of us receiving a traditional salusalu placed gently around our necks.

The ritual was about to begin. The village gathered below a staggering thirty-meter structure of lashed saplings and vines, their feet stomping out a heavy, rhythmic chant. Tension mounted as the first jumper - a boy of just ten - began his climb. These dives are steeped in tradition, acting both as a rite of passage for young boys post-circumcision and a blessing for the upcoming yam harvest.

Once the vines were secured around his ankles, the boy edged forward onto his platform. He stood motionless for a moment with his hands lifted in the air, trusting his life entirely to the elasticity of vines cut that morning. The chants swelled into a crescendo, punctuated by sharp whistles from the men below, and then, without hesitation, he leaped.

Time seemed to freeze as he hurled himself forward. An agonizing silence fell over the clearing as he plummeted toward the earth until the vines snapped taut just inches from the dirt, absorbing his momentum with a violent recoil. The crack was so loud I was sure he was broken, but he instantly sprang to his feet, grinning as he was chopped free by the elders with a machete.

We watched three more jumps, each from a higher tier, building up to the village’s most renowned diver. This wasn’t just the climax of the day; it was the final leap of the entire Naghol season. As his feet touched the ground, the whole village ran to surround him, drowning the clearing in elation and relief for a season completed without harm.

Back on board that evening the silence of the anchorage felt profound. We had set sail into these remote waters chasing rumors of dugongs and wooden towers, relying on little more than shared stories over shared meals. But as I looked at the salusalu resting on our chart table, I knew this day would remain one of the most special and unique moments of our entire circumnavigation—a privilege to be welcomed into a world so untouched, so fierce, and so deeply alive.

Everyone has their own way of making it work. Sailors, by nature, are intelligent, resourceful, and always willing to adapt. I’m constantly in awe of the creative ways people fund a life at sea. Over the years, JP and I have tried our hands at several different avenues to keep Jacqeau moving.

In this article, I’m breaking down our exact financial blueprint, going honestly through our primary income streams and side hustles and what it’s like managing them from a boat. In each section I’ll share the set up, pros, cons and how much they’ve made us over the years. I’ll also touch on a few other popular ways blue-water sailors keep their cruising funds topped up.

Contents

1. Setting the Foundations

2. Property & Short Term Rentals

3. Professional Yachting & Freelance Work (Including Salary Guidelines)

4. Brand Partnerships and Sponsorship

5. Secondary Streams & Creative Side Hustles

6. Other Ways Cruisers Fund the Dream

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Yawning, I layer up, my body swaying in unison with the boat. There’s a melodic mismatch as she creaks and groans through the swell like an orchestra tuning up. Clambering up the companionway, I exchange a tired smile with JP before glancing to windward for squall lines. The final bruised wall of deep grey has just rolled over the bow. Behind it a bleeding line of orange fights its way through, signaling a new day at sea.

At 230nm it’s a short passage that’s easily achievable with only one overnight stop. Yet we’re struggling to find the joy in sailing at the moment and these passages have more of an air of ‘just getting there’. The weight of our mission to circumnavigate is starting to pull at our heels and it’s these relentless tiring, squally passages make that pull more of a tug. It’s dawning on us why most people end their journey in New Zealand.

I find myself romanticising days that seemed simpler; the glass-flat reaches of the Scottish Inner Hebrides or drifting between Caribbean islands to get to a beach bar by sunset. But I’m quick to remove the rose-tinted glasses and remind myself that those days most likely were filled with their own set of boat worries and woes. The human mind is a merciful editor, curating the spectacular and burying the gruelling. Years from now, my memory will strike the record of this rolly, grey passage in the South Pacific, leaving only the magical moments we are privileged to witness as sailors.

As JP heads down below to get some sleep, I take the hold of the salt crusted helm but fail to find the right line between two confused, short period swells. In defeat I press on the autopilot which admittedly could do a much better job than my tired brain right now and let my mind drift back to New Caledonia.

We checked into the capital, Nouméa, and explored its fractured streets - spaces torn between the scars of recent unrest and the wealth generated by the nickel industry. Amidst the damage, clusters of upscale French bakeries and restaurants poked through the rubble like new growth after a forest fire In between the mandatory choreography of cruising life—laundry, fuel, provisions we enjoyed the city’s music festival with the marina bar hosting the jazz stage.

Swimming was limited as it has one of the highest shark attack rates in the world. Even when we walked round to Baie des Citrons to swim within the 750m steel shark net we did so with trepidation seeing that the net had been breached the night before. Sam, a tall friendly New Zealander, told us with that casual, sun-bleached cheerfulness Kiwis reserve for mortal peril: “Oh, they get inside the net all the time.”. It was time to move on.

Sailing between the New Caledonia archipelago we saw the super El Nino raise its head as we navigated heavy rain, short period swell and a conveyer belt of squalls day and night. The undulating hills of the mainland - the very ridges that led Captain Cook to name this place Caledonia after Scottish highlands -vanished entirely behind a stubborn curtain of rain.

But the sea eventually paid its debts. It gave us the Île des Pins.

Nicknamed l’île la plus proche du paradis - the closest island to paradise - it sits due west of the capital, cutting a silhouette unlike anywhere else on earth. We pick up a mooring in Kuto Bay, the tropical turquoise water bordered by a spectacular, blindingly white beach. What stole the show however, were the mass of towering narrow columnar pine trees. We’d never sailed into anywhere like it and we marvelled at the prehistoric landscape like no other.

We rented a car and traced the spine of the island north toward the piscine naturelle, a tidal lagoon carved into the coral and teeming with reef fish and sea turtles. The raw Pacific Ocean bursts in through gaps in the rocks causing some rumbling rapids in which we joyously tumbled until the sun dipped below the pines.

Over a whiskey sour at anchor that evening, we had looked out past the barrier reef, smugly watching the dark outlines of other yachts wrestling with the rain clouds. Who would want to be sailing in that? we joked, a defense mechanism against the absolute certainty that it would be our turn again soon.

And now, it is. But as the faint, blue silhouette of Tanna rises out of the horizon, suddenly I don’t feel so tired anymore. Before us lies a new country, a new architecture of culture, landscape, and wildlife. Headphones in, I crank up my favourite song, grab the helm and work in rhythm with Jacqeau to get there.

