Back then, I also promised I’d write about our route around the world. Some might say eight months in is a bit late for that, but considering we’ve only covered about a fifth of the planet, I’d argue there’s still plenty of route left to justify this timing.

Before leaving the Bay Area, “What’s your route?” was the question we answered more than any other — at the yacht club, at work, with family. Our answer was always the same: “Around the world.” Apparently, that wasn’t enough. People wanted details. But planning a sailing route isn’t like following a blue line on Google Maps. You can’t just let the AI guide you and hope it doesn’t send you into a lake. Sailing requires a bit more nuance.

For us, the route was shaped by a mix of dreams, weather, geography, and the simple physics of how sailboats move. We’ve always gravitated toward remote destinations — the kind you can only reach by boat, far from mass tourism. Sure, YouTube has made sailing more accessible, and anchorages that once had two or three boats now have ten. But ten boats are still better than ten thousand people squeezing through Venice.

We’re also warm-weather people. We want sun on our faces and warm water under the hull. So we decided early on that we’d sail the tropics, snake along the equator, and chase endless summer. (Although, as I write this from Tonga, I can confirm the South Pacific can be surprisingly chilly.)

San Francisco turned out to be a great starting point. It lets us reach warm water quickly and make big miles early. Not everyone is that lucky — some sailors have to slog through cold oceans before reaching paradise.

And then there’s the boat itself. Sailboats don’t go where you point them; they go where the wind allows. They love going with the wind and hate going against it. Downwind sailing is smooth, fast, and joyful. Upwind sailing is zig-zagging, heeling, slower, and generally less fun. We chose a boat built for fast downwind cruising, so we look for long passages where the wind pushes us from behind, and the waves cheer us on.

Once you combine remote islands, warm weather, and downwind sailing, you end up with a classic route sailors have followed for decades: the “Coconut Milk Run.” It’s named after the easy, predictable nature of the trade winds — like a milkman doing his daily route. Just south of the equator, the trades blow east to west. North of the equator, they blow the opposite. Go too far north or south, and it gets cold again, and you will encounter winds in the opposite direction again. Hard pass. The only catch is cyclone and hurricane seasons, so we plan our entire route around avoiding those.

With all that in mind, here’s our two-year plan in one flowing story. In December 2025, we left San Francisco and worked our way down the West Coast to the Baja Peninsula and into the Sea of Cortez. In April, we left Mexico for our longest passage of the entire trip — across the Pacific Ocean toward French Polynesia. Once there, we cruised the Marquesas, the Tuamotus, and the Society Islands — three of the four major regions. After leaving Bora Bora, we set off toward Niue and are now in Tonga. In early September, we’ll leave Tonga for Fiji, then continue to New Caledonia and maybe Vanuatu. By early November, we’ll reach Sydney, Australia, where we’ll sit out cyclone season in a safe place. While waiting for the weather to settle, we’ll explore Australia, New Zealand, and take a trip home to Germany.

In February or March 2027, we’ll start working our way up Australia’s east coast, sail over the top to Indonesia, and then cross the Indian Ocean toward Mauritius, Réunion, and Madagascar, with a stop in Cocos Keeling. From Madagascar, we’ll attempt the famously challenging sail to Cape Town, known for strong winds and currents. After Cape Town, we’ll head up the Namibian coast, then set sail for Ascension Island and St Helena — two tiny dots in the South Atlantic. Our next big country will be Brazil, where we’ll make landfall before heading up the Brazilian coast toward the Caribbean. If all goes well, we’ll reach as far as Antigua, maybe a bit farther. Eventually, we’ll need to turn west again and sail across the Gulf of Mexico toward Panama, preparing to reunite with the Pacific by motoring through the Panama Canal. Once on the other side, we’ll make our way home up the West Coast of Central America, Mexico, and the U.S. until we reach San Francisco again. If that was too much to follow, the map below will help.

I hope this gives you a clearer picture of what goes into planning a route around the world — and what our plan looks like. A plan is a plan, and out here, it can change at any moment. That’s the beauty of this lifestyle.

Thanks for following along.

The passage from Bora Bora was the hardest yet, a trial by water - 1300 nautical miles, 5 days and 20 hours. At times it felt as though we were tumbling inside a washing machine — though, given what the Pacific can truly unleash, this was probably still the “delicate cycle.” Our course was set for Tonga, with dreams of stopping at Beveridge Reef and Niue along the way. Yet the weather was fickle, and even Tonga seemed uncertain. Samoa hovered as a possible refuge.

Beveridge Reef was the first heartbreak. Not an island at all, but a submerged ring of coral in the middle of the ocean. As we approached, the sea state made it clear: this was not in the cards. Later, cruisers told us they had endured nine-foot waves while anchored there, the reef offering no shelter. Snorkeling in churned-up water would have been misery. We pressed on.

Niue was next — a tiny island, freely associated with New Zealand, and our advisors urged us to skip it. But the storm shifted, the winds softened, and we decided to trust the opening. Niue has only one mooring field, fifty feet deep, maintained seasonally, exposed to the open ocean. If the wind blows toward the island, it can turn dangerous. We were lucky.

As we arrived, humpback whales surfaced right where our mooring ball waited — a welcome committee of giants. We tied up, and Peter went ashore to check us in. Fifteen minutes later, passports stamped, we were free to explore.

Niue quickly became our favorite island. English flowed easily, and the people radiated warmth. We met Richard, the police chief, when Peter admired his truck. Fourteen officers for 1,800 people, he told us, with crime limited to drunk driving and domestic disputes. No theft. Cars left with keys in the ignition, bikes unlocked by the roadside, belongings scattered without worry. We slipped into that rhythm, meeting tourists from New Zealand and Keith, commodore of “the biggest little yacht club in the world,” who shared tips and stories.

Life ashore was delicious. Cafés and restaurants dotted the island, sparing us from dipping into ship stores. The mooring remained rolly, but the island more than compensated. The water was crystalline — fifty feet deep, yet the bottom visible as though through glass.

The ocean’s power demanded respect: dinghies couldn’t be left at the wharf but had to be hoisted out with a crane. Soon we were deft crane operators, hauling our tender like seasoned pros.

We rented bikes instead of wrangling our own, pedaling to caves, chasms, coral pools, and swimming holes. Tourist sites were well marked, paths clear, yet nothing roped off. It felt like being the first explorers, trusted to cherish what locals held sacred. Signs of past hurricanes lingered, alongside plaques of international aid.

Niue’s water is legendary — visibility up to 80 meters. Flying the drone over reefs revealed underwater chasms like secret worlds. With such clarity, we couldn’t resist a whale swim. Tonga was booked for later, but who knew what conditions awaited there?

Here, we struck gold. The first whale was a resting male, a singer. From the boat, we heard his faint song. In the water, it was overwhelming. The ocean vibrated with his voice, resonating through my bones. He floated head down, tail up, motionless yet filling the sea with sound. We watched his breath cycle, rising slowly to the surface, then diving again with a flick of immense power. Twice we swam with him, once scrambling aside as he twisted upward, careful not to become accidental riders.

Later, splashes drew us to a heat run: one female, three males, and a juvenile. The males surged after her, colliding, jostling, chasing at speeds of 15–30 knots. White water erupted around us, fins slicing the surface, massive bodies rolling and lunging. For an hour we followed, awestruck. Our guides were ecstatic — we had stumbled upon a rare spectacle.

Niue also carried a quiet significance for us beyond its crystalline waters and whale song. For the first time, we were able to spend some of the New Zealand cash gifted to us at our wedding — money meant for a honeymoon in New Zealand that had been postponed and reshaped into this long voyage. Slowly, we are making our way toward that country, and Niue, with its close ties to New Zealand, felt like the first true step. Savoring breakfasts at Crazy Uga Café and fragrant Indian curries at Vanilla Café, we paid with those notes, each bill a reminder of our guests’ love and of the journey we’ve taken to get here. It felt symbolic, as though our honeymoon had finally begun, just in a different form — carried by the sea, guided by the wind, and blessed by whales.

Eight days passed in a blur and eventually, the rolly mooring wore us thin. With hearts full and sails ready, we turned toward Pangai, Tonga — the next chapter waiting beyond the horizon.

We’ve earned our first swallow tattoo — and then some. Sailors mark their journeys in ink, each symbol a talisman, a logbook etched into skin. One swallow for every 5,000 nautical miles, a shellback turtle for crossing the equator. Whether or not we ever take needle to flesh, the sea has already tattooed us in salt and sun. We feel it in our bones now: the anchor lifts more easily, the horizon beckons more boldly. Bluewater crossings of hundreds, even a thousand miles, no longer intimidate the way they did when we first slipped out of the Bay Area.

