Sailing World Magazine’s annual Boat of the Year tests are conducted in Annapolis, Maryland, following the US Sailboat Show. With independent judges exhaustively inspecting the boats on land and putting them through their paces on the water, this year’s fleet of new performance-sailing boats spanned from small dinghies to high-tech bluewater catamarans. Here’s the best of the best from our 2023 Boat of the Year nominees »

The Total Package

• Beneteau First 36 2023 Boat of the Year
• Stated purpose: Shorthanded racing, club racing, coastal cruising
• Crew: Solo to six
• Praise for: Build quality, deck layout, versatility
• Est. price as sailed: $345,000

Like a runaway, the Beneteau First 36 careens across a westerly-whipped Chesapeake Bay. The boat’s big-shouldered spinnaker and mainsail are silhouetted in the early October morning light. It’s making trees on the Eastern Shore as we peg the throttle down to keep chase in a 19-foot RIB. The four crewmembers on board are having a casual conversation—like no big deal—when a cold and meaty gust fills the spinnaker. The leech flickers, and the boat surges forward onto plane. Twin rudders zipper the slick streaming out from the transom as the helmsman, hands at 10 and 2 on the carbon steering wheel, effortlessly weaves the boat across waves tops. The boat is, as the saying goes, on rails.

“Wicked,” is how senior Boat of the Year judge Chuck Allen summarizes his experience when he steps off. “That boat is going to be hard to beat.”

Three days and 10 boats later, nothing comes close to usurping the Beneteau First 36 as the obvious and unanimous Boat of the Year, a boat that has been a long time coming and overdue. It’s a boat that will serve many masters.

Beneteau initiated its First 36 project in 2019 by surveying a broad focus group of First “Point 7” owners and dealers about what they wanted in the marketplace, and the takeaways were: 1) Not another ­displacement boat—it had to plane. 2) They wanted a lounge, not a dining room. 3) They wanted their nav station back, and 4) for that, they were OK with having a smaller head.

Given the boat was to meet all three of its club racing, shorthanded and cruising demands, the brain trust assembled inside and outside of Beneteau focused on No. 1—keeping it light and fast. Naval architect Samuel Manuard, the new hot talent of the IMOCA 60 and Class 40 scenes, did the hull, keel and rig. Pure Structural Engineering took care of the structure, and the weight-obsessed glass slingers at Seascape’s factory in Slovenia ensured the boat came in at not a pound more than 10,580. At that weight, of course it’s going to plane.

The entire boat is ­vacuum-infused with CoreCell (hull) and PVC (bulkheads) from the deck down, inside and out, and everything, except the fridge, is somehow a piece of the structure puzzle.

“We are saving big weight there, as furniture is also part of the structure, and all of it glued together makes the boat extremely stiff and very light,” says Beneteau’s Tit Plevnik. “What is special is how calculated it is. In mass-production building, you can’t rely on precision, but we do. The boat is built to the same standard as a pure ­racing boat.”

“The moment I saw it, I knew it would be good. It’s a great-looking boat at the dock and even better with the sails up.”

—Greg Stewart

Built like a race boat, the judges all agree it sure sails like one. “It’s a big 36-footer,” says veteran BOTY judge and naval architect Greg Stewart. “It’s a full-ended boat that has a hint of a scow-type bow with a lot of buoyancy forward. Looking at the numbers, what they achieved with the weight and its placement is impressive—10,000 pounds for a 36-foot waterline length is a very good number. I could tell the minute we put the spinnaker up it was a slippery boat.”

Stewart set the day’s top speed at a tick over 18 knots and says: “I remember feeling the puff hit and load the rig, and the boat just scooted off with really nice steering. It felt like a Laser when you get it in that groove and it just levitates. With the dual rudders, which are pretty long, the boat has more of a power-steering feel upwind, so it lets you do a lot of things. There’s so much control, which is a good thing because you can drive out of situations, but at the same time, it’s easy to oversteer.”

Multiple cockpit mock-ups done at ­different heel angles produced a workspace that the judges could find no flaw with. “It’s all legit, easy and clean in the pit,” Allen says. “With the four of us in the ­cockpit, we had plenty of space to move around and were never into each other.

“I was doing a lot of trimming downwind,” Allen adds. “You can feel the boat take off. It was really stable and easy to handle. The thing is light and fast, and we did push it to try and wipe it out, but it was hard to do.”

All the judges praised the clever location of the primary winches on sloped coamings, which were easier to trim from than a traditional winch-on-the-coaming setup. “They’re at the perfect height,” says judge Dave Powlison, “and with them angled like that, you don’t have to crane your neck to see the sail, and the lead is virtually override-proof.”

Also noteworthy is the generous space between the high carbon wheels and the cockpit walls that allow the helmsman to slide forward without having to step up and around the wheel. The jib trimmer has easy access to the three-dimensional clue adjustment systems, and for the pit, there’s plenty of clutches, redirects and cleats to keep everything sorted and tidy.

The standard spar, and that on the demo boat, is a deck-stepped Z Spars aluminum section with Dyform wire rigging that carries 860 square feet of upwind sail area, which Stewart says is considerable for the displacement of the boat. The mast is well aft, which really stretches out the J dimension and opens the foredeck for a quiver of headsails—for this, you’ll find two tack points on the foredeck. There are four halyards total: one for a masthead gennaker, a 2-to-1 for a code sail, a fractional gennaker, and a 2-to-1 staysail. Allen, a semi-retired sailmaker, put an estimate for a complete race inventory at $60,000, which would put the boat on the racecourse for roughly $400,000. (Base boat is priced at $345,000.)

When the race is done, however, how about that interior?

Step down the wide companionway steps into a space of design simplicity and efficiency, some of which makes you say, “Duh, of course.”

For example, there’s no ­traditional L-shaped galley to port or starboard. There is, however, a tall and slender fridge smack in the middle of the boat (that you connect to the galley with a removable cutting board to complete the L). Walk on either side of it to get forward, past the proper nav station, the fold-down dinette table in the middle with roomy 6-foot berths on both sides, a jetliner-size head with a stowaway sink to starboard, and then a gigantic V-berth that benefits from all that volume in the bow. Back aft, under the cockpit, are large quarter berths as well that easily cruise-convert into storage space for water toys, like kites, wings and foils, all of which takes us back to survey result No. 2. This is where the post-race party begins and ends.

With the usual supply-chain delays, compounded with the build and design team’s obsessive and calculated approach to getting the Beneteau First 36 perfect at Hull No. 1, its debut got off to a later start than hoped. But with early boats landing at eager dealers worldwide, Plevnik says the goal is 32 boats per year for the next two years. The BOTY judges assure us it’ll be worth the wait and give you plenty of time to start planning what you can and will do with it.

The post Beneteau First 36, Sailing World 2023 Boat of the Year appeared first on Sailing World.

Ahead, through bleary eyes, the lights of the Mackinac Bridge float on the horizon like a mirage. The twinkling blob is a distant target in the pitch-black night, the next waypoint on our 280-mile race from boisterous Chicago to sleepy Mackinac Island. All around us are blinking lights: reds, greens and whites of channel markers and the slower boats we’re creaming past at what sure feels like 15 knots. My co-skipper and I are sleep-deprived, hungry and thirsty for beer, and while we can’t yet smell the horse piss, we’re closing in on the finish at a wicked pace.