The haunting scream of the wind, rain so thick it feels like you’re underwater, crackling lightning, and a pitch blackness that feels absolute. Sails are manically flapping as the crew desperately tries to reef while dodging a violent crash gybe from a wildly shifting wind.

It would be one of the scariest moments of their lives. Yet, as offshore sailors, it’s an experience we endure—sometimes several times a night. Squalls demand the utmost respect and underestimating them can lead to devastating consequences. After experiencing more than my fair share of them, I’ve put together a few things I’ve picked up along the way that helped my understanding, forecasting, and surviving in these atmospheric engines.

Contents

1. Understanding the Science

2. Forecasting Identifying Directions & Collisions

3. The Order of Affairs

4. Identifying Strength

5. Your Engine is Your Friend

6. Using Your Autopilot the Right Way

1. Understanding the Science

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And yet, last week I found myself crumpled on the floor of our boat, helplessly staring at a water-filled bilge, questioning if it had finally broken me.

Any boat owner will tell you that their boat has a soul, or at least a personality. You get to a point in ownership where you can almost hear your yacht’s thoughts (or perhaps you’ve just been at sea so long that you’ve gone mad). By the time we sailed under the Auckland Harbour Bridge, Jacqeau was practically crying out for a refit. Our tired, old Westerbeke engine had sprung a leak, our electric bilge pump couldn’t keep up, and our manual bilge pump was completely clogged. It was with a massive sigh of relief that we tied our sinking ship onto the dock and turned off that engine for the last time. At least the Westerbeke’s final passage would be one to remember.

I started the refit filled with optimism. Our master planning board was propped up in the saloon, covered in brightly coloured post-it notes, each one representing a slice of our lives that would be better once the job was done. Yes, the list was massive and highly improbable, but it was also exciting.

Things started happening quickly. The engine and generator were out by day two, and the boat transformed overnight from our home into a frenzy of sanding, drilling, cutting, and painting. New Zealand proved to be the perfect pit stop for the work; the ease of operating in a cooler climate where you can actually understand the labels at the hardware store gave us a massive head start compared to previous years.

But as always, the job list began to snowball, morphing into a far greater beast. Each task was augmented by some mysterious new problem the second it was started, turning a quick morning job into a week-long ordeal. As the winter days got shorter, we found ourselves working seven days a week well into the dark. Still, we were making good progress. The new engine install was well underway, and we’d fitted a new autohelm, a fresh bilge system, a windlass motor, a water heater, a propeller, and a new set of portlights and hatches. We’d even done an interior paint job, repaired our generator, and created new cockpit panels, to name just a few.

Naturally, everything overran. Our original 30-day target was now a dot in the past, sitting back and smirking at us. But we had a time limit that we couldn’t ignore. Because Jacqeau was originally an American vessel, we couldn’t plug into Kiwi shore power and were relying on solar to keep the boat alive. All that sanding and grinding had taken its toll on our battery bank. With winter edging in, we needed to launch soon so we could get the generator back up and running to charge them.

We had worked around the clock in the run-up to splash, leaving us sleep-deprived by the time Jacqeau was floating again. Yet it all seemed worth it as we stripped back the protective plastic and replaced tools and engine parts with cushions and decor. Our home was back.

Sadly, it was not for long.

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Whether you are looking for desert island perfection, reefs to snorkel at dawn, or hidden gardens where the Creole flavors outshine the superyachts nearby, this is our definitive collection of the spots we returned to time and time again. Pack your dry bag and prep the tender—here is our insider’s guide to our West-Indian charter itinerary’s.

Contents:

1. For Nature & the Wild

2. For the “Old Caribbean” Vibe

3. For Surfing

4. For Eating & Drinking

5. Secret Spots

For Nature & The Wild

Cade’s Reef, Antigua

This partly submerged oval reef is famous for all the wrong reasons: it has been the graveyard of many a shipwreck. Navigate the pass correctly, however, and you’ll find a slice of the South Pacific in the Caribbean Sea. At high tide, the reef is barely visible, giving you the sensation of anchoring in a unique, calm pool out at sea. Pick a calm day for it and wait for the day-tourist boats to do their thing; you’ll have a spectacular sunset and the entire reef to yourselves by evening.

Deshaies, Guadeloupe

A favorite hop from Antigua, Deshaies offers solid protection from the trade winds and easy Customs clearance. The anchorage itself is busy and subject to current eddies that make boats point in wildly different directions—and more often than not, it’s subject to a swell that wraps around the corner. Why visit?

Firstly, the anchorage itself is beautiful. Nestled between two dramatic hills, you’ll find yourself waking up to a cacophony of birdsong. As the sun lowers in the evening, an enchanted light fills the bay, softening the wild fauna that climbs the hills and creating a wonderful spot for a sundowner. Secondly, it has some of the best coral we have seen in the Caribbean. Anchor your tender near the northern edge of the rocks and you’ll be in a healthy reef teeming with fish, turtles, and coral. Finally, you can hike over the northern hill through a cool, shaded forest to find one of the Caribbean’s most spectacular beaches. Grande Anse is a mile-long crescent bordered by lush vegetation and palm trees. Bring a packed lunch, sit on the southern side of the beach (which you will undoubtedly have to yourself), and spend the day enjoying the gentle, crystal-clear waves.

Pigeon Beach, Antigua

Pigeon is the beach that serves the entirety of Falmouth Harbour, and for hundreds of years, it has been a wonderful melting pot of locals and sailors. Catch it on a weekend when the yachties trickle down after work and it will be packed with boomboxes, beach games, and BBQs—but there is another side most miss. Anchor on the southernmost point of the beach near the reef; there are plenty of resident turtles, and they are massive. They are most active during dawn and dusk—look across the water to see multiple heads pop up, then jump in with a snorkel to swim respectfully with them.

Sandy Island, Carriacou

This is the ultimate desert island fantasy. A small strip of powdery white sand surrounded by an electric blue lagoon. As it is a marine protected area, the snorkeling here is great. You can swim into the island with a dry bag and spend the day relaxing in Caribbean bliss.