After a few last wing-foiling sessions across Tikehau’s turquoise lagoons, our time in the Tuamotus drew to a close. The next chapter: Moorea, jewel of the Society Islands. Twenty hours of open ocean carried us into a world of abundance — grocery shelves brimming, mountains rising like green cathedrals, cocoa and pineapple plantations perfuming the air. Anchored deep in Cook’s Bay, eighty feet of water cradled FEROX while clouds curled around jagged peaks. One ridge resembled a woman’s head, her hair flowing in vines, a hollow pierced like a nose ring. Though Cook himself anchored one bay over, this place bears his name, a reminder of explorers past.

Three days of laughter with our Canadian friends aboard ACER and their visiting parents, then a short hop to Tahiti. FEROX was ready for her spa day: a marina wash with abundant fresh water, rust scrubbed away, sails tended. We upgraded our outboard from a faithful six horsepower to a spirited 9.9. Breaking in the engine meant two slow hours of my patient puttering — Peter would never have endured such restraint. But now, our dinghy planes across the water, transformed from bicycle to car, carrying us and our shopping bags with speed. Rusted pulpit re-bedded, Code 0 sail sent off for repair, laundry spun until every fabric aboard smelled of sun and soap.

Yet marina life was less romantic than imagined. Med-moored stern-to, FEROX rocked with every passing wake. After four days we fled to the so-called airport anchorage, where jet engines roared next to us and air traffic controllers choreographed our approach to the anchorage. Land lay far, but our new motor made the distance manageable. We snorkeled, Peter discovered his new “underwater office,” and we explored Tahiti by car, waiting for our sail to return.

When it finally did, we escaped overnight to Huahine — quieter, less visited, a return to the offbeat rhythm we crave. In one anchorage, shallow clear turquoise water gleamed like a swimming pool. Nearby, villagers held a weightlifting festival: men and women hoisting massive boulders barefoot, dropping them into sand with thunderous thuds. I watched with half-shielded eyes, toes curling at the thought of crushed feet.

Another anchorage offered deeper water beside a vast turquoise shallows. Too shallow for FEROX, but perfect for swimming and play. We unfolded our bikes and pedaled around the island, salt drying on our skin.

Two days in Taha’a, then onward to Bora Bora, our final French Polynesian stop.Still in play mode, we wing-foiled across lagoons, biked around the island (38 kilometers) and tackled the volcano rim hike — seven kilometers, 750 meters of elevation, a scramble more than a trail. Mud clung to hands and knees, ferns brushed our faces, hibiscus bloomed like a secret garden at the summit. The view was a 360-degree revelation, the hardest “hike” of my life, but worth every breath and burr in my socks.

Checked out of French Polynesia, we toasted our last night with Piña Coladas at Bora Bora Yacht Club. Ahead lay uncertainty — Beveridge Reef, Niue, Tonga, Samoa, all possibilities. The weather would decide, as it always does. We would lift anchor, watch the skies, and let the ocean write the next chapter.

It’s been five (!) weeks since we arrived in the Tuamotus, and somehow it still feels like we just dropped anchor yesterday. Time stretches and folds strangely out here. We’ve been hopping from atoll to atoll across this scattered dreamscape, welcoming our friends from the Bay Area into the island rhythm and exploring everything by snorkel, by dinghy, and by the slow, wandering curiosity that life out here invites. Each atoll feels like its own little world — and now, unbelievably, we’re in our seventh and final one: Tikehau.

You might remember the first atoll we reached: Makemo. Then came Fakarava, where we shared our first Tuamotu adventures with our visitors. Between those bookends were Toau, Kauehi, Raraka, and Rangiroa, each one a ring-shaped coral necklace floating in endless blue. These atolls form as ancient volcanoes erode away, leaving behind a thin, delicate rim of coral — sometimes topped with palm trees, sometimes bare — encircling a vast inner lagoon. Imagine a giant saltwater lake, protected from the ocean’s fury by that fragile ring. The wind still sweeps through freely, but the waves break themselves to pieces on the outer reef, unable to reach you no matter how hard they try. These places feel like secrets the ocean forgot to hide.

Entering and exiting an atoll, though, is nothing for the faint-hearted — especially the smaller ones. You try to time your arrival with the flooding tide, hoping the current will be with you. There’s even a little guesstimator tool that attempts to predict the best moment. What you’re really trying to avoid is too much current against you — some passes run at 8 knots — and the dreaded standing wave that forms when wind and current oppose each other. Surfers might love it. Sailboats… not so much.

In reality, it’s all still a guess. Every one of our entries has been against some amount of current. Most were manageable — 2 to 3 knots — but once, in Tikehau, we hit 5.5 knots against us. We aborted the first attempt and tried again, inching in at a painfully slow crawl. The only atoll we actually sailed into was Fakarava’s North Pass, and even that turned out to be pure luck. Our Canadian buddy boat Acer arrived just half an hour later and got the full San Francisco South Bay chop treatment.

The diciest entry was Raraka. It isn’t charted, so we relied on other cruisers’ depth tracks, satellite imagery, and a healthy dose of hope. Thankfully we had raised our keel beforehand (with keel down we draw 9 feet) — the shallowest spot we crossed was 6.8 feet. My heart definitely skipped a few beats as we crept forward. We still have no idea why there seem to be no flood tides right now. Maybe the waves push so much water into the atolls that everything just rushes back out through the tiny passes. At least it makes for fun exits. Our fastest was from Toau — 9 knots of sideways sweep while we tried (and failed) to motor out of the standing wave. FEROX took a full bow‑drenching of salty whitewater.

Inside the atolls, navigation becomes its own kind of puzzle. You can’t just set a course and go — the lagoon is sprinkled with coral heads, affectionately called bommies. The word comes from the Indigenous Australian “bombora,” describing waves breaking over shallow reef. Hit one and you can destroy both the coral and your boat. A fellow cruiser recently sank after striking one, so we’ve been extra vigilant. Still, we managed to scrape a coral head with our keel while exiting Rangiroa, swept sideways into a shallower area than the charts showed. Terrifying. FEROX escaped with just a bottom‑paint booboo — nothing worse than what we’ve already earned in the South Bay — but now we’re the divers cleaning the hull, and those scraped spots need extra attention.

Each atoll has its own personality. Some have towns; others are pure nature. We’ve visited countless tiny stores — little mom‑and‑pop shops with sparse shelves and unpredictable stock — trying to provision as best we can. Everything except coconuts arrives by freight ship. At this point, veggies and fruit feel like mythical creatures. I can’t even remember the last time I had a tomato or cucumber.

To avoid raiding the local shelves before our California visitors arrived, we placed a food order with one of the freight ships. That meant sailing overnight from Makemo to Fakarava through a solid storm to meet the delivery. The pickup itself took most of a day. We arrived at 8 a.m. to collect our chits — fresh, frozen, staples, fridge. Except… there was no “fresh” chit for us. No apples, no potatoes, no cucumbers. I held onto hope until our buddy boat received their fresh order and ours still hadn’t appeared. Each category came off the ship separately, hours apart. Eventually we split up — the girls back to the boats for chores, the boys waiting onshore for the rest of the order. By 2 p.m., we were finally done.

Our time with visitors flew by in a blur of activity — including snorkeling Fakarava’s South Pass, the infamous wall of sharks. Because it’s a pass, there’s always current, and snorkelers are advised to go on an incoming tide. We lucked out: the day we arrived, we jumped in near golden hour on one of those rare incoming tides. It’s a drift snorkel — dinghy halfway out the pass, gear on, then slip into the water while one person holds the painter so the dinghy drifts with us. There’s no swimming back against that current.

The visibility stole my breath. Ten meters deep, crystal clear, and full of sharks — blacktips, whitetips, and the occasional gray. We’ve become surprisingly comfortable around them. I still remember the first shark we saw in Makemo, right next to Peter and me, and how I freaked out. Now we swim alongside them, always watching, never looking away, making sure they see us as predators, not prey.

Rangiroa surprised us with something completely unexpected: wine grown on coral. A French businessman started a tiny winery 25 years ago, and now it spans 6 hectares, producing 40,000 bottles a year — plus rum. The wine is only sold in French Polynesia, and it’s shockingly good. They had to experiment endlessly to get there. With no winters, the vines only experience stress through pruning. There are fewer sunlight hours too — right now the sun sets at 5:29 p.m. and rises at 6:15 a.m. But the flip side is that the vines grow in two seasons, winter and summer, and each year’s vintage blends both. The winery was 3.2 nautical miles away, so we took our trusty dinghy. The lagoon was glassy, and on the way back we were treated to a sunset so beautiful it could not have been further enhanced by the wine we’d just tasted.