My concentration flicks between the bow, its angle to the waves, and the tightly curled luff of our bone-white masthead spinnaker. Standing so I can see better, my left foot is braced against the foot chock, tingling and numb. My right knee is bent, pressed against the side deck and the coaming, and my waist is wedged against the lifeline padding. When the load on the rudder lightens, I allow the tiller to glide away. The boat turns toward the wind, the luff flicks as the boat accelerates, and water jets across the foredeck.

The boat begins to surf, and the ­rudders howl like a banshee and then go quiet as froth tumbles out from the transom. A stronger gust tickles the hair on the back of my neck. I exhale deeply to calm my nerves and say to myself, Don’t wipe out…don’t wipe out…

My mate for this blitz through the Straits of Mackinac is Andraž Mihelin. He’s behind me, sitting wedged into the pushpit while navigating through a maze of markers using only his iPhone. He knows we’re pushing the boat and its runnerless carbon rig to a redline. This boat is his baby, and he knows better than anyone what will trigger a tantrum.

“Careful,” I hear him say to me. “You’re on the edge.”

Huh? On the edge?

I ponder that for a split second, afraid to ask what he means. Does my steering suck?

We’ve turned off the cockpit displays to save power, so I have no idea how fast we’re going or what direction the apparent wind is coming from, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sailing the 27-footer by feel, and I’m chuffed that I actually feel fully in control. The leeward rudder has a firm grip, and the boat, as the saying goes, feels as if it’s on rails. Tugging on the tiller keeps everything in balance.

“What do you mean by on the edge?” I ask him, without breaking my concentration on the bow.

“When there’s that much water coming across the deck, you’re on the edge,” he responds calmly. I hear what he’s saying, but I sure don’t feel as if I’m on the edge of anything, which is crazy because I’ve never driven a sportboat at such speed into the night—never mind with only two people and no one with a hand on the spinnaker sheet. If being on the edge means driving drunk on adrenaline and reckless confidence, well, bartender, give me another.

The finish line ahead of us is that of the 112th edition of Chicago Yacht Club’s Race to Mackinac, which is a big deal to the sailors of this giant freshwater playground. It’s the annual gem of the Great Lakes yachting calendar, a race that any Windy City sailor worth their weight in rum commits to every year—birth of a child or family ­wedding be damned.

The storied northbound race is not an easy test of skill and seamanship by any stretch, and that’s its appeal. There’s no one winning strategy (do you favor Wisconsin or Michigan this year?) and big weather comes fast and hard. Sometimes boats break or capsize, and the race is not without its fatalities. Its two- to three-day duration is just long enough to get knackered and feel as though you’ve accomplished something cool and a little bit dangerous, but it’s not too long as to leave you bored, sitting on the rail for days on end wishing you had a platter of piping hot chicken wings. There are quick ones and slow ones, and when it does come to a crawl, out come veracious lake flies, those nibbling nuances for which there is no known defense. They are the scourge of the race.

The fleet of this 2021 edition is smaller than some years past, but there are thousands of sailors itching to earn a new brag flag. This year’s scratch sheet runs the gamut, from an 86-footer to the grand-prix Great Lakes 52s, the ubiquitous Tartan 10s, and the two smallest boats of all: the Beneteau First 27SEs (Seascape Edition). I’m on one of them, racing in the doublehanded division against two 29-foot J/88s.

When I accepted an out-of-the-blue ­invitation to do the race with Mihelin, I did so without actually contemplating how small a 27-feet boat is relative to Lake Michigan. I also did not contemplate one important aspect of racing with only one other soul: Should one of us go overboard while the other is down below having a nap, the chance of survival is greatly reduced, especially when the water is cold. And this, I now understand, is why race organizers enforce the most comprehensive safety requirements of any race I’ve ever sailed. The must-have equipment for every boat is pages long, and every crewmember on every boat must be schooled in safety at sea.

Before the race, I had no safety qualifications, and I also neglected to disclose to Mihelin that I’d never once sailed a double­handed offshore distance race, nor doublehanded at night. I owned no safety equipment, except my PFD, and had not a single minute of safety training—online or in-person. Only after I complete my online classes do I realize how much I didn’t know, and while I should’ve been more at ease with my safety book smarts, the opposite happened: I got spooked with the thought of racing such a small and unknown craft on such a notorious stretch of water. With zero experience. With an unknown mate.

The mandatory equipment does get expensive, but I now own a top-shelf Mustang inflatable PFD and tether, an Ocean Signal AIS/DSC man-overboard ­beacon, an ACR personal EPIRB, a high-­quality headlamp, and a one-handed blunt-tip safety knife. Plus, I have a sample set of North Sails’ new top-shelf Gore-Tex foul-weather gear to keep me warm and dry. Having all the right gear, as the ­seminars preach, is half the battle.

Properly kitted, I feel more at ease when I arrive at the boat and assess its sea­worthiness for the first time. It could fit on the foredeck of Natalie J, the 52-footer next door. It’s definitely a sportboat built for two.

There are two other First 27SEs at the dock at Chicago’s Columbia YC. There’s a new one straight off a ship from the Seascape factory in Slovenia (which was supposed to be ours), one belonging to an owner from Texas who is relocating to the Great Lakes (we’re borrowing his), and the third is owned by local Mike Tuman, who prefers to solo his boat but is doing the race with Tit Plevnik from the Seascape team.

Mihelin is standing astride our little white boat, holding court. He’s only just arrived in Chicago, having conquered the US COVID‑19 foreign-entry maze. This is not Mihelin’s first Mac Race, though. In 2016, he won the doublehanded division with British solo sailor Phil Sharp and then raced with a crew of four in 2018. Both races were on the Seascape 27, as the First 27SE was called back in the days, an award-winning design from the boatbuilding company Mihelin founded in Slovenia with fellow sailor Kristian Hajnšek. Both gentlemen are disciples of Mini-class racing, having completed two Mini-Transat campaigns (from France to Brazil in crazy-fast 21-footers).

I will soon come to understand that Mihelin’s experiences from those ­intoxicating days of Mini racing define his character as well as his company. He preaches the tightknit community of Mini, the performance of Mini, and how Mini takes you light-years outside your comfort zone and then brings you back to a better place.

Such is the ethos of Seascape, which started in 2008 with a Mini-styled 18-footer and has grown to include a 24-, a 27- and a 14-footer. Along the way, and now several hundred boats later, Mihelin and his young and industrious employees have nurtured a devout clan of sailors in Europe, especially around the Adriatic and Baltic, where coastal racing in Seascapes is what the cool kids do. They’re also now kings of the Silver Rudder, which Mihelin explains to be the largest singlehanded distance race in the world, where as many as 450 sailors race 140 miles around the second-largest Danish island.

The Beneteau Group, I’m told, was impressed with the quality and ingenuity of Seascape’s Sam Manuard-designed boats and the whole Seascape schtick. The company came knocking a few years ago, keen to buy the brand, integrate it, and get back into the rank-and-file ­performance-sailing game with a new spin on its “First” lineage. Having finally figured out how to integrate the two companies, there is a long-term joint venture with Seascape overseeing Beneteau’s First and First Seascape Edition, including a weapon of a 36-footer that will debut by end of the year. Developing the new boat and the company behind it has all but consumed Mihelin, and when we finally meet in person, he confesses he hasn’t raced much lately—at least not at the level he used to. He admits to feeling unprepared, and he acknowledges we might not be competitive.