Anse du Gouverneur, St. Barths

There is so much more to St. Barths than Nikki Beach and magnums of Dom Pérignon. Gouverneur is entirely free of commercial development, feeling like an undiscovered gem you share only with the resident tortoises. It can be a “rolly” anchorage, so time your visit with a calm swell.

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After a tough few months, we were forced to leave Jacqeau on a mooring in the USVIs. Our boat was broken, we were broke and we were about to start a job we didn’t really want. This chapter is about the highs and lows of yachting, the grit that sits side-by-side with the glamour and piecing together the parts keep that keep dream alive.

Antigua will always have a special place in our hearts. As the Caribbean capital of yachting, it was where many of my parents’ friends settled, and I spent much of my childhood digging holes on Pigeon Beach with an assembly of other “yachtie” children. Furthermore, it’s where JP and I had first fallen in love, secretly undergoing our relationship that was strictly forbidden on the yacht we were working on. It was on this island where the dream of sailing round the world began and we’d sit for hours on end scrolling through boats for sale. As a result, we had always imagined sailing Jacqeau into Falmouth Harbour. Yet we had found ourselves firmly on hard ground 150miles away, in a USVI airport getting intensely questioned about our US Visas.

Jacqeau had been left on a mooring buoy in the charge of a psytrance-loving local who agreed to check on her periodically. We, meanwhile, were flying back to Antigua (via Miami, of course) to start work. We were without a boom, heavily in debt, and leaving our boat at the opposite end of the Caribbean from where we intended. Perfect.

The job in question? We were to be running an Oyster yacht for the season, taking charge of it and running charters and racing. It was our first time working together in this capacity and it took some time to find our feet. As a female sailor who had worked hard to be recognised for my skills, I feared being pigeonholed back into a stewardess or chef’s role and ultimately that will always lead to unbalance. Living together, working together and trying to sail round the world together comes with its challenges. We were learning, day by day how to navigate them – sometimes we handled it well, others not so much.

When we bought Jacqeau we had naively thought that we would become “social media extraordinaries” and never have to work full time again. It was a ludicrous dream. Now, however we were having to run a social media platform with brand commitments and no boat in sight. Luckily our sponsors were understanding, and we got creative with our content.

Though the charters were hard work sometimes, we enjoyed them. Having the chance to buy whichever ingredients you liked and cooking with them was a luxury for us and we were lucky to have some wonderful charter guests who we are still in touch with to this day. Our own passion for sailing was reborn through our guests as they basked in the glory of perfect days on the Caribbean blue. At the end of the season, we had the owner and his family onboard to compete in the Oyster Regatta Antigua. Even though it was far from a professional racing boat, we loved the opportunity to be calling the shots in the regatta and were thrilled to come home with some silverware at the end.

Life in Antigua was as raucous as ever. The yachting world is filled with the most charming, hardworking people I know, but they certainly know how to party. We celebrated Christmas in English Harbour with an endless stream of lobster tails sizzling on dockside barbeques, hopping from superyacht to superyacht for champagne, rum punch and full Christmas dinners. It felt good to be surrounded by friends and we appeared to have earnt some serious kudos from our previous years’ exploits, with everyone wanting to hear the stories from ‘life on the other side’.

But we had to get our boat back. Six weeks after leaving Jacqeau in the USVIs, we found a small window to fly to St Croix. We opened the companionway to a rancid smell. In our rush to leave, we’d forgotten a box of onions hidden in a locker. They were now a liquid, revolting mess. We were welcomed back to the reality of boat life: rubber gloves on, breathing strictly through our mouths.

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The Quick Facts

• Total Distance : 43 Nautical Miles (80 km)

• Total Locks: 6 Chambers (3 Up at Gatun; 1 Down at Pedro Miguel; 2 Down at Miraflores)

• Max Elevation: 85 Feet (26m) above sea level at Gatun Lake

• Minimum Speed: Your boat must be able to maintain 5 knots under power

• Required Crew: 1 Skipper + 4 Line Handlers + 1 Official Advisor

Phase 1: Paperwork and Preparation.

When we transited, we were going East (Atlantic) to West (Pacific). Although you can do this at any time of year, the most common time to do this is Spring, as it sets you up for the ideal window to cross the Pacific. Due to work we ended up transiting in July.

Before you even get to the canal there are several things you need to do. You can either tackle these yourselves but most cruisers use an agent. We did ours through an agent who we contacted 3 months prior and we would highly recommend. Comment if you would like their details.

The Inspection

Before you can get approved there is a virtual inspection of your boat for which you need to submit a lot of details including several accurate measurements and photos - this includes any extensions to your hull such as anchors, davit’s or aft frames.

You will also need to obtain a Panama Cruising permit and submit your boat registration and passports.

The Crew

You are required to have 1 x skipper and 4 line handlers. These line handlers can be anyone and in peak season there are often lots of people keen to crew in exchange for transport and sustenance as they get a chance to do the panama canal.

We were out of season and in a hurry so we opted to pay some local line handlers that our agent sorted. From our experience we would recommend having at least a couple of them as they know exactly what they are doing and ours were good vibes.

Waiting for Transit

Once you reach the East side of the Canal cruisers usually wait in Shelter Bay Marina. It is a decent marina with a gym, pool, restaurant/bar and a small but decently stocked chandlery. There is a bus shuttle service from the marina to the local supermarkets and hardware stores for provisioning etc.

Once you reach the entrance to the marina you will inform your agent and they will then be able to give you a transit date and time. Then it’s time to do your final bits of preparation.

One of the biggest parts of the prep is ‘canal-proofing’ your deck. The monkey’s fists (weighted balls at the end of the heaving lines) thrown by the lock workers are heavy and can be surprisingly destructive.

• Remove or cover: Solar panels, canvas shades, and fragile instruments.

• Protect the windows: If you have large glass areas, consider taping them or covering them with plywood.

It is your responsibility to provide food and drink for everyone onboard. If you have an agent they will give you a comprehensive list of what is needed but it includes lots of bottles of water, snacks and cooked meals. If you have time to prep some meals beforehand that you can whack in the oven, I recommend it as you don’t have to be down below cooking and missing the action.