Now our time in the Tuamotus is drawing to an end. Our last atoll, Tikehau, will shelter us from a storm rolling through. The clouds are already building around us, promising a couple days of rock’n’roll. After that, we’ll squeeze in a few more days of water‑play before heading to the Society Islands — Tahiti. We’ve heard that once we arrive, we’ll be truly back in society, with real grocery stores, stocked shelves, and actual fruit and veggies.

Until then, we’re soaking in every last drop of pure nature. Last night, in the quiet before the storm, I finally managed to photograph the Milky Way from the boat. It’s almost never still enough for long‑exposure shots, but just after midnight I caught one. At first, staring into the glassy black water, I thought the stars were reflecting — until I realized the tiny bursts of light were bioluminescence. Sky and sea competing in brilliance. A perfect Tuamotu moment.

Just as I was perfecting my interpretation of the ultimate starfish sleeping position — maximum limb spread for stability against boat roll and optimal heat dissipation — the crossing to the Marquesas ended and the cliffs of Nuku Hiva, Marquesas Islands, French Polynesia rose sharply out of the sea before us. After roughly 2,900 nautical miles and 18 days on the ocean (other boats took 33!), mostly sailing with only 10–15 hours of motoring (a mere 8 gallons of diesel!), we finally smelled land. To me, it smelled like a sauna — warm wood with a faintly charred note.

Our Canadian friends had made landfall the day before, so a full welcome committee awaited us. Dressed in FEROX race crew shirts, they came flying out in their dinghy to greet us. After so many days without seeing another soul, it was the most heart‑filling way to arrive.

We found our anchor spot in the vast bay of Taioha’e among 40–50 other boats, most of them having completed a similar crossing in the past month. Our first mission: get to land. That turned out to be its own adventure. After weeks of constant motion, our legs had forgotten how to trust stillness. Our first steps were wobbly at best. For days afterward the land kept swaying beneath us, and stepping into small stores — with their tight aisles and close walls — made the phantom movement even more dramatic.

The first thing that greeted us ashore was a row of empty tables with a faint fishy smell. I wondered if this was where fishermen cleaned their catch. A few days later, that suspicion was confirmed. Arrive around 6:30–7 a.m. and you’ll see them cleaning enormous freshly caught yellowfin tuna. Whatever they don’t keep gets tossed back into the water, where a swirling mass of sharks waits eagerly. And all of this happens right at the dinghy dock. One poorly timed step climbing into your dinghy and you might look a little too much like breakfast in the frenzy. We couldn’t resist buying a kilo of tuna filet for about $6 — which I later learned was the tourist price; locals pay less. Still, it felt more than fair. The fisherman handed me a bloody slab of meat wrapped in a cloth bag, and we raced back to the boat to process it into several beautiful steaks. I marinated two for dinner that night. Incredibly tender. Incredibly fresh.

The town itself is charming, and we wandered every corner of it while provisioning and fixing things on the boat. I even handed over our big laundry items — bedding and towels — to be washed. Definitely not cheap (20$ a load), but attempting that in my tiny onboard washing bin would have turned into a multi‑day saga.

What surprised me most was the abundance of fresh fruit: the best mangoes and pomelos I’ve ever tasted. The Marquesas are fully tropical, a lush jungle landscape. We rented a car for a day to explore the island, and discovered it wasn’t just jungle. The high plains are grasslands, and there’s even a mountainous region that looked exactly like the German Alps — grassy meadows, pine trees and all. We later learned the pines aren’t native; they were introduced to help reduce erosion.

Fully provisioned, we slipped away from civilization and the crowded bay into a smaller neighboring one, where sheer cliffs and a tropical waterfall awaited. With some brave encouragement from our Canadian friends, we jumped into the murky brown waterfall pool and swam straight into the falling water. After so many days of warm tropical air, the coolness was exquisite — and the wind that comes down with the water felt like its own weather system. No photos of this adventure, unfortunately; we’d forgotten our only waterproof camera and didn’t dare risk our phones.

A couple of days later we set off again to explore more of the Marquesas Islands. Our plan was to head to ‘Ua Huka — the island we’d passed on our way in. As it turns out, we approached the whole thing the wrong way: the sail there was upwind. We were heeled over, I was seasick, and it took us a full day to reach the island. When we finally arrived at our planned anchorage, we found it exposed and wavy, open to both ocean and wind. We pushed on to another bay, racing daylight. It was either this or an overnight passage to the next island. We stayed — and it was a miserable, rolly, windy, rainy night. At first light we lifted anchor and headed for Tahuata. Another small island, another upwind slog that was supposed to be a reach. Winds hit 28 knots, we were reefed down, and then — finally — as we approached the bay, the wind eased and turquoise water appeared. At last, a hint of the paradise we’d been searching for. We spent a full two days there, part relaxing and snorkeling, part doing boat chores — I finally managed to get through all the dirty laundry!

Then we sailed to the neighboring Island Hiva Oa for provisions. This is the other major hub for cruisers arriving after the long crossing, and supposedly the last good place to stock up before heading to the Tuamotus. Provisioning in the Tuamotus is (said to be) notoriously difficult — limited selection, everything arriving by ship, very little fresh produce — so we wanted to fill every storage space we had. But as we approached the anchorage, we were greeted once again by the Marquesas’ signature rolliness. The anchorage was tight, and our first attempt put us too close to another boat, so we reset. The second spot was slightly better, but still not trustworthy. We decided Peter would stay aboard while I went shopping. But the stores were closed for midday break, so we waited. As we sat there watching the boat move in strange, uncomfortable ways, we looked at each other and said: let’s just go. We were done with the Marquesas and the constant motion. Whatever food we had would be enough. Wherever we were going next, there would be people — and people always have food.

Best spontaneous decision ever. Three days later we arrived in true paradise, Makemo Atoll of the Tuamotus — the crystal‑clear turquoise water we’d been dreaming of. Only two other boats were there. No waves. The boat finally settled, resting quietly at anchor with only the occasional soft rainfall. Ia orana! (Tahitian greeting, pronounced yo‑rah‑nah, meaning “may you live” or “may you have life.”)

That evening we launched the dinghy and went ashore. We parked it in what felt like a little aquarium, and wandered through town. Everyone was friendly, greeting each other as they passed. Everything was calm. Locals pedaled by on bikes, and street dogs trotted up to say hello at every corner. This tiny town of just over 500 people has several small shops, all of which we explored. They have fresh baguettes and a surprisingly good selection of food. Our fears of going hungry were completely unfounded. Sure, the offerings aren’t the same as elsewhere, but people eat here — and the food is delicious.

The next day we left civilization again, heading farther east within the atoll, a little ocean within what was a volcanic crater a long time ago. We dodged coral heads and followed a track from another cruiser who had safely done the route before. And there we found even more paradise. No people. Just us. Crystal‑clear water and little coral‑head “water towns” all around, full of sea life and the occasional blacktip shark. We’re staying here for at least a few days, already scheming how to extend our time in the Tuamotus as long as possible. Can it even get better?

Day 13. It’s 3:52 a.m., my turn on night watch. Peter is fast asleep below, and I’m perched in the cockpit under a sky littered with stars. FEROX hums along at 6–7 knots in 8 knots of wind, reaching with the Code 0. We’re down to the last third of our passage—922 nautical miles to go. Around me, the ocean stretches into a velvet-black void, moonless and immense. Our wake glitters with bioluminescence, occasionally bursting into full-on fireworks. It’s warm, but damp—everything aboard feels perpetually wet. We’ll see if landfall brings us any reprieve from the soggy embrace.

But let me rewind. Out of Cabo San Lucas, we started upwind—naturally. Honestly, it felt like déjà vu from San Francisco Bay. Somewhere, Poseidon is chuckling. After a few hours, we cracked off, flattening the boat bit by bit. By Day 2, the big yellow kite was flying, and we were cruising happily. Day 4, however, brought drama. The kite came down—suddenly, yet in slow motion, as if time itself was stalling to let me process the horror. Peter was napping below when I spotted the kite gracefully detaching and laying itself across the blue water like a giant yellow blanket. I leapt into action, killed the autopilot, and maneuvered to avoid running it over. With the kite dragging like a sea anchor, I banged on the hull to wake Peter. He stumbled up, bleary-eyed, and I shouted, “Kite, kite!” He looked skyward. “No,” I corrected, “in the water, along the hull!” By then, we’d slowed to 4.5 knots—about as slow as I dared without losing control. Peter hauled the kite back aboard, and we discovered the culprit: the head ring had finally given up after years of abuse racing the kite. A Dyneema lashing replaced the metal, and 1.5 hours later, the kite was back in action.

