The British Virgin Islands—home of the famous Spring Regatta & Sailing Festival— are known among sailors for steady winds, an abundance of well-maintained moorings in scenic, protected bays and coves, and easy line-of-sight navigation that makes for fun, breezy day trips and adventures.

The BVI Spring Regatta & Sailing Festival, one of the Caribbean’s premier annual sailing events, held March 27 to April 2, 2023, has become a favorite among boaters who crave big competition followed by even bigger afterparties. This year marks the 50th anniversary of this international event, so expect the fetes to deliver like never before. The week draws in more than 90 yachts from around the world as well as attendees taking advantage of the BVI’s massive rental fleet to enjoy five days of racing – two days for the Sailing Festival and three days of racing for the Spring Regatta – and three course areas. Note that the regatta offers 12 classes and the Sailing Festival offers five classes, welcoming every skill level from novice to expert so anyone who loves the salty life can take on action to suit their speed, from high-intensity, competitive racing to leisurely cruising. Each race finishes at a different spot, giving attendees a taste of the BVI life of island-hopping, from Foxy’s Bar on Jost Van Dyke to the newly remodeled restaurants and accommodations of Nanny Cay on Tortola.

If you can’t make the Spring Regatta, rest easy. The British Virgin Islands is a year-round sailing hotspot where you can create your own itinerary highlighting whichever isles you choose. Charter a monohull or catamaran either with a captain or bareboat—there are plenty of options to make the trip your own.

Most trips start on Tortola, the biggest island and home to the international airport. Tortola also serves as the base for most boat charter operations, including The Moorings, Sunsail and Waypoints, the newest charter option, launched in late 2021 and operating out of Nanny Cay. Of course, the island itself has much to offer as a destination. One of the more popular anchorages is Cane Garden Bay on the northwestern side of the island, known for its turquoise water, as well as choice kayaking, snorkeling and surfing November to March. Stay into the evening for the barbecue and live music at Quito’s Gazebo, a local favorite. Soper’s Hole Marina serves as another great base for provisioning and strolling the pastel-colored boutique shops. Active types won’t want to miss the hike up to Sage Mountain National Park, the highest peak in the U.S. and British Virgin Islands.

One of the other four biggest islands, Virgin Gorda, sits 8 miles from Tortola. It’s the home of The Baths National Park, an iconic scenic spot where basalt boulders lean against one another permanently, forming grottoes and tunnels to explore and climb. Multiple routes weave throughout, each leading to a different high point perfect for taking a group photo or a hand-holding group jump into the deep waters. For a relaxed meal or cocktail while still taking in this epic scenery, head to the Top of the Baths or tuck into a grilled lobster before enjoying a frozen coffee drink or mudslide cocktail poolside. On Virgin Gorda, you’ll find one of the resorts most beloved by sailors: The Bitter End Yacht Club. This resort reopened in 2021 and now offers overwater bungalow accommodations, an upgraded option should you want to enjoy a night off the boat or extend your trip a few days. In 2023, the resort will roll out new amenities, including a massive expansion to its legendary Club Fleet with new watersports programs, including kiting, wing foiling and windsurfing.

From Virgin Gorda, sail two-and-a-half hours north and reach 11-mile-long Anegada, the least visited of the inhabited BVI. It’s a rare gem well worth the effort. Anegada offers that back-in-time peaceful respite. Take Cow Wreck Beach, a haven for solitude-seekers. You can walk miles in any direction and often not see another soul. The bar itself is a different story; it’s a place drawing an eclectic crowd of scuba divers, snorkelers and other nature lovers. Horseshoe Reef, the world’s fourth-largest barrier reef, is not to be missed, with ample opportunities to encounter eagle rays, Atlantic spadefish, permit and a host of other marine life. 

Then there’s Jost Van Dyke, a day-tripper favorite for its soft, white-sand beaches where there’s always a party. Soggy Dollar Bar on White Bay is the center of the action, where boaters converge to partake of the local cocktail called the Painkiller, a mix of dark rum, cream of coconut, pineapple and orange juices, topped with fresh grated nutmeg. Each bay on Jost Van Dyke offers its own beach bar, from Sidney’s Peace and Love on Garner Bay (Little Harbour) to Foxy’s Bar—home of the world-famous New Year’s Eve Party—at Great Harbour. If you want to overnight on Jost Van Dyke, you have a couple of new options. The Hideout, a newly opened boutique seven-villa resort, offers a high-end experience on White Bay. New as well are the neighboring White Bay Villas with 20 units, all with traditional Caribbean style and unbeatable sunset views.

In between the big four islands are countless smaller ones and more than 17 easy-to-find anchorages. In the BVI, you can also take advantage of a handful of private island resorts open for day visitors. Enjoy a cocktail or gourmet meal at Saba Rock, reopened in 2021, or book a spa treatment at Scrub Island Resort, Spa & Marina. Of course, a few undeveloped islands don’t offer much by way of amenities but have plenty of escapism. A hiking trail on Salt Island leads to small cliffs overlooking crashing waves. It’s also home to the country’s most famous scuba-dive spot. Boaters who overnight here get first crack at snorkeling or diving the R.M.S. Rhone, arguably the Caribbean’s best preserved shipwreck, dating to 1867. Norman Island, rumored to be the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, is known for its seaside caves, hiking trails and deserted beaches waiting to be enjoyed.