The night before your transit, the agent drops round the lines and fenders and you’re ready to go.

Phase 2: The Ascent

There are generally two transit schedules: the “one-day sprint” (starting around 4:00 AM) or the “two-day journey” with an overnight stay in the lake. Generally you don’t get to decide, as you get given your slot. We ended up on the two day transit, which was nice, as we got to do the whole thing in day light.

Our 4 line handlers joined us on the dock and we exited the marina and headed out to the anchorage to wait to pick up our advisor. It is compulsory to have one advisor per boat, they are fascinating pools of knowledge as they work for the canal and then choose to spend their days off as advisors. The board via a pilot vessel so be ready with the fenders for when they arrive.

Depending on the time of year, there is a chance you will be rafted up with our cruising boats. There are 4 options which are demonstrated below. As we transited in low season we were in the centre chamber. Being the only small sailing boat with giant cargo ships was daunting and mesmerizing in equal measure.

Day one involves three ascending locks to reach Gatun Lake. Each time you enter a lock, the first thing you need to do is get secured. Lock workers throw heaving lines down to you which you will need to attach to the lines you have onboard with a bowline. Ensure you are good at tying quick and secure bowlines and that your lines are fed properly and ready to get purchase on a cleat or a winch.The lock workers are extremely skilled at throwing the lines and hold huge competition where they have to try and get them into a small and far away target.

Once you are secured the gates close and the water rushes in. Sometimes the turbulence from the locks and the wash from the cargo ships can be intense. It’s the crew’s job to keep the boat centered and tensioned as the water level rises. Keep a close eye on everything around you can your advisor.

We reached Gatun Lake by evening and tied up to a massive mooring buoy. Be careful on this mooring buoy as it damaged the side our our boat so ensure that you have lots of fenders. The advisor gets picked up by a pilot vessel and we shared a beer and dinner with our line handlers whilst watching the football. The Line handlers fished off the side but refused to go swimming as there are lots of crocodiles. Most of them slept outside or on the sofas.

Pro tip: Gatun Lake is fresh water. It’s a great chance to run your engine, generator and watermaker (if the intake is deep) to flush out the salt, though the lake water can be quite silty.

Phase 3: The Descent into the Pacific

After picking up a new Adviser for the day—ours was a lock mechanic working his day off—we began the long motor across the lake.

The transition from industrial jungle to raw nature is incredible. Our Adviser pointed out several things to us and we spotted four crocodiles gliding along the banks.

It is a long motor thorugh the lake and, being July, it was swelteringly hot, especially as we had no shade covers up. I would definitely recommend lots of cold drinks and some small handheld fans.

We have 4 locks to go through today, each one descending. The speed at which the water rises and falls is making to watch and it is definitely surreal being squished in with these huge cargo ships. It is absolutely roasting and because we have to take down all our shade due to the flying lines we all get pretty hot and sweaty.

At approximately 3:00 PM, the final gate opened. We dropped off our crew and Adviser, and for the first time, our keel felt the waters of the Pacific Ocean.

The Costs

Note: Fees increased significantly in January 2025. Below are the current estimated costs for a vessel under 65ft.

• Transit Toll (up to 65ft): $2,130

• Transit Inspection (TVI): $75

• Security Fee: $165

• New Vessel Scheduling Fee: $500

• Sanitary Declaration Fee: $100

• Fenders & Line Rental: ~$125

• Agent Fee: ~$450

• Panama Cruising Permit: $235

• Line Handlers (x4 required): $480

• Total Estimated Cost: ~$4,260

Summary

While the logistics are complex and the fees continue to rise, there is no feeling quite like watching the Pacific gates swing open and realising you’ve just crossed a continent under your own power. With the right agent, a solid crew, and a healthy respect for the ‘monkey’s fists,’ this bucket-list milestone will undoubtedly be a highlight of your cruising logbook.

If you have any further questions – drop them in the comments and I will try my best to answer them.

Provisioning for a boat is so much more than a trip to the shops. It is a true art form that requires diligence, hyper-organization, and bucketfuls of patience. Once the lines are tossed and the horizon becomes your only neighbor, the galley transforms into a closed ecosystem—one that the entire crew relies on for survival.

Feeling the pressure? Well, to make it even worse: in this environment, the traditional rules no longer apply. On a boat, your greatest enemies aren’t just hunger—they are humidity, salt air, heat, and the relentless motion of the sea.

After years of provisioning for ocean crossings and day-to-day life at sea, I’ve decided to share as much of my knowledge as possible. I’ve spent hours trawling through foreign supermarkets, desperately trying to “act out” various foods through dubious hand gestures. I’ve learned tried-and-tested ways to keep food fresh for as long as possible, and I’ve picked up some invaluable tricks to make life at sea just that little bit better.

When you are mid-passage, food ceases to be merely biological fuel; it becomes the primary marker of time and the most reliable source of comfort. In the blur of watches and waves, the ritual of a shared meal provides a necessary structure to the day, offering a moment for the crew to decompress, communicate, and reset. It’s vital, therefore, that we give it our best shot.

In this complete guide I will be covering the following:

1. The Art of Preservation and Storage

   1. Fundamental principles of food longevity when the elements are against you.

2. Day-to-Day Provisioning

   1. How to manage daily shopping when your home is on the water.

3. Offshore Strategy & Game Plan

   1. Invaluable tips for food and drink storage that just make sense.

4. The Offshore Meal Plan:

   1. A practical example of a passage-ready menu.

5. The “Wonder Spreadsheet”

   1. An automated tool I’ve refined over the years. Select your meal plan and crew count, and it calculates your shopping list for you.

Chapter 1 - The Art of Preservation and Storage

In this chapter, we dive into the fundamental principles of food longevity. We will move beyond the refrigerator, exploring time-tested “old world” techniques and modern hacks that allow fresh produce to survive for weeks and dry goods to remain pest-free in the tropics.

Success on a crossing isn’t measured by how much food you start with, but by the quality of the last fresh meal you serve as you’re pulling into port.