That was the first of many fixes this passage - some better than before, some “band-aids” to be revisited after landfall. It also set the tone: Peter wakes up, I deliver bad news. At one point, we joked he should just stop sleeping—maybe then things would stop breaking. The kite held for several more days until the seas grew rougher. We reefed the main and experimented with sail combos. Down here, the humid air packs a punch—20–25% more than San Francisco. Fifteen knots here feels like twenty up there, so we reef earlier than instinct tells us.

Mid-passage brought us into the Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), the notorious playground of light winds, squalls, thunderstorms, and lightning. Lightning avoidance is priority number one—fried electronics are not on our wish list. Sure enough, a massive storm system bloomed ahead, forcing us to adjust course. Squalls, of course, still found us—mostly at night. One moment, smooth sailing in 12–14 knots; the next, breeze drops, then spikes, dumping sideways rain. With reef and staysail, we handled them confidently. At midnight shift change, we even turned one squall into a shower. Excellent water pressure, invigorating massage, and free exfoliation—though slippery soap plus a bucking deck is a dangerous combo. Still, one of us went to bed fresh, the other started her shift squeaky clean and wide awake.

Then came the chart plotter drama. One afternoon, while Peter napped, our trusty B&G threw a low-voltage error, rebooted, and sulked in a restart loop. This is the radar’s brain—critical in the ITCZ for spotting squalls. With daylight, I managed fine, but as night fell, Peter crawled through every possible connection point, hunting the gremlin. No luck. He jury-rigged a power source from our bedroom to get radar back online just in time for a few more squalls. The next day, he traced the culprit: a faulty switch. Nothing we could fix mid-ocean, so he wired in a temporary fuse and added “new switches” to the visitor shopping list.

Before departure, we debated nightshift strategies. Two to four hours on/off? In practice, we go with three hours minimum, flexible depending on naps. Peter usually takes first watch after his afternoon siesta, while I attempt to sleep at 8 p.m. He wakes me when fatigue hits—anywhere between midnight and 2 a.m. Today, it was 2 a.m., and I’ll probably let him sleep until after sunrise. Our rhythm is fluid but effective: we both get solid rest plus bonus naps—mine in the morning, his in the afternoon. It’s not prescribed, just natural. Lucky us—we’ve fallen into opposite rhythms that dovetail perfectly.

Next up in the “systems behaving badly” category: our water maker. On Day 9, I fire it up—except it doesn’t run. Or at least not reliably. Back to the startup procedure I go, purging air from the system (something we’re supposed to do every 20 days). That ritual gulps down a fair bit of fresh water, but with the tank still more than half full, I’m not panicking… yet. After the purge, still no joy. Maybe the filter? It’s filthy, so we swap it out. Another purge, another gulp of precious fresh water, and now the tank is below half. The pump still runs dry, sucking air. Not good. What is it with us and air leaks lately? My brain immediately spirals: do we have enough water for the trip? We’re over 1,000 nautical miles from Mexico with even farther to go. We’ve got 16 days of emergency drinking water stashed separately, but living on that would mean no showers, no cleaning, barely any cooking. Grim. We decide to stop the boat and run the water maker. Miraculously, it works fine when we’re hove-to. Not ideal, but survivable. My panic dial eases back a notch.

And since we’re already sitting ducks, we decide to tick off a bucket-list item: swimming in the open ocean. With the boat barely moving, we rig a rescue line and Peter jumps in. At first, bliss. A minute later, not so much—he yells that something stung him and scrambles out. Three angry welts are already rising, one with bluish goo still attached. I tweeze it off. Congratulations, Peter: you’ve just met a Portuguese Man’O’War. Its venomous tentacles can stretch 100 feet, kill fish, and occasionally humans. Cue me back in worry mode, monitoring him closely and forbidding naps (drowsiness is a side effect of the venom). We treat the stings with vinegar and hot water, and slowly the welts retreat. Crisis contained, but the ocean swim fantasy is officially canceled at least while we’re out of medical help range.

Overall—knock on wood—it’s been a fairly easy passage. Winds lighter than forecast, yes, and we’re constantly battling a 1.5–2.5 knot current. I did not expect that. Literal rivers in the ocean, 100 nautical miles wide! Wildlife is sparse out here, but when it shows up, it’s magic. We’ve had dolphin escorts of various species, and my personal favorite: melon-headed whales. Despite the name, they’re dolphins—larger, sleek, jet-black, impossibly smooth. Gorgeous. Inside the boat, we hear them chattering away. Utterly charming. We’ve passed the equator on day 12 and have now transformed from novice sailors, known as Pollywogs (or slimy wogs), into trusted veterans of the sea, known as Shellbacks (or Sons of Neptune).

Now it’s 5:03 a.m., 917 nautical miles to go, and I’m wrapping up this first draft. On the horizon, the faintest sliver of moon rises, orange glow slicing through the velvet black. I wish the boat would hold still long enough for a photo, but motion is our constant companion. So I commit it to memory, alongside the Milky Way overhead and our bioluminescent trail through this dark, dark ocean—an ocean that by day gleams the deepest shade of pure blue.

Thank you, Vice Commodore, for such a timely piece of wisdom. I don’t know if it’s just Neptune laughing right now or if Salus and Jupiter have joined in, too.

Life has definitely thrown us a curveball, one that put our cruising plans on hold for a bit. Instead of starting the “puddle jump” to the Marquesas halfway across the Pacific Ocean in early March, we are traveling the other way — to Germany.

The world has gotten a tad darker without my grandma “Oma Ursel” in it anymore. An exceptional person, always with a smile on her face, a quip on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes.

Peter and I keep thinking back to our time with her on her 85th birthday last August. We had this huge, modern, brand-new rental car. She was giddy like a little girl riding in the passenger seat, enjoying the drive and marveling at all the gadgets and screens, saying it felt more like a movie theater than a car.

I will always remember her when breakfast time comes around and we’re having raspberry jam. Every summer I spent with her and my grandpa as a girl, she’d make me a bread roll with butter and raspberry jam each morning.

The best people just leave too early. She passed quickly and peacefully, still making plans for the future. Now that she’s no longer bound, she’ll travel with us wherever we go. I’ll hold on to that.

The line between happiness and sadness is such a thin one. While the reason for our trip wasn’t a happy one, we still shared many meaningful moments — both joyful and painful — with our family & friends. We also got a lot done for Peter’s grandma, who sorely needed new hearing aids, new glasses, eye and ear doctor check-ups, and, last but not least, her two adopted kittens needed to be spayed and neutered. At times it felt a little like a boot camp, but looking back, we accomplished a lot in those nine days.

I think we’re now ready to pick up the pieces of our cruising plan. Please?

With this in mind, we traveled back to Mexico, knowing there was a passage window across the Pacific opening in a few days. Our plan was to take two days for provisioning, then check out and make our way from La Paz around Cabo — and go.

And again, something didn’t want to let us go.

The first day back from Germany, we both spent sick in bed, Peter even with a solid fever. Feeling marginally better the next day, we went provisioning. We carried two huge loads of food back to the boat, somehow managing to stow everything with blue tape and little hints about what each cubby contained. We collapsed into bed that Sunday and planned for an early Monday to head to the harbor captain’s office and immigration for checkout. That all worked fine. Eight Uber rides later, all across town to various offices, we were done by early afternoon and treated ourselves to a last Mexican fish taco lunch and a Corona beer with lime.

Monday night, Peter went up the mast for a last check of the rigging… and found what looked like a crack on one of the swages of our main shrouds. A huge shock. A crack like that would mean we’d need a new shroud — something that would take forever to get here. I hit rock bottom on the emotional ladder in that moment, knowing this could well be the end of our trip for now, with the timeline thoroughly blown.

Peter took a few hi‑res pictures with the phone and came back down the mast. We called our trusted rigger, who picked up immediately and put us out of our misery: this is not what a crack looks like. It was more of a scratch, in the wrong location and wrong orientation. We think it’s probably been there since the start as a production imperfection. It had been covered with tape until now. Good learning: remove all the tape, check everything.

The next morning, we finished the rig inspection and cleaning, then headed out for our run down the coast, saying goodbye to the Meltemi crew — Lisa and Bill — fellow Sequoia Yacht Club members who’ve been an immense support through all of this.