“I’m here for the adventure,” he says with a smile as we board the boat in unison. “I’m here to get outside my comfort zone, again. I need to do it. I miss it.”

Two days before our doublehanded ­division start, we dive right into our worklist, stripping the boat of clutter and sorting our safety gear before the inspector comes knocking. We pass, except for one thing: our safety-gear location map. The inspector asks where it is, and Mihelin points to a single hanging bag to starboard where all the gear is stowed. “It’s a small boat,” he says. “It’s all in here. Do we really need a map?”

Once cleared and done with the day’s boatwork, we cast lines and head out past the breakwater for our first sail together, hoisting the entire upwind inventory of new North Sails 3Di Raw to make sure it all fits. We have a full-battened main, an all-­purpose jib, a Code Zero and a bright-orange storm sail, which will double as a genoa staysail. We toss up the masthead spinnaker for good measure and leave the fractional below—that one will never see the light of day.

The exercise feels a bit rushed and ­chaotic, but it’s our only chance to feel each other out. My main concern is deciphering which ropes do what, but I discover the boat is nothing but simple and logical. Our only headsail is on a furler, so there will be no middle-of-the-night changes. The jib leads go up and down and in and out, and the asymmetric connects at the usual three places. Halyards and sail controls are all led to clutches on the coach roof—nothing fancy.

On the morning of the start, we meet early in a hotel room, connected on a laptop with a professional weather router in Europe who’s been crunching the models. For days, we have been glued to the Windy app on our phones, trying to predict the behavior of a high-pressure bubble that will be wobbling over the lake for the entire race. There will be a gradient. There will be sea breezes filling and land breezes draining. There will be upwind work to start, drifting in the middle, and a fresh VMG spinnaker run to the finish. There will be a little bit of everything our forecaster assures us as he shows limited routing options concentrated on the rhumbline. He warns us several times to be careful about getting too close to the shore at the wrong time of day. If we get stuck, we’ll be there for a while.

And with that advice in hand, we schlep our gear and a single food bag to the boat and take one last sweep through to ensure all is ready. We call our families and say our goodbyes before slipping lines and heading out for our 11 a.m. check-in. Without much time to waste, we loiter near the race-­committee boat and devise our strategy. The line is absurdly long for only four boats, so we agree to keep clear of the committee-boat magnets. The plan is to go east early, so we port-tack the start, harden up, and settle into a breezy and lumpy upwind groove.

Mihelin’s plan is to tack sometime after sunset, once we get our nose into the anticipated overnight shift. Everyone’s going the same way, and eventually we’re in among the Tartan 10s, lined with crews on the rail twiddling thumbs.

We skip dinner, but the family-size bag of GORP trail mix between my legs is all the gourmet I need. We trade places on the helm for pee breaks and backstretches, talking nonstop about family and work and our next challenge in life—deep stuff, right off the bat. We barely know each other, but we’re gabbing like a couple of frat brothers reunited after 20 years.

Once darkness comes, Mihelin insists we go straight into a two-hour watch system. He takes the first, and I settle in, my hand reaching into the feed bag and me choking down lukewarm sweetened Starbucks Via. I enjoy the silence, alone with my own thoughts of the days ahead and simply concentrating on keeping the boat tracking fast on course as the wind slowly veers and dies.

I wake Mihelin on schedule, and he steps on deck and jumps right into steering as if he’s been awake for an hour.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I say as I step below, strip out of my foul-weather gear, and collapse into the beanbag to leeward. With water sluicing past the hull inches from my ear, I plummet into the deepest sleep until I feel a tap on my leg, burst open my eyes, and only see a dark shadow through the companionway.

Who is this? Where the hell am I?

I quickly realize it’s my watch. I slip my bibs back on and step into the cockpit, where Mihelin shows me our position on the small chart plotter on a swivel arm from inside the boat. We’re just off Little Sable Point, a few miles east of rhumbline and still following the master plan—all is right.

He disappears below, leaving me to stare in wonder at the stillness of the night, a low moon veiled by smoke from faraway fires in Canada. There is barely 5 knots of wind, and with the boat sitting upright on its lines, it’s impossible to get any feel from the rudders. I sense my driving is erratic, so I try to find a place to sit comfortably and not oversteer. Finally, I slide down to the cockpit floor and rest my hand on the tip of the tiller. From here, I can see the dimly lit displays and ­listen to the gurgle of the transom.

A few hours later, as we swap watches again, the breeze continues to drop. As I wrestle my jacket into a makeshift pillow, all I can hear is a faint trickle of water passing by, lulling me into a deep sleep again until I’m awoken by stomping on the foredeck. I hear a sail bag drag across the deck, and I wonder whether I should get up and help. But he already has autopilot assist. It’s his watch; he knows what he’s doing. If needs me, he’ll wake me, I think to myself before nodding off again.

Soon after, I get a tap on my leg again, and then rise through the companionway to admire the golden and placid morning light. We’re barely moving. The foredeck action, I now see, was Mihelin hoisting every upwind sail we have. A triple-headed setup fills the foretriangle, but the genoa staysail is gently flapping in the slot, so that ­eventually comes down. The Code Zero is not doing much, except adding a bunch of drag, so that is scuttled too. We’re back to jib only.

As the day drags on, we crawl along under beautiful blue skies. The flies appear at lunchtime with an appetite of their own. Nemo—our friends on the other Seascape—is west of rhumbline and behind by a good 6 miles or so according to the tracker. Exile, the lead J/88, is sneaking away, and the other is somewhere directly behind us.

While we scarf down prosciutto and warm cheese on torpedo buns, the wind frees enough for us to hedge toward the coastline for what we hope will be a few hours of sea-breeze boost, so we hoist and unfurl the Zero again, crack sheets, and enjoy our quickened pace. It’s a glory day of sailing, and for our first and only sunset dinner on board, Mihelin lights the new Jetboil we’re required to have. Within minutes, we’re slurping warm and salty soup while the autopilot steers us true.

After dinner, Mihelin excuses himself for a quick nap as we creep ever closer to the coast. At dusk, I have my eyes on a large expanse of slick water ahead near the shore. My gut tells me we better tack sooner than later, but it’s not a decision for me to make, so I wake Mihelin, who joins me on deck to witness boats ahead drifting listlessly back toward the middle of the lake into nothingness.

Soon, we’re drifting ourselves. A single knot of boatspeed is all we can muster. I see a sliver of a wind line ahead, and suggest we chase it and hope for the best. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if we got one little zephyr to get out of here,” I say.

As if on command, a ribbon of breeze appears a few hundred yards ahead, so we carry on for another 20 minutes or so, enjoying our new speed and the heading breeze. Once we feel we’ve gotten the most out of it, we tack, running away from the shoreline at 4 knots. Behind us, the wind disappears. We laugh at our luck with the zephyr.

Once clear of Big Point Sable, Mihelin is confident in our course and returns below to finish his off watch, leaving me to the darkness again, in a surreal world of oily smooth water, abundant stars, and the hiss of water streaming from the transom. I feel as though I’m sailing across black ice, a magical experience that has me awestruck. I imagine myself a soloist in a Mini, letting the autopilot drive and soaking in every ­element of this unique moment.