The Hierarchy of Survival

I’ve always considered having fresh produce left on the final day of a passage to be a major personal victory. To achieve this, you have to respect the Hierarchy of Survival.

• The One-Week Wonders: These bring a luxurious “zing” and heavenly salads to the first few days, but they are incredibly sensitive to temperature and boat movement. Berries will quickly turn to mush with the boat’s motion, and salad leaves will grow limp and soggy. Enjoy them early; they aren’t built for the long haul.

• The Reliable Regulars: These require close attention and careful storage (which we will cover below), but their thicker skins and lower water content mean they can keep meals interesting for weeks.

• The Iron Men: These are your workhorses. Keep them in the right spot on the boat, and you could probably turn back around at the end of the passage and they’d still be good.

The Guide to Preservation and Storage

Fresh Produce

Different foods require vastly different environments to survive the rigors of life at sea. The following table outlines where—and where not—to store your provisions, along with essential, time-tested tricks to significantly extend their shelf life. By mastering these techniques, you move beyond the limitations of the refrigerator and ensure you and your crew remain fed and happy till the end.

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After a brutal passage from America, we finally reached the turquoise waters of the BVIs. But the “honeymoon phase” lasted less than 24 hours. From hitting a reef to a catastrophic break in the middle of a midnight squall, Chapter 6 is the story of one of our lowest points—and the small, silver tribute that finally turned our luck around.

Arrival

I warned you at the start of this book that the first 6 months of boat ownership did not favour us. This next chapter details the last of a series of unfortunate events before our luck turned and we finally got to enjoy the joys of sailing round the world.

We arrived in the BVI’s skeletons of our previous selves -inches gone from our waists, new lines etched into our faces but with a hollow-eyed relief that we were there. JP had spent some of his childhood holidays chartering catamarans round the area and had always dreamt of returning on our boat. Furthermore, just 8 months prior, when working on superyacht Marie we had wistfully gazed at the spattering of tropical of islands from behind our chamois’ excitedly making plans for our own cruising adventure here someday – and that someday was now.

Aptly named for its vast gleaming beach that creates an irresistible shade of turquoise in its shallows, White Beach borders the south side of Virgin Gorda. It is home to the Soggy Dollar Bar –originator of the “Painkiller” cocktail, which, when we were in the depths of the storm a few days prior had jokingly become our shining light – “only 4 more days till a painkiller on White Beach…”. Still slightly delirious, we motored through a gap in the reef, anchored, and jumped into the Caribbean water. We’d made it. 11 days ago we were stuffing hot water bottles down our foulies and now we were swimming in 27degree water – what an incredible feeling. We spent the morning putting the boat back together as there had been considerable damage during the passage. We’d fixed the majors on the fly but the sheer amount of water we’d had onboard meant everything was soaking. Water had leaked down into our steering compartment and the entire bulkhead it was attached to was weak and rotting. On top of that we had a broken autohelm, no check stay, a ripped staysail and a hole in our boat where the galley window had been. But for now, it was a case of drying everything out and making it liveable again. We called our families who (for the sake of their sanity) we had been downplaying the situation we were in up until now. From the safety of the anchorage, we told them what really happened. Then, finally, it was time for that Painkiller.

We swam in and suddenly we ashore, amongst the throngs of happy holiday boaters who sat looking out to their charter boats peacefully anchored and thrilled with the calm Caribbean sailing conditions. It felt weird. We’d just been through the worst sailing experience of our lives; we’d fought mother nature and were so proud about how we had come out the other side. But none of that mattered here it the bustling queue of people anxious to get their next cocktail.

The Reef

At dusk we re-anchored the boat. The reef wasn’t lining up with the charts and seeing as we knew no one would be coming and going during the night we decided to play it safe and plonk ourselves in line with the middle of the channel markers. That night was due to be our first uninterrupted sleep sine we departed. We were excited. Sadly, that was not the case. Around 2am we heard an incredibly jarring sound below us. The whole boat shuddered. Confused and sleep-deprived we didn’t know what was going on. It happened again, but worse – this was the sickening tetonic crunch of fibreglass. This time we sprang into action, we got up on deck and shone a torch into the inky black sea, and there in the spotlight was the reef and sure enough, we were hitting it. Quickly we pulled up on the anchor to get the boat safe and then started the engine.. We had to wait till daylight to see the damage so for the next few hours we entered a broken sleep state anxious to see what further destruction we had done to our boat. Sunrise came and it was time to face reality.

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Contents:

1. What is a Professional Yacht Delivery?

2. What Roles are There Onboard and what Skills & Qualifications do I need?

3. How do I get a Professional Delivery?

4. How Much will I get Paid?

1. What is a Professional Yacht Delivery?

This can vary hugely, but it is essentially getting paid to help deliver a yacht from one location to another. In this article we will mainly be covering larger, full-time professionally run yachts however there is a huge industry in delivering smaller owner-run boats as well. We will briefly touch on that here – these sorts of deliveries are usually done by independent freelance captains or small-boat delivery companies such as PYD. The captain is usually assigned the overall budget for the delivery including food and crew and he/she will divvy it up as they see fit. This will most likely cover a split between more-experienced paid crew and less-experienced crew who should expect bed and board.

What we will cover here however, is crewing for professionally run yacht. These yachts have a requirement for minimum number of crew to be onboard for offshore passages meaning that they will often require more people on top of their full-time crew to safe-man a passage.

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The reason for its namesake is that it’s known for its extremely unsettled and unpredictable maritime conditions. Driven by the persistent presence of the South Pacific Convergence Zone (SPCZ), this volatile area causes the steady trade winds to become unreliable, often yielding sudden squalls, low-pressure systems, and strong wind shifts. It’s notorious for wildly inaccurate weather predictions, meaning you have to rely solely on reading the weather in front of you.

We’d already been treated to a delightful preview of this on our sail north from Tahiti to Raiatea, when the forecast had anticipated light and fair winds with no rain. The reality was being relentlessly poured on in a 30-knot+ thunder and lightning storm for hours on end.