We made it as far as the La Paz channel exit when our engine started acting up with fluttering RPMs. It wouldn’t hold steady. We had done some routine engine maintenance before we left for Germany: oil change, oil and fuel filter change, impeller change. Something there introduced this. We tried debugging for the next few hours, sometimes anchored, sometimes drifting in that large bay. To no avail. Defeated, we headed back into the anchorage late afternoon. Bill connected us to his mechanic and he walked us through some things. It’s likely an air leak somewhere. Just need to find this.

With this knowledge, we looked over the engine once more Wednesday morning, tightened everything we’d touched, and headed out again. This time we made it all the way up to Balandra before the engine started fluttering. Much less than yesterday, but still there. At the same time, we knew we were on the right track to fix this — no reason to turn around — so we kept going. We sailed for a bit, and when the wind died, we seized the moment to take one of the fuel filters apart again and reassemble it with all new seals. The engine was better afterward, barely a flutter all the way to Cabo. It’s still there a tiny bit and very rarely, but we’re sure now we know what it is — and we’re planning to sail, not motor. Our motor wouldn’t have enough fuel to get us far anyway.

We made it to Cabo San Lucas late Thursday morning. One more run to the gas station to fuel up and a last dip into the mush pot of Cabo’s civilization was on our plan.

These last few weeks had us thinking back to our ordered life in the Bay Area, where we had everything we needed at our fingertips. This new life has in store higher emotional highs and lower emotional lows than what we feel we’ve perceived before — or maybe there are just so many of them, so close together.

Regardless, we are ready, and we’re not going back now. On to the big blue.

Cruising life has a way of humbling you. Just when you think you’ve settled into the rhythm of turquoise bays and quiet anchorages, the boat reminds you who’s really in charge. February and early March were a masterclass in repairs, improvisation, and laughter (later) at our own missteps.

Dinghy Beautification Project: Patch by Patch

Our dinghy, the trusty “car alternative,” has already earned two patches. That’s one a month. The first came from something as simple as a hike. A cactus spike had lodged itself in the sole of a shoe, and when we stepped into the dinghy, it punctured the high-pressure PVC floor. The leak was slow, discovered days later when the floor sagged like a tired balloon.

The second patch was more dramatic. One sunny afternoon, I swam alongside while Peter paddled. We found a perfect snorkeling spot, anchored the dinghy, and dove in. When we finished, Peter climbed back aboard, tugged the anchor, and—hissss. I froze. “Please let that not be what I think it is,” I muttered into the water. It was exactly that. The anchor had stabbed the front chamber. By the time I swam back to FEROX, the dinghy looked deflated and forlorn.

Thankfully, with Stabond PVC adhesive and some patience, both fixes are holding strong. We joke about when we’ll run out of black patch material and have to switch to turquoise or white. Maybe we’ll cut them into stars or hearts, just to keep things fun.

Solar Panels: Burnout and Resurrection

Our four flexible 200W solar panels are the backbone of our energy system at anchor. They are quietly feeding us power while we float in silence. Or at least, they did.

After a routine wash in late February, we noticed something odd—our charging status was far lower than usual. Two panels were producing almost nothing. At first glance, they looked fine. But when Peter opened the junction boxes, one smelled burned. Taking the panel off the arch revealed a charred mark underneath. Water must have seeped in and shorted it.

We tested with our voltmeter, but the readings made no sense. Later, we discovered the probe wire of the voltmeter had broken (but only after buying a second voltmeter), so now we had two voltmeters. With our soldering irons and diodes scavenged from the anchorage, we set to work. After resealing junction boxes and adding fuses, both panels came back to life. Better than before, in fact.

While we didn’t know if we could fix the panels, we ordered two new ones. We’re now joking that we’ll be the only cruisers carrying three extra solar panels around the world — we already had one spare.

Mast Mysteries: Birdie and Antenna

The mast has its own personality—slippery, stubborn, and prone to losing things. First, our windex “birdie” vanished. We found a replacement in La Paz, smaller but serviceable, and epoxied it firmly in place.

But Peter’s trip up the mast revealed another surprise—the VHF and AIS antenna was gone. This mast seems to repel gear like Teflon. Finding a proper antenna was nearly impossible, so we improvised. First with a bendy wire, which worked but looked ridiculous. Then, by sheer luck, we stumbled across a car shop welding with TIG wire—the perfect substitute. They handed us two pieces, refusing payment until we insisted they take beer money.

Now our mast sports a sturdier antenna, courtesy of cruiser ingenuity, friendly locals, and a little serendipity.

Engine Adventures: O-Rings and Springs

Our engine had a small oil leak at the throttle control. With a new O-ring in hand, we set out to fix it. The exploded parts diagram showed where it should go, but we weren’t sure if it sat inside or outside the engine block as there was no existing O-ring to be found.

Digging further into the engine and removing the lever plate triggered an unexpected bing and the entire lever came out. Peter went into shock and started hyperventilating fully thinking that we had broken our engine (while on anchor) and now needed to take it fully apart to fix it. For a moment, it felt like a disaster. My only option in that moment was to stay calm, give him a hug and tell him there’s still time to freak out later if we can’t fix it once we know for sure.

The bing? A spring had popped loose inside the engine block. After an hour of poking with wires through a cleverly placed access hatch, we reconnected the spring. The O-ring fit perfectly into the indentation on the outside that I’d suspected all along. Crisis averted, propulsion restored, oil leak fixed, and we learned more about our engine!

Impeller Surprise

Routine maintenance is supposed to be the easy stuff. Once a year, the water pump impeller gets replaced: six screws off, swap the rubber wheel, six screws back on. Simple.

This time, five screws came out just fine. The sixth, though, was “siliconed” in place. That’s when we realized the boatyard back in San Francisco had stripped it and, instead of repairing—or even mentioning it—they’d simply covered it up. It was one of those moments where your stomach sinks a little. Disappointing, yes, but at least repairable.

We reached out to our project manager at the yard. They thanked us for the feedback, ran an investigation, and agreed that the shortcut didn’t reflect their quality standards at all. As it turned out, the individual responsible had already left the company some time ago after other issues, so the problem wasn’t lingering. Hearing that was reassuring.

The Cruising Truth

As Peter ordered new spare parts, he discovered yet another hidden failure. It drove home the saying we’ve no choice but to adopt:

And that’s cruising life. Paradise, yes. But paradise with patches, soldering irons, and the toolkit always within reach.

The past month has been a lively mix of hopping between bays, anchorages, and hidden corners around La Paz. We even scouted as far north as San Evaristo, about 50 nautical miles away. Our mission? To ease into cruising life, soak up the beauty, and prep the boat for the big leap to the Marquesas in early March.

From the Bay of Dreams to Balandra

Our last stop was Bahia de los Muertos, the “Bay of the Dead”—though we’ve since learned it’s now called Bahia de los Sueños, the “Bay of Dreams.” A much more fitting name for such a stunning place, even if the rebrand might have something to do with the luxury housing projects planned along its shores.

From there, we rounded the peninsula and slipped past Isla Espíritu Santo toward Balandra. With its turquoise waters and sandy bottom, it looked perfect for an overnight stay. But a tour boat informed us that anchoring overnight is no longer allowed—apparently due to a boat explosion years ago. So, onward we went, lucky enough to find other bays before tackling the long, unfamiliar channel into La Paz.

Sea Puppies and Surprises

A few anchorages later, we discovered a gem: clear water, white sand, mangroves, and abundant marine life. We’ve returned many times since. Just outside lies a small island where visitors swim with young sea lions—affectionately called “sea puppies.” One morning, before the tourist boats arrived, we had the place to ourselves. Playful pups darted around us, curious and mischievous. At one point, a sea lion snuck up behind me while I was watching a reef fish. When I turned, startled, we both shot backward in shock—Peter laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his mask.

La Paz and Its Channel

Approaching La Paz, we discovered the narrow channel beside a sandbar. No wonder the harbor closes when winds shift—the waves can pile up quickly. Twice we’ve been “stuck” in town, but La Paz is no hardship: a charming downtown, a beachside promenade, and friendly faces. Our first visitors, John and Stacy from Sequoia Yacht Club, even brought us a care package of spare parts—engine pieces, headlamps, and a backup windex.

Escaping to Isla Espíritu Santo

Heading north again, we explored Isla Espíritu Santo. Bay after bay revealed greater beauty, where glasslike water and a hush of untouched nature made even a whisper feel too loud. We snorkeled caves, hiked dried out riverbeds, wing-foiled across bays, and marveled at rays leaping from the water. The cliffs echoed their splashes like gunshots—an eerie, surreal soundtrack to paradise.