Energized by my new surroundings, I’m tempted to carry on through the watch rotation, but I follow the code and eventually wake Mihelin, tapping his leg and delivering bad news: We’ve had a good pace over the past few hours, but we’re back to drifting.

The sun is soon up, hot and heavy, and the lake is a millpond again. Spinnakers hang limp on boats nearby. No one is moving, and ahead are Point Betsie and the Manitou Islands. As advised, we’ve kept our distance from Betsie, but not enough. To our west, Nemo is cruising past us at 5 knots to our 1, and over the next few hours, the tracker updates are depressing.

Our only hope is to chase what we think is a wind line to the northwest, so we abandon the rhumbline and crawl toward a faraway dark patch. Ripples finally appear in the late afternoon, and we set the masthead spinnaker for the first time. This is our moonshot. We know others are stuck near the coast, and out here in the middle there is no one with us. It’s possible we have sailed ourselves into oblivion. On the tracker, we’re last in our division by a good 6 miles.

We accept that there is no way in hell we’re going to win this race, but with the fresh new wind, a lazy following sea, and the finish line around the corner, the vibe subconsciously shifts. While we sail downwind, Mihelin tutors me on Slovenian culture, the young country’s history, and its competitive, adventurous and outdoorsy people. We share TED Talks nuggets and memorable sailing moments, and without even realizing it, we’re working the boat a lot harder, like two young sailors gleefully playing in the waves.

At one point, I enjoy a 9-knot surf and explode with delirious excitement.

“Beat that!” I challenge Mihelin, handing him the tiller extension.

He does, with a 10.2, and like a couple of dorks, we slap a high-five.

After a few more miles of this, we glide past Beaver Island as the sun sets and the southerly stirs tumbling whitecaps. Our sails are now fully loaded, and the boat gallops along at pace toward Grays Reef Lighthouse. Mihelin checks the tracker and reports we’ve actually closed on Nemo, shaving off a few miles. Maybe we have a shot at not being last.

So, we work the boat and sails a little harder, nail our first jibe of the entire race, and then start our exhilarating navigational slalom through the darkness, soaring out of my comfort zone and blissfully planing toward the lights of the Mackinac Bridge.

When we do finally pass under the metal-grated roadbed above, Mihelin rushes to snap a few blurry photos like a tourist refusing to pull over at the vista, and then two more smooth jibes later, we cross the finish line with a spotlight beam illuminating our port side. We’ve cut a 6-mile deficit to a mile or so, and hours down to merely 25 minutes to Nemo.

Mihelin reaches out to shake hands, but I’m too stunned to react. I’m not ready to stop. I can hear the raucous celebrations of cockpit rum squalls and the afterhours of the Pink Pony’s last call, but I’m feeling my inner Bernard Moitessier. It could be the adrenaline still coursing but, honestly, I just want Mihelin to put the spinnaker back up so we can keep on ripping into the ebony.

The post Mates of the Mac appeared first on Sailing World.

What’s it like to be in the early throes of an Olympic offshore doublehanded sailing campaign? We check in with Jesse Fielding and Francesca Clapcich who’ve putting in the hours on their Classe Figaro Bénéteau 3. We also hear from Chris Snow about the hottest class in Southern California these days.

The post Around the Sailing World, Episode 18 appeared first on Sailing World.

More than 70 percent of the globe is water—sailing’s field of play—and offshore sailing is played out across long distances in both light and strong wind conditions and a variety of sea states that test an athletes resolve. Offshore sailing is the ultimate test of endurance , skill, discipline, navigation and critical decision making. Embracing a major part of sailing in the Paris 2024 Olympic Games will enable new stars of the sport to come to the forefront.

Offshore sailing is a universal discipline that every World Sailing Member National Authority can participate in. Up to 20 nations will be on the starting line at Paris 2024 and sailors from every continent will be represented. To qualify for the Olympic Games, continental qualification events will be held and competition for a spot will be fierce.

For qualification events, World Sailing will approve a list of one-design boats that are already regionally available and can be accessed as a charter boat. Boats will be equalized to ensure fair competition. For Paris 2024, World Sailing’s Council will select a list of different Equipment it considers to meet the key criteria, by 31 December 2020, and then make its decision on the Equipment, selecting from the list, no later than 31 December 2023.

MNAs, Class Associations and Manufacturers have all been invited to propose Equipment for the list and a World Sailing Working Party will evaluate each proposal. A recommended list will be presented to Council for approval in November 2020.

This recommended Equipment list will ensure that event organizers, MNAs and the sailors have opportunities to train and compete in equipment that is readily available and affordable within their continent and country. It will also ensure each MNA has a fair opportunity to prepare for qualification events and eventually, Paris 2024. S tarting and finishing in Marseille, the Mixed Offshore event is expected to last for either three days and two nights or four days and three nights off the French coastline and whoever crosses the finish line first will be declared Olympic champion.

The racecourse and length will be announced in the lead up to the start so the competition can take advantage of the latest weather forecast. Current options proposed include long and short courses heading toward the West and East of France.

The French Navy and Mediterranean forces have extensive experience of supporting major oceanic sailing races. They will provide safety and security at Paris 2024. At the recent Hempel World Cup Series Final in Marseille, France, a demonstration of safety and security procedures was presented to the sailors, coaches and officials.

The Olympic program features 28 sports, all fighting for broadcast time and space in written and digital publications. The Mixed Offshore event will be the longest and toughest of all Olympic sporting events and will bring a new appeal to Olympic rights-holding broadcasters and international media.

Available to follow via broadcasting and live tracking, the race is expected to capture the imagination of millions and will be the first Olympic event that can be viewed 24 hours a day.

Live broadcasting, tracking and analytics directly from each boat and onboard cameras will give global media insight into life onboard and to tell compelling stories to inspire existing and new fans of the sport. eSailing has emerged as a true touch point for sailors and non-sailors alike and for the first time in the history of any Olympic sport, tens of millions of sailing and Olympic sports fans will also have the opportunity to compete virtually and simultaneously as the Mixed Offshore event, comparing themselves to the real-life Olympians.

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The thing is fast!”

These are the first words from judge Chuck Allen’s mouth after a breezy morning test session with the Beneteau First 14 on which he and the BOTY team carved wakes all across Narragansett Bay. In 10 to 15 knots of wind, the boat most definitely scoots along as promised. Hours earlier, the judges knew very little about the boat, but when it comes time to wrap up the test, they’re like teens on a joyride — they don’t want to get off.

The Beneteau First 14, as tested in Newport, is built by Seascape, which has quickly built a reputation for its innovative keelboats. Beneteau recently purchased a controlling stake in the Slovenian builder, bringing all Seascape models into the fold of its First range. This clever 14-footer came with the sale, and its new decals were barely dry before its BOTY test sail.

The First 14 is a sharp-looking hull (designed by Samuel Manard, responsible for all other Seascape models to date), with a surfboardlike shape, angular lines and an incredibly clutter-free and comfortable cockpit. For a little boat with a three-sail inventory, the judges note, it’s impressive how little rope there is in the cockpit. The overall package is a testament to the engineers and sailors at Seascape, who use smart ideas like the forked gooseneck attachment that allows the boom to rotate around the two-part stayed carbon rig, the single centerline self-tacking jib sheet and the dual centerboard slots. The daggerboard goes into the aft slot when singlehanding, and forward when doublehanding. One person can sail it with the mainsail only. Add the jib and spinnaker into the mix as conditions dictate.