That’s the beauty of the British Virgin Islands: There’s so much to explore in whatever way you like, whether that’s rafting up flotilla-style with your best mates and taking on the sights, bars and bites together, or breaking away for a quieter, more intimate getaway, navigating your own path toward nature, solitude and one-of-a-kind hideaways. It’s all here in the British Virgin Islands.

The post Chart Your Own Course in the British Virgin Islands appeared first on Sailing World.

As David Welch peels foil wrap from the neck of a Champagne bottle he’s just stepped off the stage with, he advises his teammates to step back. His crew, in matching blue T-shirts, fan out into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd inside the regatta village at St. Barts’ Gustavia Port Marina. He wrestles the cork free, and with a muted pop, it soars into the star-filled sky above. Welch’s grin is ear-to-ear as he fills the plastic cups of his crew and toasts his team’s success at Les Voiles de St. Barth Richard Mille.

Judging the enthusiasm of this impromptu celebration, you might think Welch and his teammates had won their five-boat ­offshore multihull division—but no, that honor goes to Kent Haeger’s team on the undefeated silver Gunboat 62 Mach Schnell. Still, on the fifth and final day of this grind of a Caribbean regatta, Welch and his crew on the HH 66 catamaran Flash have sailed their best race. More importantly, they and their boat persevered where so many others failed in St. Barts’ big-breeze, trade-tossed seas, eight-hour race days and nightly soirees.

“This is definitely a war of attrition,” Welch says, “but the ­sailing… It really is incredible.”

That’s the one statement heard round the waterfront at Les Voiles de St. Barth, now 11 editions running. It’s a unique regatta, with winners and losers up and down the scoreboard. But as the cliché goes in the upper echelons of sailboat racing, “yachting is winning,” and when it comes to yachting on the blue waters surrounding this fantasy island of wealth, beauty and charm, everyone’s winning. Put it this way: First, second, third or dead last are equally Champagne-worthy.

Thus, corks soar over the course of the hourlong awards fête, just as they were a few days earlier when dozens of the sailors gathered for the legendary Nikki Beach lay-day party, where oversize sushi boats sail from the kitchen to beachside tables, and waiters wander with rosé rehoboams slung over their shoulders, refilling glasses as if it were water. Tug of wars between leg-bruised and bikini-clad crews and the hulking grinders of the big boats follow the traditional Champagne scavenger hunt, where sailors rush into the surf and dive for bottles tethered to the ­seafloor. It’s a scene.

Pop, pop, pop, all afternoon. The attrition continues.

Not everyone is into the whole Nikki Beach bacchanal. Others have scattered across the 10-square-mile island to pristine beaches, hillside villas with infinity pools, and the restaurants, boutiques and cafes that give this French outpost its reputation as the glitziest getaway in the Lesser Antilles. If it weren’t for the easterly trade winds blowing streaks of sargassum across the racecourse, you’d swear you were racing in the Med.

Les Voiles has everything wanting of an upscale and Med‑caliber regatta too, and the late-April race week’s reputation for big breeze, big waves and high-quality race management attracts the elite of the yacht-racing world, as well amateur teams that sail to the island on their own bottoms, or sign on to charter boats, tie up stern-to Gustavia Harbor’s seawall, and endure sleepless nights riding the surge. Late-night boarding can be so perilous that piles of sail bags and crew gear often suffice as bedding to sleep off a boozy night.

But enough of the afterhours. This regatta is physical racing, and an estimated 900 sailors are here to play hard. Sixty-eight teams have signed on for this edition, spread across six Caribbean Sailing Association (the regional handicapping system) divisions, two multihull classes and a Diam 24 one-design trimaran class. The crown jewels of the regatta are the glamorous Maxis, moored in the deeper water of the outer harbor. This year, there’s George David’s silver Rambler 88; Jim Schwartz’s mint-green Maxi72, Vesper; Hap Fauth’s dark-blue Bella Mente; and the newest of the fleet, Wendy Schmidt’s 80-footer, Deep Blue. The full might of the American Maxi fleet is present, each loaded with 20 or more professionals. Having arrived midweek, just in time for the Thursday lay day, I’ve hitched two very different rides for the remaining two days: Welch’s Flash and David’s Rambler 88.

Chris Battaile, a professional boat captain who commissions and manages the big cruisers and racers for HH Catamarans, picks me up from the seawall at 0900 as planned and shuttles me out to the big blue catamaran where I meet the crew: a mix of friends and professionals, including America’s Cup veteran and US SailGP Team wing trimmer Paul Campbell-James.