We started the passage from Bora Bora rather uncomfortably where big ocean swell fought against its rebound from the surrounding islands. The wind that we needed to fill our sails and drive us through the sea state was not apparent and caused the rigging and sails to bang and jar—a shuddering sound that pains any boat owner to hear. We resorted to dropping all sails and turning on our protesting engine, making for a slow, noisy start.

The swell eventually died down and the wind filled in, allowing us to hoist all our sails and head in the right direction. Knowing that we couldn’t rely on any forecast, we felt like we would jinx things by saying it aloud, but we appeared to be having some excellent sailing. Not too fast, not too slow, everything was just right. Slowly our shoulders untensed, and we stopped questioning if the radar was working when we couldn’t see any cloud activity. The only sound was the soothing rush of water along the hull. Perhaps this Dangerous Middle didn’t always have to be quite so dangerous? The next week or so at sea was some of our nicest time out in the ocean. We didn’t see a single thing, barely a cloud, no boats, no wildlife, and no fish. It really was just us, suspended bang in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

We had an action-packed couple of days as we celebrated Charlotte’s birthday with decorations in the cockpit, birthday brownies, champagne from Bora Bora, and a movie at sunset—a truly unique event. The following day we sailed through the Dateline, meaning a date vanished from our logbook, leaping us 24 hours ahead—a temporal trick only open to ocean travelers.

We often feel an offshore passage tests you right at the end, just as you’ve got comfortable, and this was no different. The wind picked up for our final three days at sea, and we were keeping a close eye on satellite images to dodge electrical storms. Sailing wing-on-wing with a poled-out genoa, Jacqeau felt balanced and good, managing the large, short waves with grace.

After a sleepless final night, we were rewarded with the incredible feeling of seeing a new land. No matter how long we do this, it’s always one of our favourite moments; arriving by sea, having battled the elements, feels like you have truly earned the right to explore the magnificent country ahead of you.

CLOTHING

1. Foul Weather Clothing

   1. A good set of foul weather gear may seem expensive, but it will be a priceless investment for your sailing career. Things we look out for are:

   2. Fluorescent hood – this could help save your life if you go overboard

   3. Non-corrosion zips (i.e non-metal)

   4. Fleece Lined collar and pockets

   5. Reflective strips, again, these help identify you with a torch and are useful if you have people up on the bow and night and you can see their reflections.

   6. Inside pockets, great for valuables.

   7. Chest pockets in salopettes, we’ve just always found these way more comfortable

   

2. Footwear

   1. Sailing Shoes – These can just be some comfortable trainers but make sure they are separate from the shoes you will wear on land and that the soles are clean before coming onboard. Some boats might require for the soles to be white to ensure they don’t mark the deck so make sure you ask beforehand.

   2. Sailing Boots – When it gets wet and wild, you’re going to want to be wearing some sailing boots. There’s a whole range of these available from neoprene lined to your more basic welly type. In our books, as long as they keep the water out and have good grip on the deck, then they’re doing the right job.

3. Other Clothing. Aside from your day to day clothes we’d recommend you bring:

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But it was this smaller, lesser known island that captured our hearts. With a population of just over 1,000 and a strong opposition to the building of resort hotels, it is a stunning example of Polynesian life that feels lightyears away from the honeymooners of Bora Bora. And, even if the hotels did want to build, the island has a self defence mechanism that has been in place for thousands of years - its’ pass. There is one way in and one way out and it’s through a narrow and extremely hazardous corridor in the coral reef. Placed on the South of the island, it funnels in the prevailing swell creating perfect but deadly barreling waves - a wall of water preventing anyone coming or leaving.

A single dusty track road runs round the circumference where local dogs will escort you wagging their tails as if excited to show these new visitors round their home. Shops are simple and stocked with canned goods and store supplies. A small supply of fruit and veg comes in on the ferry once a week. The precious cargo of salad leaves, pineapples, aubergines and beans load off the dock guarded by a small cheerful group of local women with their accounting books at the ready as a crowd gathers. For that morning, they become the most important people on the island as they hold the key to the inhabitants’ nutrition.

Despite the hustle and bustle of the vitamin-C hungry crowd, the system is well organised with people having placed their orders beforehand. Unfortunately we knew little of this pre-arrangement and I was left looking at the apologetic head honcho offering a bag of damp salad leaves and some bell peppers which was all she had left. Later we managed to source a bunch of pineapples from a local who had put a healthy margin on the off-the-ferry price. Beggars can’t be choosers! After trading one of our pineapples for green beans from new boat friends our fresh galley was complete and the inventive cooking began - pineapple, green bean salad anyone?

Weather conditions meant once we arrived inside the lagoon we weren’t able to leave again for 8 days. Time slowed to the pace of this ancient island, a forced break encouraging us to stretch into the days; walking, swimming, boat jobs and admin. One evening we heard news of a Tsunami hitting the northern pacific and tracking our way. At the time there was little information about the effect it was due to have on French Polynesia however, we weren’t able to leave regardless so it was a case of going to bed and hoping for the best. Thankfully for us, the islanders and our neighboring yachts, there was little to no impact and life resumed as normal.

The boats in the anchorage keep a keen eye on the swell charts. Windows to leave can be weeks apart and many are waiting to start the sometimes daunting passage to Tonga. When swell, tide and wind line up, the activity ramps up as we all start to prepare to leave. There is a narrow, shallow and uncharted route back to the pass which upon leaving we have to cross several wider catamarans who have just entered. It takes careful concentration and a good sonar to ensure we navigate it safely.

We exit the island on a smooth outgoing tide, the gentle ripples against the reef showing no resemblance to the frightening walls of water it produced just 24 hours ago. But that is the beauty of living your life dictated by the ever changing world and we leave the island grateful to have experienced this pocket of Polynesian charm.

Heavily reefed and wearing every layer possible, we hurtled out of New York with 40knts of wind behind us. As the city lights became a distant glow, the boat jerked from side to side, confused by the bounce of the swell against the land. Our bodies, now settled into 6 months of land life started to re-adjust to the constant movement of the sea and by nightfall we began to slot into a rhythm.