The First 14 is ideally designed for two, however, because when the full power of the sail plan is in play, the judges say, the experience is exhilarating. It’s a fast boat with a lot of stability in its beam and volume. There’s flotation to support 500 pounds of combined crew weight, and the judges noted that at only 140 pounds itself, the boat is lively, with either one or two crew.

The high-aspect spinnaker uses a single-line launch and retrieval system, so three or four tugs gets it flying. Same for the reverse; the spinnaker gets pulled into the foredeck throat and into the floor-mounted spinnaker sock. Everything about the boat is effortless, the judges say after sailing with different crew combinations, and all the systems work as they should. “I was amazed at how fast and excellent it sailed at all angles,” Greg Stewart says. “It was really enjoyable. I could see sailing it by myself, in any breeze.”

When planing, the bow rises quickly and water flow off the transom is sharp and clean. With narrow foils and a big square-top mainsail, the helm is head-whippingly responsive. “That might be my only criticism of the boat,” Allen says. “When we were ripping downwind, it was really easy to oversteer the boat. With even the slightest tiller adjustment, the boat responds immediately, so you have to be careful.”

Tom Rich is a fan of the boat’s single-sheet self-tacking jib, which rides on a curved track across the foredeck. “It worked magically, and moved the lead the right way when you eased,” he says, “so you can keep the shape you’d want.” As much as the judges enjoy sailing the First 14, their collective concern is its $16,000 price tag. With the most popular doublehanded dinghies costing nearly half as much, it’ll be difficult for Beneteau to build a one-design fleet in the United States. “For a two-person 14-foot boat, it sails superbly,” Stewart says. “But the price is considerable, for sure.”

For a sailor seeking a boat that delivers a superb experience up and down the wind range, however, and does not care for one-design racing, the First 14 is worthy of a closer look. Rig it up, invite a friend and have a blast, or just go it alone and enjoy the blissful sound of water hissing from the transom.

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There is no such thing as the right boat for everyone, but there is the right boat for the right time. For today’s fervent offshore racing soloists and doublehanded teammates, that boat — right here, right now — is the Figaro Beneteau 3.

This pint-sized ocean racer isn’t just another cruisy crossover from Beneteau, the powerhouse of production boatbuilding. There is zero intent of comfort below its low-slung deck, unless your idea of luxury is a white, wet and noisy fiberglass cavern. It’s not just a beastly Class 40 type, either. For righting moment and power, it doesn’t rely on hundreds of pounds of seawater sloshing ballast tanks. For Figaro Beneteau 3, there are two unmistakable arcing carbon side foils projecting from slots in its topsides. The foils are no gimmick. Beneteau, nor Figaro face fanatics, don’t do gimmicks.

The foils don’t necessarily “lift” the 2.9-ton platform completely free of the surface, as do the foils of modern multihulls and extreme craft like the soon-to-be AC75. The foils are there for a hint of lift and a pile of righting moment, which ultimately means a faster, smoother ride into the night.

The boat is built exclusively for the Solitaire du Figaro race, what Gianguido Girotti, Beneteau’s general manager says is, “the unofficial world championship of singlehanded sailing.” The Figaro Beneteau 3 will not get much love from international handicapping systems initially, or possibly ever, but that is beside the point. It’s a one-design class boat, plain and simple, with a guarantee from Beneteau that they’ll be the same from prod to stern — give or take a few kilos here and there.

The sport’s best shorthanded sailors spawn in the harbors and ports strung along France’s Atlantic face. They arrive on the scene as hungry rank-and-file dreamers with a sponsor or two and eventually the best of them emerge as round-the-world solo racers in anything insanely fast and crazy. The stage onto which all rookies, past and present, must step is the Solitaire du Figaro, a multi-stage late-summer race that runs the length of the coast, covering nearly 2,000 nautical miles over two weeks.

When the race was first held in 1970, entries varied in size and shape, and as editions passed, the boats grew bigger, more complex and more expensive. Stakeholders of the race made a strategic move in 1990, transforming the event into a one-design talent showcase, putting success — and failure — into the hands of the sailor instead of the caliber of his or her equipment. Enter the Figaro Solo 1, a stout 30-footer built to handle an occasional pasting in the Bay of Biscay. A decade’s worth of Vendée Globe Race legends emerged from these contests, including the likes of Yves Parlier, Michel Desjoyeaux, Dominic Vittet, Jean Le Cam, Philippe Poupon, Franck Cammas, and Pascal Bidégorry.

The Solo 1’s use-by date ushered in the Beneteau Figaro II, a robust double-rudder, symmetric-spinnaker design that delivered yet another generation of offshore greats, Volvo Ocean Race winning skipper Charles Caudrelier, counted among them.

For 16 years, pros and amateurs alike put “crazy amounts of mileage on the boats,” says Beneteau product manager, Luc Joëssel, before the class and competitors agreed enough is enough. It was time to elevate the official Figaro class — and the race itself — higher, mirroring the groundbreaking foil-assisted 60-footers of the IMOCA 60 Class.

“All the top design offices answered to the call,” says Joëssel. Ultimately, the firm founded by Marc Van Peteghem and Vincent Lauriot-Prévost got the nod. Beneteau, with its longstanding relationship with the race, remained as builder of choice. They now have the monumental task of delivering a fleet of precisely matched offshore one-designs. Introducing side-foils was a big deal for involved, as well as a big investment in the necessary tooling. Reliability is essential.

“The philosophy of the class,” Girotti explained to Sailing World’s Boat of the Year judges, Chuck Allen, Tom Rich, and Greg Stewart, “is that if 50 boats start, 50 must arrive at the finish for the good of the event. In offshore sailing, too many boats don’t finish.”

Girotti also points out that in the previous edition of the Solitaire du Figaro, not only did every boat finish, but the first 20 competitors finished the first 500-mile leg within 20 minutes of each other. “These guys are maniacs with their trimming, they do it 24-7 because it’s in their DNA,” says Girotti. “They are always stuck to each other, which must make them push that much harder.”

Beneteau built a Figaro 3 prototype with input from a few of the race’s past and present champions, as well as French composite companies typically associated with grand-prix builds like the Ultime 100-foot trimarans and IMOCA 60s. To deliver a strictly-measured one-design to every competitor, says Joëssel, “required us to ensure tolerances remain negligible as each completed boat rolls off the assembly line in Chevine, France. The intent is to give to the sailors a boat that will require less time illegally modifying and more time sailing.”

Any discussion or concern of how the boat and its unique side foils will be handled by handicap rating systems is inconsequential, says Girotti. Again, that’s not the point. The Figaro Beneteau 3 is built for the race, and for aspiring sailors who have no intentions of ever making the Figaro race’s start in Le Havre. Take, for example, Charles Devanneaux and co-skipper Matthieu Damerval, who doublehanded the prototype in the 2018 Pacific Cup from San Francisco to Hawaii — finishing only three days behind 70-footers, with an elapsed time of 11 days, 4 hours and 24 minutes (racing under an experimental rating).