San Evaristo: A Fishing Village Frozen in Time

Our northernmost stop was San Evaristo, a humble fishing village. Fishermen hauled boats onto the sand and cleaned their catch while pelicans and gulls swarmed. The beach was littered with fish skeletons, stark reminders of the feast. Yet the locals were warm and welcoming, with a tiny shop and restaurant offering basic provisions. Dirt roads and cactus forests invited us to slow down and savor the simple life.

Isla San Francisco and Back to the City

On the return south, we anchored at Isla San Francisco. The water was so clear it felt like dropping anchor in a swimming pool. With another visitor arriving soon and a big maintenance job looming—new bottom paint to keep marine growth at bay—we reluctantly headed back to the bustle of La Paz.

Sixteen Feet of Serene

Back in La Paz, marina life gave us a chance to reset. We booked a few nights, scrubbed both ourselves and the boat, and lined up something special—a whale shark tour. These gentle giants linger close to La Paz, and encounters are tightly regulated to protect the population.

Swimming alongside them was unforgettable. Whale sharks are the largest fish on Earth, yet they feed only on plankton. Fascinatingly, females mate just once in their lifetime and continue producing offspring afterward. They reach maturity around 25 years of age and can live for another century.

The one we swam with measured about 16 feet, according to our guide. It glided effortlessly through the water, filtering plankton as it went. As long as you don’t touch them, they simply continue on their way—majestic, unbothered, and impossibly serene.

Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve zig-zagged our way down Baja, clocking roughly 850 nautical miles. Most of it under sail, with only about 15 gallons of diesel sacrificed to the wind gods when they decided to ghost us. Twelve nights at anchor, four nights at sea, and countless cups of coffee later, we’re still afloat, still smiling, and occasionally still salty (literally and figuratively).

Remote Bliss

Our first stop after the bustle of Ensenada was a bay so remote it felt like we’d stumbled into a postcard. Miles of empty beach stretched out like a welcome mat. We dropped anchor, collapsed into naps, and let the boat rock us back into sanity after our night watches. The only other boats were so far away they may as well have been mirages. Peter dove in to scrub the hull, only to discover that the boat was actually pretty clean because we’ve moved so fast through the water.

Tortuga Nights

Next came Bahia de Tortuga. True to form, we arrived at night — apparently our specialty. Nothing like creeping into unknown waters in the dark, dodging buoys, fishing gear, and reefs, while Peter’s much-mocked 14,000-lumen flashlight suddenly became our most valuable crew member.

The town itself was a sleepy fishing village with dirt roads, half-built or half-fallen-down houses, and a charm that sneaks up on you. The grocery store was surprisingly well-stocked, and the locals were warm and welcoming. Our dinghy made its debut here, beach landing and all. We weren’t sure if leaving it unattended was wise, so we tag-teamed errands: Peter hunted down diesel while I guarded the dinghy, then we swapped so I could raid the grocery store. Turns out, we didn’t need to worry — the next day we left it alone for another grocery run and Peter treating himself to ice cream.

Santa Maria Shake-Up

The next bays were quiet and dreamy… until Bahia Santa Maria reminded us who’s boss. We knew the wind would swing south overnight and braced for what’s coming, but we didn’t realize it would turn the bay into such a washing machine. By 9pm, waves were slapping us silly, FEROX was lunging like it wanted to break free, and I was popping motion sickness meds. We dragged anchor about 60 feet that night, staying on anchor watch instead of snoozing. We had lots of space to drag, so we weren’t too concerned. Not exactly spa vibes, but hey — adventure isn’t always smooth sailing.

Cabo Chaos

Our grand plan was to skip Cabo San Lucas entirely for our next leg, but fate had other ideas. Around 3pm the first day under way, our wind instruments quit, and hand-steering wasn’t sustainable for multiple nights. So, Cabo it was to figure out what’s going on.

Rounding the rocky coast, we were greeted by a cruise ship, mega yachts, jet skis, and parasailing boats — basically, society in full tourist mode. We anchored away from the crowd, close enough to the beach to feel like we might run aground, but the anchor held.

Peter climbed the mast to check the wind instruments while jet skis buzzed around us like mosquitoes. His colorful commentary (broadcast directly into my headphones) was… let’s say, memorable. The culprit? A loose connection. Stick it back together, add a little tape, a lot of swearing, and voilà — problem solved.

The next morning we woke to the smell of bacon and eggs that wafted over from the resort on shore. We had eggs, but no bacon, so the craving couldn’t be quenched.

Whale Dodging & Kite Flying

After Cabo, we started hopping north again. Day sailing in 20+ knots of wind isn’t exactly relaxing (or fast), but the whales made up for it. There were so many that we had to alter course a few times to avoid bumping into them.

On the sailing front in general, we had some glorious runs. At one point we flew the kite for over 30 hours straight — day and night, blasting down the coast like we were on rails. Our solar panels and hydro generator kept the batteries humming, so we were happily self‑sufficient while Baja served up wind and waves.

Of course, long passages always come with lessons:

• Stick to what you know. We’ve always done outside jibes on FEROX when racing — less prone to hourglasses, though the risk is losing a sheet under the boat. Sure enough, when that happened we thought, “Let’s try inside jibes instead.” Bad idea. Both times we ended up with hourglasses so tight they looked like balloon animals. Abort mission. Back to outside jibes, with extra vigilance to keep the sheets out of the drink.

• Downwind without wind readings = chaos. Rounding the south corner, our wind instruments quit after the kite flogged a few times. Cue mid‑20 knot winds, big seas, and no wind speed or direction data. The autopilot couldn’t run on wind angle anymore, so we hand‑steered a bit during the day. At night, we relied on the compass mode on the autopilot — “working” is a generous word. It kept us vaguely pointed downwind, but we still had to babysit sail trim constantly. Thank goodness for our trusty “birdie” at the masthead — a simple non‑digital arrow showing apparent wind. Without it, we’d have been steering blind in the dark, since wave curls aren’t exactly visible at midnight.

• Birdies are cursed. Speaking of, we lost another one. That’s three this year. This one survived two months before bailing out while we bashed upwind in confused seas (luckily after our wind instrument incident). We have yet to check the failure point. RIP little arrow.

• Wind predictions lie. Every forecast said one thing, reality said “add at least five knots.” Not a huge deal — we love wind and would rather reef down than bob around in nothing. But Baja definitely likes to keep things spicy.

The Takeaway

We’ve been blown down the coast, rocked at anchor, fed by sleepy towns, and entertained by whales. The water’s clearer, the winds stronger, and the lessons keep piling up. Cruising isn’t always calm sunsets and cocktails — sometimes it’s jet skis, mast climbs, and midnight anchor watches. But it’s always an adventure, and that’s exactly why we’re here.

Enjoy this fun video of rays jumping at sunset in Los Frailes:

San Diego was our last U.S. stop — our final chance to indulge in Amazon deliveries and easy errands. Daily bike rides to the post office and locker boxes became part of our ritual, Peter donning his “Top‑Shopper Hat” and going on spree after spree. One glaring omission: the quarantine flag. That simple yellow square of fabric, the signal to any new country that we still need to check in. We had already collected the flags of the next fourteen nations we’ll visit, but somehow the humble yellow one slipped through the cracks.

Meanwhile, Peter waterproofed the boat a little more. The back lazarette had been taking on water at speed, so he built “boots” around the rudder posts. Within minutes our tidy sailing vessel transformed into a full‑blown workshop—tools, lines, and epoxy choreography—then just as quickly snapped back to shipshape. The new “boots” worked, and good thing, because the next ride south wasn’t for the faint‑hearted.

Our “home” in San Diego was the public dock at Shelter Island — a paradise of boats and boat shops, each one stocked like treasure troves. Next door, an upscale hotel with beach fireplaces lured us in. On our last evening, we sat by the fire with a local beer from culver beer co (courtesy of one of Peter’s ex colleagues who stopped by), reminiscing about thirteen years in the U.S. and savoring the strange sweetness of being on the edge of the unknown.

At dawn on Sunday, January 11, we slipped out. Destination: Ensenada. The forecast promised a lively ten‑hour sail, winds peaking at 27 knots. After a slow motor out of San Diego Bay, dolphins escorted us again, playful and curious. Then the Santa Ana winds arrived — no wind one moment, 30+ knots sustained the next. Reef after reef, we danced with the sails, finally settling into the second reef and staysail. The whole passage was a sensual push‑and‑pull: “How fast can you reef?” “How fast do you dare to unreef?” The wind teased, withdrew, then came roaring back.