Although the sail from America to the Caribbean is a relatively short hop when it comes to ocean sailing, one would be extremely naïve to think it easy. Critical to a safe passage is a successful crossing of the gulf stream - a warm body of water that travels up the East Coast of America at the rate of 30million cubic metres per second. Its drastic effect on the local weather makes it one of the most dangerous bodies of water to sail in. At the time, there was no way we held the respect and fear that it deserved as we innocently sailed in its direction. There is such a myriad of factors to consider when crossing it, but at the very least, the most important thing to do is ensure that the wind is going in the same direction as the gulf stream. If it isn’t, the wind over tide effect can create extremely tall, standing waves that many boats have fallen victim to.

Downloading weather at time was done by satellite. We had a small box with an antenna called an Iridium Go which allowed us to (very slowly) download weather GRIB files (which are essentially very small square snapshots of the weather we need) and send and receive basic messages to family. Downloading these files was a lengthy process, which we would try and do at least once a day, at which point it would be wildly different to our previous forecast. As we made our approach to the gulf stream our GRIB file indicated that some wind was coming, it was nothing too crazy and we could see that within 24hours there would be a big light patch which would offer us some respite. If we wanted a quick gulf stream crossing this really was our best opportunity.

As the sun set on our entry to the gulf stream there was a beautiful calmness at sea. We unfurled the staysail and went double headed as a pod of dolphins leaped over to join us. With the little money we’d had left in New York we had decided to buy some fancy cheese and we tucked into it on the bow, the dolphins dancing between our dangling feet. Dusk came and loaded up the iridium go and informed our parents that we were expecting some heavier winds soon but all should be fine.

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We quickly got to the bottom of what had caused the leak. In laymen’s terms, the propellor of the boat is attached to the engine via a long metal pole called the prop-shaft that goes through a hole in the bottom of the boat via something called the shaft log. A bolt had become loose in one of the internal mechanisms connecting it to the engine causing the entire prop-shaft to massively over-rotate and crack the shaft log. As a result the prop shaft had bent so we needed a new prop shaft to be made, fitted and the entire shaft log to be re-glassed and reinforced. All this was going to take a few weeks so there was no chance of crossing the Atlantic anymore. We said a sad goodbye to Colin and Grant and settled back into the familiarity of shipyard life.

Despite the circumstances, we quickly embraced our time in Cape Cod. The original refit had been so rushed that we needed more time to work on the boat to get it perfect. We spent the days working until just before dark and then walked 20 minutes down the road to a chocolate-box tennis court where we’d thrash out all our frustrations.

We were welcomed with such kindness and warmth into the community there that we felt like we had extended family by the time we left. Parker, a polyamorous larger-than-life offshore sports fisher brought us regular fish fillets, hosted parties in his pimped-up van and even drove us to New Bedford to crew his family yacht for Wednesday night racing. We also met Alan who reached out to us when he heard we needed a new outboard engine for our tender – he said he had a spare that he’d sell us his on the cheap. He ended up inviting us out for dinner, giving me the taste explosion of my first ever key lime pie and by the time he picked up the bill insisted on giving us the outboard for free. Never had a dinner gone so well.

Generally, the people at the yard were beyond helpful. There was a particular guy called Mike who was extremely generous, he lent us his truck to get to the hardware store and would come by most evenings after the yard closed so that he could help us repair everything “off the clock”. Most of the time this involved him sitting in the salon of our boat till the early hours drinking whiskey, but we were happy to have the help, and he kept bringing us useful materials claiming they were ‘offcuts’ or not needed by the yard. Innocently we accepted it all with open arms.

One morning he came round announcing that he was going to the wedding of another of the yard guys and said we were invited. “Really?!” we exclaimed, we’d gotten to know everyone working at the yard but didn’t feel like we were close enough to be on the wedding guest list. But Mike insisted, so we decided to give ourselves a break from our relentless worklist, put on some nice clothes and jumped in the cab.

We arrived at a beautiful brewery where an intimate wedding of close friends and family was taking place. “Are you sure we’re invited?” I whispered to Mike as we exited the cab. “Well, technically not” he answered, “but it will be fine”. Unbeknownst to us, we had just gate-crashed a wedding, and we had to roll with it. Our strategy was simple and effective: befriend the grandmothers and the kids first, everyone else will follow. Pretty soon we were twirling grandmas round the dance floor with one hand whilst playing ping pong with group of 8-year-olds with the other. By the time the speeches came round it was mission accomplished as we got an honorary mention from the groom himself. Naturally we were the last to leave, holding up the dancefloor with the bride and groom – turns out wedding crashing is a great day out.

New prop-shaft installed, and various other upgrades made to the boat, Jacqeau was back in the water where she belonged, and we were ready to set sail once again. A slight sore point as we were leaving was that it had turned out that Mike had charged us for everything down to a single rubber glove and all the hours that he’d done ‘off the clock’ for us and more. This man, who had claimed to be our friend and wanting to help us out in anyway had screwed us over completely. Luckily, we had evidence from texts and messages saying he’d do it all for free, so we didn’t get too badly implicated.

A month after we had sailed up Buzzards Bay to start our Atlantic Crossing we were doing the same passage in reverse, back to Newport. The passage itself didn’t go that well as the whole mast track ripped out the mast however we felt happy to be moving again. We spent that evening moored on a small and incredibly beautiful island called Cutty Hunk that reminded us of Scotland. At sunset a small launch weaved its way through the yachts serving local oysters, clam chowder and drinks. We set the fairy lights up in the cockpit and, 4 months, a hole in the boat and one failed Atlantic crossing after buying Jacqeau, we rejoiced in our first ever anchorage as boat owners. “This is it!” we exchanged – “we’re finally doing it!”.

Newport became our home for the next couple of months as we worked out what we were going to do next and tried to make some money. We put the boat on Airbnb and would upsell sailing day trips to any guests that came. Through this we ended up not only, getting some much-needed cash in the bank but also meeting some amazing people.

Our time in Newport was a perfect amalgamation of our old life as yachties and our new lives as boat owners. Many of our friends working on the superyachts were still in town and we’d find ourselves being invited in limo rides up to watch ice hockey in Providence one minute and batch buying hot water bottles the next to try and warm up our freezing boat.