Demand for entry the June 2019 La Solitaire URGO Le Figaro is high and by February 2019, the first 50 boats will be delivered to awaiting skippers (assigned by lottery), measured and ready to race. The “controlled” released is intentional, says Joëssel, a ploy to ensure the playing field is level and prevent them from pushing the inevitable measurement edges too soon. From this first batch, Beneteau’s plan is one boat per week to reach 100 by the close of 2019.

The Figaro Beneteau 3’s price (as sailed and presented for Boat of the Year) is $250,000, which includes a six-sail North Sails inventory, electronics, cordage, all the race-required safety equipment and a shipping/dry storage cradle. Construction is polyester infusion with a mixed use of CoreCell and balsa cores, placing more structure where it’s required most and less where it’s not, to help get its overall weight to 2.9 tons.

Finalizing the deck layout was a complicated exercise, says Joëssel, as controls need to be centralized around the cockpit in order to minimize the competitor’s exposure on deck. “After hours and hours working with all the guys on the mock-up,” he says, “it was all validated on the prototype.” The most complicated piece of the puzzle, however, was with the foils and their adjustment.

In conjunction with Multiplast, which has built many of the best big rigs in high-speed ocean sailing, Joëssel says they invested substantially in a complex set of molds in order to maintain strict tolerances through the use of several measurements and jigs. “Everything is measured and weighed straight out of the molds,” he says. “So far, the maximum discrepancy is 40 kilos.”

Should there be any funny business with pre-race tampering, he says, they have the numbers for everything before any of it gets into the hands of the sailors. The same is true of the carbon-fiber rigs. So far in the first 20, says Joëssel, 50 grams is the variance, and “there’s less than a kilogram in the rudders.”

The 2.5-meter keel is cast iron with an iron-encased lead bulb. There is no fiberglass shell for protection, but there’s a reason: “Eventually, a fiberglass shell will leak, which will then lead to repairs and once you get into that, modifications will happen,” says Girotti.

By now, one should see the pattern: they take the Beneteau 3’s one-design reputation seriously.

“Tolerances in other classes today are unbelievable,” says Joëssel, “to the point where they’re not really one-design. Ours is a more rigorous approach to making sure everyone has their opportunity on the water.”

“This is essentially Beneteau’s grand-prix division,” says Stewart. “I like the launch idea of 50 at once. It allows them to find little issues if they’re there and apply them to the following boats before they go out the door. I think them going after the market where two young sailors can conceivably campaign this boat is great.”

While the tolerances are reportedly minimal, Boat of the Year judge Tom Rich, a custom boatbuilder, says the Beneteau 3’s build quality matches its purpose. “Maybe it’s a bit rough on the finishing touches,” he says after crawling through the innards of the boat, “but it’s a raceboat with a lot of structure. The standard boat is white, white, white. There’s nothing exotic.”

The interior isn’t meant for lounging with Rosé; it’s more like crashing in a state of exhaustion and fatigue, coddled in a bean bag chair or atop a pile of sails, wedged between ring frames, and still dressed in foul-weather gear. Two adjustable Class A-compliant piper berths, will mostly likely be used for gear stowage.

While the below decks may be standard and simple, the thoroughness in the deck and hardware layout, the judges say, is thorough but straightforward as well. Feel on the helm is smooth all the time. “It sure feels like a big boat,” is Rich’s first assessment after a walkthrough with Beneteau representatives at the doc before sailing. “The stability is unbelievable. I thought it was really stiff upwind, especially when you feel the leeward foil bite. The rig is the right size for the boat. It’s plenty big with a really wide shroud base.”

In roughly 10 knots of wind for the sail testing, Stewart, a naval architect, and Allen, a sailmaker, immediately recognized the Figaro Beneteau 3’s most important trait: a sensation of lift and righting moment from the active foil. “As soon as you feel it load up, the boat rises and just starts crushing it,” says Allen. “It’s like a baby Comanche [the 100-foot VPLP record machine built for American yachtsman Jim Clark).

Stewart’s assessment is that the boat has “a nice feeling upwind, with a really positive grip. The toe-in was set perfect and there was no noticeable wake off the transom. The foils don’t lift the boat, but rather straighten it upright. The lift component is pushing against the displacement, and there’s your righting moment increase.”

The foils, both of which are fully-deployed once the boat is off the dock and sailing, are adjusted independently through a block-and-tackle purchase led to the cockpit. They adjust fore and aft, with about five-inches of total adjustment. In light air, the judges say, it would be neutral to forward, and as the wind builds, they would be incrementally adjusted aft (but not under load). “When the foil is working the boat lightens up and feels really amazing,” says Allen. “When you start cracking off and going downwind, you can feel the bow rise. With the rig back and all that buoyancy forward, it will surf, for sure. The bow will pop out and you’ll be loving it.”

Stewart says there’s “a lot going on with the hull shape,” that makes it all work, notably its full bow section forward, which will prevent the boat from tripping over itself in a seaway. “With such a powerful sailplan, the power steering you get from the twin rudders is awesome,” says Stewart. “It will sail like a boat longer than 35 feet with all that volume in the ends.”

The class sail inventory includes a 440-sq.ft. North Sails 3Di square-top main, J2 and J3 jibs, a furling code zero, and A5-sized and A2 Airex spinnakers. With such a quiver, and with most of the sail-handling business conducted in the back of the yacht, there’s multi-colored spaghetti pouring into the cockpit at all times, requiring vigilant housekeeping. Foil-adjustment lines lead to winches, tack lines and halyards snake through banks of jammers. The gear layout is comprehensive, and the judges each agreed all control systems work flawlessly. Sets and douses, tacks and jibes were easy with four hands or two and an autopilot, which means more efficient downwind maneuvers for Figaro competitors used to jibing a symmetric spinnaker.

Faster, easier maneuvers may end up being one undesirable side effect of the Figaro Beneteau 3. If competitors think the racing is intense now, just wait until the sailing becomes elevated. And while on the topic of elevated, the judges unanimously agreed that while all of this year’s Boat of the Year candidates were of extremely high quality and execution, it was the Beneteau 3s innovation that makes it stand out above the field.

The post Figaro Beneteau 3, 2019 Boat of the Year appeared first on Sailing World.

Sailboat on Dock

The sun has set on another sailing season. That’s Moondust under her winter cover on the right, following a day of fast winterizing in anticipation of the frigid Arctic air that has now enveloped the Atlantic coast. Sometimes a boat gets put away with a sense of a sailing season well done. Last year it was like that. My friend Ivar and I had found a good boat at a good price, and brought it down the Hudson River to the Chesapeake Bay. We took our families cruising. It was new and fun. When we finally put the boat away, it felt right to give it a rest. It felt okay that we would be taking a break, too.

This year was different. As we tied down the winter cover, it was a bittersweet moment. I felt slightly uneasy, and a little resentful that I now have to endure the long, cold, hiatus to a new sailing season. It is made worse by the fact that I sold the Laser, and don’t have the escape of frostbiting to keep me out on the water through the winter. But mostly I felt like we hadn’t done any unusual or ambitious sailing. That we hadn’t really tapped the potential of the boat and the Chesapeake. That there was unfinished business.