By 4 p.m. we slid into Ensenada, right on schedule. The harbor office was closed, so check‑in would wait until morning. We planned for a quiet night… until a departing cruiser blasted its horns, and later a truck turned the parking lot into a disco.

At 8:20 the next morning, harbor staff knocked us out of bed. I had imagined Mexico would be slower, more relaxed. Not so. Documents in hand, we were whisked off with Oswaldo to the port captain’s office — a city tour before coffee. Passports stamped, cash demanded (credit cards no longer accepted), then on to the Temporary Import Permit. At Banjercito, our ADAC ownership certificate was scrutinized and rejected — “just an auto club.” Thankfully, our government‑issued flag certificate saved the day. Payment was another hurdle: only Peter’s credit card would do, since his name was on the certificate. He hadn’t brought it. Cash again, another ATM run. After ninety minutes, we were officially in. Oswaldo shrugged: “I’ve seen worse.”

Back at the boat, chores done, we wandered into town. The cruise port spilled us out alongside tourists, and the streets were lined with hawkers and traps. We surrendered to an overpriced beer, then escaped to quieter roads. Ensenada showed its wear — cracked sidewalks, broken houses, just a block away from the polished tourist strip.

Groceries filled our bags, but re‑entry to the harbor was another lesson. No cruising ID, no memory of our faces, no entry. We were redirected to the car checkpoint, asked for IDs. Peter had left his wallet behind. Another lecture, another lucky break, and we were let through.

That evening, we shared a sunset beer with neighbors from Coyote Point — a small‑world moment, since their yacht club races with ours back in the Bay. The cruise ship in front of us moved the sunset up half an hour for us, but the glow was still sweet. Later, a trumpet band rehearsed nearby, punctuating the night. Ensenada wasn’t quiet, but it was colorful. Stocked with supplies, we were ready to move on — chasing warmer winds and calmer nights.

We stayed in Santa Barbara through the next storm. Between boat chores, land chores (wrapping up insurances, setting up our traveling mailbox), and a continuous list of fixes we had plenty to keep us busy. We achieved adding a Spinlock tiller extension to the starboard tiller, fixing our port tiller which we had started maintenance on in Redwood City, new webbing on the bow lifelines to keep sails on deck, swapping metal bolts for plastic ones on the radar to keep that part of the carbon corrosion free and maintaining all our life saving gear!

Most days were spent “working,” our new version of work, but we also squeezed in some fun: biking along the beach, watching the new Avatar: Fire and Ash on a rainy afternoon, catching up with old sailing friends who moved to Santa Barbara years ago and used to race with us on our Antrim 27 HEAD RUSH, and taking a road trip to Paso Robles to see a friend we’d missed saying goodbye to in the Bay Area — and to scout his new house, a perfect future wine‑tasting destination.

One morning after a storm, Peter stepped outside and asked how many fenders we had out. Apparently, the answer was “one fewer than we thought.” We spent the next two hours wandering the harbor looking for it. That’s when I reconsidered our brilliant decision to buy a black fender… next time we’re going full neon. We were just about to give up, standing on the beach, when a small black lump in the sand caught my eye. I ran over — and there it was. Our runaway fender. Day saved.

The funny part? The fender line was nowhere to be found — not on the boat and not on the fender. Peter has since upgraded our fender‑attachment system with a fully locked splice on the fender side, and we’re now double‑ and triple‑knotting them for good measure on the boat side.

After a week, we were ready. A weather window without southerly storms opened, and it was time to move on to our next destination: San Diego. The forecast looked fair — light breeze, 90% sailing, maybe a brief spike into the 20‑knot range near Los Angeles, and only a little motoring. We left Sunday morning, January 4th, with an ETA of Monday, January 5th around 5 p.m.

Leaving the dock, however, came with a bit of kerfuffle. We’d forgotten to remove an extra stern line we’d added for the storm. As I motored forward, the line snapped taut and yanked us backward toward the neighboring boat. Apparently, removing that line was my job. Next time… We made it out with no damage to anything (except my pride).

Naturally, the forecast couldn’t have been more wrong. We motored 90% of the way — and if we sailed even 10%, that’s generous. Fortunately, we had filled up our Diesel stores when we had the rental car and our little faithful “donkey”, um, hand wagon!

The upside of motoring was a straight, uneventful beeline to San Diego. The brief sailing we did get was a lovely few hours of reaching under the Code 0. When the wind died early in the evening, I furled it and restarted the engine.

At shift change, we decided to take the Code 0 down in case the wind shifted. It had started to drizzle, and of course it was fully dark — because we apparently only take down big sails at night. As Peter moved toward the bow, I heard a loud exclamation. He didn’t answer right away, which had me worried, until he finally called back: “Dolphins!”

We had acquired an escort.

The sail takedown and the rain were instantly forgotten. The water was crystal clear, and a whole pod of dolphins surrounded us, weaving and hunting in our wake. Watching them glide effortlessly through the water, darting side to side in front of the bow, was mesmerizing. They stayed with us for hours, chasing little fish whose tiny bodies flashed silver in our flashlight beams.

I hoped they’d still be there at sunrise so we could see them even better, but no such luck. The sunrise made up for it. And with it, we officially crossed into new waters — the furthest south we’d ever taken FEROX before was Ventura, when we first picked her up.

Approaching San Diego taught us a valuable lesson: read up on the area you’re sailing into. We assumed we could simply approach the channel, but from the north there’s a massive kelp forest you’re meant to skirt — and we barely did. The area was dotted with small buoys, and if the kelp didn’t snag you, one of those lines would. A nighttime nightmare.

Right as we neared the kelp, our engine decided to blow out a cloud of white steam. We shut it down immediately. While Peter debugged, I tried to sail in almost no wind and a sloppy swell, attempting to stay clear of the kelp. Semi‑successfully, I’d say. Even outside the main forest, stray strands were everywhere, nearly invisible, and with almost no steerage from the nonexistent wind, avoiding them was… optimistic. But we made it out, and after checking everything, the engine came back to life. A more thorough inspection is now added on top of the San Diego to‑do list.

Motoring up the channel toward Shelter Island, we passed the San Diego Navy Base and spotted several submarines docked there. We immediately looked up the technology behind what we were seeing. Then a fast, fully enclosed, windowless military‑looking vessel sped past us — almost certainly a drone.

As the sun set and we passed a row of Navy ships, a melody suddenly played. We had no idea what it was and briefly wondered if we were doing something wrong — we were the only boat in the channel. It turned out to be the sunset bugle call, “Retreat” or “Evening Colors,” marking the end of the workday and the lowering of the U.S. flag. A delightful surprise.

The entry into the harbor was peaceful: no wind, soft sunset colors, and an easy online reservation system — book a slip, dock, and relax. After so much motoring, the quiet felt luxurious. We took a short walk around the area and already found a few spots we want to explore in the coming days.

The week before, we had already packed FEROX with toys, tools, and spare parts. Peter was convinced we were 80% done. Little did he know how much space our clothing, my tiny selection of linens and towels, and the choice items for the kitchen would demand. As the car filled up — and with the bikes still not even loaded — he nearly called the whole sailing‑around‑the‑world plan off and declared we’d be traveling as a submarine instead. But in the end, everything found a home on the boat or was kicked off the “crew list” at the last minute. Our final storage run on December 24th took care of the stragglers; after that, anything left was destined for recycling or donation.

Our first nights aboard were windy and rainy. At times, especially in the dark, it felt like the boat wanted to sail away right there in its slip. But on Christmas morning, after two nights of storm, we woke to sunshine and rainbows. I couldn’t believe my eyes — a little farewell gift from the weather gods. It didn’t last long. One more night of storm was forecast before our departure window.

On December 26th, the wind was supposed to shift back to its normal northerly pattern and the storms were expected to ease. The plan was to leave in the early afternoon, ride the tail of the system up to the city, anchor in China Basin for the night, and launch out the Golden Gate in the morning.

We didn’t quite make that early afternoon departure. The storm was still in full swing, and neither of us had any appetite for heading out into it. Instead, we took our time rigging and saying goodbye to the friends who came to cast us off. As we rounded the corner out of our fairway, it hit me — we’re really doing this — and there may have been an emotional moment.