Towards the end of September we got a once in a lifetime invitation to help sail a 12m. The 12-metre class is a specific type of sailing yacht design that was famously used in the America’s Cup from 1958 to 1987. The yachts are some of the most beautiful in the world and have become iconic symbols of the sport as a whole. A friend introduced us to a young couple who had bought one and restored it to do day charters and we ended up with an invite to go out with them one morning. For 2 Brits that had grown up sailing, helming a 12m under the Jamestown Bridge was an incredible feeling.

We took a mooring buoy outside the New York Yacht Club – arguably the most prestigious yacht club in the world and during our sundowners in the cockpit we tried to hatch a plan of how to break in. Luckily our creative albeit impractical ideas didn’t ever have to be put through the test of time as we ended up getting invited there for dinner by a family friend and famous America’s Cup Sailor. Aware of the strict dress code, we called around our superyacht friends for some wardrobe help (somehow we didn’t think our epoxy covered work clothes would make the cut). We ended up getting suited and booted thanks to our friends Ella and Ben and spent the half an hour before we got there ironing dresses and shirts with the steam from our kettle. Any slight effort that we had put into our appearance was quickly thwarted as an upwind tender ride meant we turned up on the doorstep completely soaked through. After a quick session under the bathroom hand dryers we managed to redeem ourselves and enjoy a special dinner within the same walls as so many sailing greats.

In November we landed a freelance job delivering an 80ft motorboat from Newport to Charleston. I had never been on a motorboat before and this one had a beautiful classic interior which made you feel like you were in floating country home. An open granitite topped galley extended to the bridge and we took in turns to keep watch with English Captain Tom. The trip took us through the Inter Coastal Waterway - a 3000mile network of inland navigable channels, rivers, bays, and canals that runs along the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico coasts of America. It was a fascinating trip for us as we stopped each night experiencing a completely different part and culture of the country. The job ended in Charleston – a magical town bursting with character that we fell in love with.

It was on our trip down south that we managed to land our second big sponsorship deal with Gill Marine.

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However, in the first 3 months of being in the water we got what we asked for and more - one tremendous challenge at a time.

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Taking Jacqeau for our first sea trial was incredible. After spending so much time on other people’s boats, it was surreal to be radioing ahead to an upcoming drawbridge saying our boat’s name officially for the first time on VHF. This was it - it was really happening.

We gently motored down the river towards Narraganset Bay. This body of water is a huge part of sailing history, playing host to the America’s Cup for 132 years, it is nautical equivalent of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And a moment of history for us too, as we hoisted our sails for the first time on what would be a round the world adventure.

As a sailor, the sound of turning off the engine and then watching your boat get propelled forward by the natural elements is second to none. For us, after months of drilling, grinding, sawing and winching, the sound of silence when the engine went off was incomparable. We tacked, we gybed, we helmed, we leaped with joy – it works! Not only does it work but she sailed like a dream.

Nevertheless, the hurricane season was breathing down our necks, so it was shortly after this sea trial that we set off. We had advertised on facebook for crew and, after lots of responses had settled on 2. Grant, a plumber from the UK who was fairly new to sailing but had spent the summer learning the ropes sailing the coast of Mexico and Colin from Connecticut who raced locally but wanted to experience some offshore sailing. Colin convinced us quickly that he was the man for the job when he boldly announced during our first phone call that he could “fix anything”. When you’ve just refit a whole boat and you’re going straight into an ocean crossing, this is exactly what you want to hear.

They joined us early in the morning, and after a quick meet, greet, and farewell to Colin’s family and fiancé we were off. Our plan was to do a shakedown sail from Newport to Provincetown via the Cape Cod Canal. All being well after that we’d fuel up and set off back home taking the northerly route across the Atlantic.

We left Newport just before dusk for Buzzard’s Bay and had a night of sailing which immediately tested our partnership as a team and with the boat. Beating upwind in an unfavourable sea state, hearing creaks and bangs and determining whether they were normal or abnormal. At 6am I came off watch and swapped with JP. The Cape Cod Canal Bridge towered ahead of us and the wind that we had battled all night dissipated leaving a breathless sky flooded with peachy tones.

Famous for its’ fast-flowing tides, timing is everything when you transit the canal and we were happy to be entering exactly when we had planned: with a tide of up to 6knots flowing with us for the duration. Spirits were high and as I went down below I heard JP cheerily chatting on the phone to his mum for what was meant to be his last phone call before an Atlantic Crossing.

He hung up just as we passed under the first bridge. We entered the canal under motor with its steep rocky sides guiding us north. Suddenly, JP heard an unusual ringing in the rig. When you have been around boats for so long you are used to lots of noises; you can quite happily sleep with the sound of a generator or a certain buzzing or tapping so long as you know what it is and that it’s safe. However, us sailors also have fine-tuned ears to something that is “off” or doesn’t sit right. This ringing in the rig wasn’t normal at all – all of the sudden the boat had an ominous vibration. He put us into neutral and then back ahead and that’s when a soul shattering “bang” shuddered its way through the boat. I rushed upstairs as he rushed down. It didn’t take him long to see what was wrong. The shaft was rotating as it were going round a tennis ball, water was erupting from the floor like we had installed a water feature in the middle of our bedroom. We were sinking, fast. And on top of that we were in one of the fastest flowing canals in the world with no engine and no wind.

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The keys were handed over to us towards the end of May and the plan was to get her ocean-ready by August to sail the Atlantic and get back home. Given the sheer amount of work that was needed to even make the boat liveable, this was a huge task. Most work days would start first thing and we’d work straight through till 3 or 4am. With no running water or electrics we’d use the dock shower to rinse ourselves off before putting the salon floorboards back down, rolling out a mattress and passing out. 

Those two months were a steep learning curve, pretty much everything that could break, broke. The list was extensive but included re-doing the whole plumbing system, installing new batteries and a new electrical system, repairing the rig and putting it back in the boat, replacing the rudder bearings, renewing all instruments and generally making it a home again. We were mucky, tired and still in the process of figuring each other out as a couple, let alone working full time together on a boat that seemed to never want to work. But we both had an undeniable vision in our heads of completing this upcoming Atlantic crossing and arriving home to all of our families, and that’s what kept us going. 

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