There had been some good times on Moondust on the Chesapeake in 2013, without a doubt. But the plain fact is that the boat also spent a lot of time sitting at the dock. I mentioned to Ivar my sense that we hadn’t really done enough this year. He responded that, according to his calculations, there had been eight weekends spent aboard Moondust. And that since the running costs are negligible (we have free dockage) we can justify even minimal amounts of sailing.

Fair enough. But a lot of what we did involved returning to the same nearby anchorages, because we were pressed for time. That sort of cruising weekend is better than sitting at home. But, to me, the allure and thrill of a boat is to explore, to get to new anchorages, to spend a week or more at a time with your kids, sailing and messing around, and mostly detached from the intrusions and distractions of the modern world. I kept thinking how much fun it would be to have the boat up in Buzzard’s Bay for a week or two. Or to show the kids the Great Salt Pond at Block Island, to spend a night at Cuttyhunk or Hadley’s Harbor, or sail through the cut at Wood’s Hole in Vineyard Sound with 5 knots of current doubling your speed over the ground.

That’s how I cruised when I was a kid, and we have the boat to do it again so naturally that is my vision of what is possible. Of course, my kids don’t always want to go sailing (curse you Minecraft!), despite the fact (which I casually mention to no apparent effect) that they always seem to have a great time as soon as they are on the boat. And I’m not sure why modern culture thinks it is a good idea to make family decision-making so democratic. Schedules and work commitments, and weather, and everything else which gets in the way of disappearing for a decent chunk of time, can also stand in the way of a solid sailing plan. But I know deep in my heart that giving in to those distractions and letting them dictate your life, is a cop-out, or at least shows a serious lack of gumption, determination, and creativity.

How do I know that? Well, look at what James Burwick and Somira Sao are pulling off: a global cruise with young children, via the Southern Ocean. If they can do that, it is hard to accept that I can’t get beyond Harness Creek, or Shaw Bay, both within hours of the dock. What they have achieved, though, requires the abandonment of many norms of modern family life, and a commitment to celebrating and cherishing values such as self-sufficiency, minimalism, and exploration of the natural world. I can imagine lots of parents I know scoffing at, or even condemning, their choices. I can also imagine that their kids will grow up to be amazing, unique, individuals.

And if you need further inspiration, then I urge you to read the little-known early 20th century cruising classic, “The Boy, Me, and the Cat.” My grandmother gave it to me when I was about 12, and it has stayed with me ever since as a manifesto for seeking freedom and the unknown. You can find a good preview and summary here. Is there any quotidian excuse for not going over the horizon that is acceptable after you are familiar with the cruising adventures of this father and his son? I didn’t think so.

And, of course, the cruising canon is groaning under the weight of similar books of daring and adventure (see: Smeeton, Miles).

So I haven’t given up my aspirations of spending weeks at a time on Moondust, poking our noses into unfamiliar waters and testing our ability to detach from the increasingly disturbing conventions of modern family life and the need to be plugged into the world. In fact, I am determined to snap Moondust‘s winter cover on next year with a feeling of satisfaction, and adventure well done. It will take some good marketing within my family, and some creative planning to break through all the predictable objections and binding ties that try to keep us in place. But if a boat is not for adventure and exploration, then, to me, it is not much good at all.

The post Memories Of A Future Sailing Season appeared first on Sailing World.

Team_ Spanker took top honors as the Chicago NOOD Overall Winner for 2013. Team Spanker is a Beneteau 40.7 owned by brothers Dennis & Jim McDonnell. Winning the Chicago NOOD was not this team’s first accomplishment; they are a 2-time Chicago NOOD Winner, 4-time Chicago to Mackinac Island Race class winner and a Beneteau 40.7 North American Championship Winner as well.

They typically sail with 8-10 of their 14 deep roster that spans ages from 30-65. Jim and Dennis consider themselves very lucky to have such a deep and talented crew list. According the brothers, the crew also enjoys their rum, which will come in handy in the Caribbean. Apparently neither Dennis nor Jim can attend the Caribbean NOOD but they will be well represented by their crew, especially at the parties.

Click here for results, photos, and more at the Sperry Top-Sider Chicago NOOD headquarters.

The post Interview: Chicago NOOD Overall Winner appeared first on Sailing World.

Chicago NOOD 2012

This weekend’s Sperry Top-Sider Chicago NOOD Regatta will see the emergence of a couple of new fleets alongside some old favorites. The **Viper 640 **is one of two classes on the new Belmont Station Course. “The very first appearance of the Viper 640 class at the Chicago NOOD is hugely important for the new Great Lakes Viper fleet,” says Anthony Bowker of Chicago Corinthian YC, who will be racing Preflight.

Bowker, alongside Nick Kofski—who is the new owner of DamnYouKofski—are just getting their fleet off the ground in Chicago. To amass numbers for their one-design fleet at the NOOD, they’ve drawn in out-of-towners from Michigan, Wisconsin, Kentucky, and Ontario.

“The boat to beat is Jackpot, owned Lee Shuckerow from Harrison Twp., Mich.,” says Bowker of the three-time North American champion. “They will face stiff competition from veteran ‘Viper-ers’ Darren and Steve Gilbert from London, Ont., aboard Black Sheep, and Steve Conger with zigzag from St. Clair Shores, Mich.”

Bowker does, however, note that he and Kofski may be new to the class, but they will have the advantage of local knowledge.

The Vipers will race on June 8 and 9. On Friday night, Rondar boats will be at Montrose Harbor to host a clinic for owners and provide demo sails.

Alongside the Viper class on the Belmont Station course will be the Rhodes 19 fleet. “If you look merely at last season finishes, White would be the favorite statistic-wise, however I wouldn’t count anyone out,” says fleet captain Harold Hering. “It boils down to how well the crew works together for a series like this, and on a boat with only 3 people, everybody makes a significant impact.”

While the Vipers and Rhodes 19s will be new to the NOOD, many classes are returning. The Chicago area is a hotbed for Tartan 10s, and T10s have consistently been one of the biggest fleets at the Sperry Top-Sider Chicago NOOD. This year is no exception: 30 boats have registered. The majority are locals, but five of the entries are from out of town, and Ken Colbert, out of Chicago YC with Rover, predicts a group of 7-9 boats will be at the top.

“There are no new boats in Chicago this year,” says Colbert, “but two were new last year—Eleanor Rigby and Honey Badger—two were recently rebuilt—Liberty and Silver Surfer—and two have new owners/partners—Mikaze and Out of the Blue.”

Also returning on the Monroe Station Course will be the Beneteau 40.7 class. David Hardy, who is the local fleet captain and owns Turning Point, says the NOOD is a great way to bring the Chicago fleet together. “For the last several years, we’ve taken advantage of the venue to raft our fleet at the club and have a fleet party along with the NOOD festivities,” says Hardy. “Consequently, we have become a pretty close fleet with lots of friendly banter. That’s not to say we don’t compete hard. Last year the first two boats tied with 24 points in 8 races.”

Two newcomers to the fleet will bump up the entries to 10 boats this year: Matt Mergener, sailing out of Milwaukee’s South Shore YC on Instigator, and Brian Angioletti and Konstantin Selikhov out of Columbia YC in Chicago on Wired.

Visit regatta headquarters for the NOR and schedule, plus photos and videos during the event.
View the list of entries.