Motoring into the turning basin, we set sail. Halfway up the main, a massive wind shift slammed into us — the abrupt transition from storm wind to normal wind. Not ideal. Moments later the wind shut down entirely, leaving us motoring toward the city if we wanted to make any progress. The upside: a quiet, beautifully calm night at anchor — our first calm night after the move onto the boat — and a fresh start for our morning pass under the Golden Gate Bridge.

We didn’t know there would be another send‑off. As we approached the bridge, we saw a group of people up top following our path, and some waving a German flag and blowing horns. That’s when it really hit me. I couldn’t enjoy the moment at all; saying goodbye to everyone around us was unexpectedly hard. Who would think leaving — even temporarily — could feel like this. My throat seized so tightly I couldn’t even respond to the “Whoops!” that echoed down from the bridge.

As soon as we passed under the span, the wind shut down again and we found ourselves in the open ocean still churned up from days of storm. It wasn’t pretty. Despite taking a double-dose of motion‑sickness medication that morning, I got seasick almost immediately and spent most of the day trying to hold it together or sleeping it off. Motoring in no wind didn’t help. But once a breeze finally filled in and we started sailing, I improved. I still had work to do — a sourdough loaf was waiting to be baked down below. The alternative would have been the dough happily rising further past the boundaries of it’s pot — we ended the day with warm bread & butter for dinner and no runaway dough.

My night shift was uneventful. We sailed through the darkness and swapped around midnight. During Peter’s shift, the wind spiked and we were suddenly screaming along, surfing waves at 11–15 knots on a reach, the boat plunging down the dark faces of the swells as we tore into the night. Belowdecks, I was half‑asleep, wrapped in the warm, unmatched coziness of the hull slipping smoothly through the ocean. In the early morning hours the wind died again, so he furled the jib and started the engine. The day that followed was mostly sailing, with the spinnaker making its first appearance in the late afternoon.

At sunset we were happily cruising in 12 knots of breeze, making 7–8 knots with the kite up. We debated taking it down before dark. It was too beautiful to give up, so we left it flying — with the agreement that anything over 15 knots would trigger a takedown. As soon as it was fully dark, we skipped right past 15 and went straight to 23 knots. I was in the middle of making dinner. It was now or never. I dropped everything, we geared up, and took the kite down while screaming along in the darkness. It all went smoothly. We also tucked the first reef into the main to avoid any surprises if the wind kept building… naturally, now that we took down the kite and were all prepared, it didn’t build.

We arrived in Santa Barbara around lunchtime after two days and a few hours at sea. The sun was out, the air was warm, and it felt like a completely different world. We soaked it in and prepared for the next storm front, which we planned to ride out safely in the harbor.

Our “home turf” was the South Bay out of Sequoia Yacht Club. Think Wednesday Night Summer Sunset Series (yes, the name is as dreamy as it sounds) and plenty of weekend races.

We also ventured north to the city, where my absolute favorite was the legendary Three Bridge Fiasco. Picture this: 300+ boats, all short-handed (just one or two crew per boat), weaving around each other in a giant nautical chess match. Equal parts sportsmanship, strategy, and endurance—it was always a blast.

By 2019, we went all-in on Ocean Racing. FEROX carried us up and down the coast: Farallon Islands, Drakes Bay, Half Moon Bay, Monterey. A few years later, the Bluewater Bash pushed us farther offshore—75 nautical miles west, chasing the horizon.

But here’s the twist: FEROX isn’t just a racer. She’s actually a cruising boat. So we made sure to explore closer to home, too. Inside the Golden Gate, we loved hopping to Angel Island, Sausalito, and Tiburon. And then there was “the Delta”—an epic 86-nautical-mile journey up the San Joaquin River to Potato Slough. At 7 knots, it’s technically a half-day trip, but we usually split it into two. Hardcore cruisers sometimes did the full 12-hour marathon, timing the tides like pros to get swept up the Bay by the ebb and then pushed up the river by the flood. Magical doesn’t even begin to cover it—salt water fading into fresh, the feeling of being worlds away, even though it’s just a two-hour drive by car.

As we got more comfortable with FEROX, we stretched our cruising legs along the coast. Drake’s Bay quickly became a favorite: rugged cliffs, elephant seals bellowing like prehistoric beasts, bioluminescence lighting up the water, and the Milky Way overhead. Further afield, we made it down to Santa Barbara and the Channel Islands (hello, Santa Cruz Island!) and up to Bodega Bay.

Our longest adventures so far? About 16 days, with up to three days straight at sea. That’s when we relied on a watch system [For the non-sailors: crew take turns staying awake, steering, and keeping lookout while others rest. Basically shifts for safety—like night guards, but at sea].

And while we’ve been prepping FEROX for full-on cruising these past two years, all those earlier miles were training in disguise. We didn’t shy away from bad weather—sometimes we even chased it. Squalls in the Bay with sideways rain stinging our cheeks, storms offshore with big winds and bigger waves. One unforgettable (after the fact!) moment: ducking into Half Moon Bay in winter 2024, just as Mavericks was serving up monster surf. Riding those waves into the harbor felt like surfing with a 36-foot dance partner.

With the holidays approaching, our early‑days crew and helper Phillip flew home to be with family. Not yet confident enough to tackle the next leg to San Francisco alone, we stayed put in Santa Barbara for Christmas. Not a bad place to be. We made the boat feel more like home, buying blankets and cushions, and even took her out for a first sail. On Christmas Day 2018 we pointed towards Santa Cruz Island for a short reach under the Code 0 — nothing grand, but it felt momentous, especially with dolphins escorting us again.

A few sunsets later, Phillip returned with Dan to crew the delivery north. We slipped out of Santa Barbara in the evening, aiming to round Point Conception at night in a gentle weather window. The wind was fair, and we played it safe, motor sailing under jib and hugging the coast.

The Big Sur stretch proved rough and challenging. Two days of slow, uncomfortable progress left us nearly out of fuel, so we diverted to Monterey, arriving at 8 p.m. on December 29. Forecasts promised no relief, and our crew advised against continuing. We faced a choice: leave the boat in Monterey and return later, or press on alone. With only three days before work resumed, we chose to rip the band‑aid off. Sooner or later, we had to do it ourselves anyways.

Late that night we headed back out. The seas were rough, waves invisible in the dark, and FEROX slammed down hard a few times. It was loud, but she felt solid. By morning we were near Half Moon Bay, debating whether to duck in. Our friend Sebastian had just arrived from Europe to meet us, so we redirected him there. Yet as the sun rose, the sail turned beautiful, and we decided to continue north. Somewhere in the night our main halyard shackle had shaken loose — the first of many offerings to Neptune. We tried fishing the halyard down with a boat hook, laughing at our futility, but going up the mast in those seas and without any gear was out of the question. So jib and motor remained our mode.

Sebastian followed our progress along the coast, catching glimpses of our tiny sail on the horizon. He finally found us at the Golden Gate, snapping proof as we passed beneath for the first time with FEROX. By late afternoon we were safely in Westpoint Harbor, greeted by friends. An unbelievable, surreal moment.

Since then, we’ve returned to Santa Barbara a few times, always around Christmas. It feels like a waypoint woven into our story — perhaps our first true detour on the way south.

By a twist of luck, Pogo 36 hull number 6 came up for sale in late summer 2018 and we grabbed her right off the market. Only complication: this boat is in Germany. Peter had travel plans for work already, so he combined it with not just a visit to the family but also a test sail. He grabbed the parents (always need witnesses!), step mom even baked cake, and took them sailing in Rostock. They thoroughly enjoyed the cake — and the sail! The decision was really a no-brainer. Peter fell in love right away and the deal was done.

The first part of her journey meant getting her from Rostock to Bremerhaven. We had great partners to deliver her there, packing her all up and getting her to the US. She even got a police escort at night to get to the boatyard!

While FEROX was embarking on her journey via a massive car carrier, nicely tucked inside, we packed up our trusty Antrim 27 “Head Rush”. Our loved race boat started her own journey across the United States on to Canada to have a few years of lake sailing reprieve before she returned right back to where she started — Santa Cruz (but that’s a story for a different time and possibly a different blog.)

A little more than a month later — about a week before Christmas — found us in Ventura hanging around Port Hueneme, climbing dirt hills and trees, trying to get a glimpse of our new boat over the high port wall.

There was a government shutdown looming and we weren’t sure if she’ll make it out before that. But she did. We ran back to the car and “stalked” the port entrance once we saw movement on the other side of the wall. A little bit later we got right on her tail when she left the port! That girl has quite the wide butt!

I think, I’ll end this first long post with the next impression. A clip of my first approach. Thanks Peter for capturing this moment! No words needed here. Let’s go cruising!