The post From Monroe to Belmont appeared first on Sailing World.

Hurricane Sandy and Moondust

Thanks to Sandy, I have now nursed sailboats through two hurricanes (or hurricanes that were fading into the tropical storm category, if I am totally honest). One sailboat, a Bristol 35.5, was at sea, and we ran into Hurricane Mitch in 1998, after the storm surprised everyone by doubling back east and running over the southbound Caribbean 1500 fleet. And the other, my new-old Beneteau 36.7, Moondust, was sitting at a pier on the Rhode River on the Chesapeake Bay when Sandy roared through this week.

The big difference between protecting a sailboat from a hurricane at sea, versus at a pier, is, of course, that when you are at sea your own safety and life (along with your crews’) are in play as well. That is about as high stakes as any game gets. So Hurricane Mitch was a stressful series of days: trying to anticipate where Mitch would track and how to stay away from the worst of it, and then enduring the actual wind and waves (we hove-to for about 12 hours). One of my crew experienced something like PTSD and sat out of the watch rotation for a few days after, recuperating. After we finally made it safely to Virgin Gorda, I remember that it took a few weeks of Planters Punches and Caribbean relaxation before the knot in my stomach completely dissolved.

But the big similarity is that dealing with a hurricane requires a lot of planning, forethought, and trade-offs. And this may sound weird, but it is a challenge (me vs. the power and unpredictability of Mother Nature) that I actually enjoy. You are making complex and subjective decisions under pressure, with real consequences. That puts you deep into the moment and yanks you clear of all the normal life BS, which is easy to believe is important absent major hurricanes.

Sandy makes her approach to the mid-Atlantic.

When it comes to the Chesapeake Bay and hurricanes, the biggest question is whether the eye will pass to the east or to the west. The east will mostly produce northerlies, which tend to push water out of the Bay, minimizing storm surge (and also helping negate any flooding from rain). You are dealing with a wind event.

In contrast, if the eye passes to the west, you are in the danger zone that will be dealt southerly winds (that have the added turbo-boost of the speed by which the storm is advancing), which pile an enormous volume of water up into the Bay. You are facing a major wind event, PLUS a serious storm surge danger. In 2003, Hurricane Isabel made landfall on North Carolina’s Outer Banks and ran inland and to the west of the Chesapeake. That track put a lot of Annapolis underwater, and the high water wrecked both marinas and yachts.

Sandy was a fickle, indecisive storm. A few days out, there was little agreement between weather models on where she would make landfall. The southernmost model tracks had her coming up the Chesapeake Bay, and landing a direct hit (high winds plus storm surge) on Moondust. A pier offers iffy security with a 5-8 foot rise in water. Not only do you have to keep adjusting lines and think about wave action, but my pier in particular is not all that solid (plus, there is another sailboat that lies against it). If the entire thing was underwater, I could easily imagine it floating free of the soupy Chesapeake bottom. So I was thinking that I might have to go anchor Moondust around the corner in Whitemarsh Creek, which has 360 degrees protection. Of course, anchoring out then puts you at the mercy of your ground tackle, and there is always the danger of other boats around you coming free and smashing into your well-secured vessel. And do you stay with the boat—which is best to maximize the boat’s chances but also puts your own safety back in play—or throw out whatever anchors you have and come back after it’s all over, with your fingers crossed?

Happily, the computer models started to come to agreement, and push Sandy’s track north, as she approached the coast. Leaving Moondust on the dock seemed a viable and reasonable plan. To confirm my thinking, I called Alex Schlegel, who runs Hartge Yacht Yard in nearby Galesville. Alex has lived his whole life on the Bay, and his instincts about what wind and weather will do on his home waters are second to none. I asked Alex whether he was recommending to sailboat owners with slips at his yard that they haul for the storm. “I don’t really know why people haul their boats for hurricanes. They end up getting blown off the stands,” he replied. “The worst that can happen in a slip is that you rub against the pilings.”

I guess Alex has much more confidence in his pilings and piers than I do in mine. But, as usual, he made practical sense (and in fact a sailboat on jackstands at another nearby yard did blow over). He also said he thought Sandy would not end up being as hard on the Bay as forecast, and that was good enough for me. Moondust would stay at the pier in front of my house.

I wasn’t very worried about the initial northerly winds, which were forecast to gust up to 70 knots. I put double lines on Moondust, and added a wall of fenders. And I asked my neighbors if I could run lines from Moondust and the other sailboat at my pier to their docks. They graciously agreed, allowing me to diffuse the load among three different piers, while also introducing some long lines into the mix, which would add a shock cord element to the system. In the end, the boats ended up heeling to perhaps 20 degrees in the biggest gusts (the Chesapeake Bay Bridge recorded of gust of 90 mph, and sustained winds of 74 mph). But the line system worked perfectly. No lines snapped. No boats rubbed against hard wood. And no piers collapsed.

The only hitch was that while Sandy would track east and north, making landfall near Cape May, NJ, she would then head west into Pennsylvania before turning north and leaving the area. With her massive wind field (tropical storm force winds would stretch across a diameter of almost 1000 miles), that meant we would end up on the southwest quadrant of the storm and would experience very strong southwesterly and southerly winds (50-plus knots, forecast to gust over 60) before it was over.

Southwest is the one direction that is unprotected at my pier, as it opens up to a small bay of the Rhode River.

There is only about a mile or so of fetch, but my imagination started to conjure what sort of wave action, and surge, 50-knots of wind would throw up over that distance. I hoped that the forecast would change and ease, but if it didn’t, I wondered if I would regret keeping Moondust at the pier. To cope with this eventuality I got some lines to a piling outboard of my pier, and astern of both sailboats. I also kayaked out mid-creek and dropped a small, but sturdy, Danforth anchor onto the bottom, with perhaps 150 feet of scope. It dug into the bottom as soon as I started pulling it back toward the stern of Moondust, and I made it fast. The nylon rode, and all that scope, made a perfect springy spring line to prevent Moondust from jerking hard against her piling-fastened lines if big wave action started to roll up from the southwest and push her forward.

After all that, I hunkered down in the house to wait it out, and adjust lines as need be. Knowing I had done everything I could think of to protect Moondust, I relaxed. It was in fate’s hands now. Sandy blew ashore a day later. The winds howled from the north, as forecast, but that is the most protected direction for my pier. I constantly checked the local marine forecast for signs that the southwesterly would not be as bad as initially forecast. For a while it had the winds backing only as far as the west (a protected direction), and that was cause for a rum and tonic. But then the forecast reverted to a day of southwesterlies at 40-50 knots. Not good, but nothing I could do but wait and see.

As it turned out, Alex’s instincts were correct. Sandy blew in hard, but blew out at wind speeds less than forecast. I woke up to a gray, wet Tuesday morning, and the southwesterlies I had been fearing. But they were blowing at 25, gusting 30. It’s very rare that a Chesapeake sailor will consider 25 knots from the southwest to be light breeze. But after seeing gusts of 60-plus roll down my creek from the north, blowing spray off the water surface and howling fiercely, the southwesterly seemed positively meek.

There Moondust sat as the day got brighter. Bobbing easily to the wind and chop, secure in a web of lines and no worse for having endured Hurricane Sandy. So, two down, and no more to go (I hope).

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