Welch, a fiber-optics engineer and social philanthropist from Los Angeles, is relatively new to this whole big-cat racing thing, but he’s hooked and tells me he’s on the hunt for something bigger and faster. So far this week, his family cruising boat has been unable to match the pace of Mach Schnell or the space-age-­looking Fujin, campaigned by Greg Slyngstad. The results are getting repetitive: one, two and three across the line no matter how hard they try. Flash’s sailmaker, Alan McGlashan of Doyle Sails, opines they’re plenty quick upwind, but lack the proper downwind sail. The boat’s butchered red spinnaker-in-a-sock (not built by his employer) is more triangular, he says, and would be better served as a tarp. They’ve rigged a system to pull the spinnaker tack to weather to get it out from behind the giant mainsail, but even that’s not helping much.

The day’s course is a 29-miler that starts outside Gustavia Harbor on the island’s south side, and heads east around the end of the island before snaking through anchored buoys and rocky islets. The race committee has 28 different courses at its disposal, all of which include rocks, islands, and open stretches of Caribbean runways.

One by one, classes set off every 10 minutes. When it’s Flash’s turn, we run for the line with Mach Schnell to leeward. Campbell-James, steering for the start, appears to have timed his approach well, but with 30 seconds to go, he quietly curses to himself: “We’re f—d.”

Sure enough, Mach Schnell is soon out in front, and a wall of Diam 24 one-design trimarans pins Flash. Once the traffic clears, Campbell-James tacks, and Welch takes the wheel on the opposite hull and points his bow’s upwind leg to the eastern tip of the island. Welch prefers to steer standing, his hip pressed against the load on a long, white tiller arm wrapped in grip tape. McGlashan rests on the helmsman’s bucket chair, fingers keying buttons that control the mainsail’s traveler and mainsheet. He calls angles to Welch and keeps him attentive to the jib’s telltales.

Meanwhile, Campbell-James tippy-toes across the traveler beam, peering over Flash’s rooftop solar panels for a better view of the racecourse ahead. The rest of the crew is either piled into the forward cockpit managing the big ropes, jib sheets and halyards, or scrambling from side to side to reposition their weight. For the remainder of the day, there are long stretches of ideal time interspersed by action on the trampoline as the spinnaker sock goes up and down. The wind is strong, pushing the catamaran around the track at respectable speeds, and despite precision layline calls from the navigator, Flash’s crew is simply lacking in its sail inventory.

After Welch glides the boat across the finish line after nearly six hours of racing, there’s word on board that Fujin has retired from the race—and the regatta—having hit a submerged object and damaging a daggerboard.

“Well, that’s a bummer,” McGlashan says. “But we’ll take the second.”

The attrition continues the following morning, when I’m set to race on board Rambler 88 and learn that owner David is sitting out the day’s race. He’s not feeling well, so Brazilian all-star Joca Signorini, an Olympian and three-time Volvo Ocean Race helmsman, owns the wheels for the day. He’s been a ramblin’ man for six years.

As soon as Rambler 88’s tender strikes its mooring lines, the deck is abuzz with 25 big guys in white tech polos checking their areas, cuing snaked headsails on big furlers, running sheets and wiping down winch drums. The boat’s young navigator, Anderson Reggio, has briefed them on the day’s racecourse and the angles they will sail while weaving through islands and rocks one last time.

The wind forecast is the weakest of the week, and everybody knows the boat needs a lot of runway, a big blow and just the right angles to have a chance of winning the day. Still, these pros are in the business of winning, so it’s business as usual.

Once the briefing ends, the crew get to work, most of them America’s Cup and around-the-world regulars. With the exception of a few nippers on the bow for Les Voiles de St. Barth, this squad has been tight for the past six years, says crew boss Mick Harvey. They’ve had a good, long run with the boat since David launched it in 2014, and the boat’s win list runs down the back of Harvey’s T-shirt.

Soon the foretriangle is full with another big, black North Sail—top-of-the-line stuff—and the pre-start warmup is textbook: Head upwind to confirm sail shapes, loads and angles, ping the line, and formulate a starting-line exit strategy. Every fleet ahead and up the course confirms the afterguard’s assessment: A big lefty is coming.

On the final approach, a port-tack slingshot, Signorini assumes his perch behind the wheel, shoulders hunched and his attention locked straight ahead. Vesper enters the picture, approaching fast from the other end of the line on starboard. But there’s no panic. These guys are pros, and as if on cue, Vesper tacks to leeward, and all four Maxis are on port at full speed, rails packed with bodies. The race is on.

The boat’s pitching is dampened by the sheer size and volume of the hull, as well as the topped-off water-ballast tanks. The rest of the Maxis are miles behind, their towering rig tops often appearing above islands.

Inside Rambler 88, the engine grinds below as the big orange bulb at the end of the canting keel appears below the surface. The chatter stops and the boat is silent, save for the rush of wind across the deck and the grunt of highly loaded sheets rubbing against winch drums.

After a few short tacks along the coastline, green, beige and steep, Reggio calls for one final tack, and then they’re into the downwind inventory. There’s a lot of it, and with nearly 40 more miles of racecourse to cover, the call is to deploy them all and, one by one as the bow’s angle to wind deepens, another headsail rolls out and fills with a thud. The amount of sail above the deck is breathtaking, leeches and draft stripes perfectly curved and matched. The crew immediately shifts aft, water hisses from the transom, and the big gray boat practically sails itself on its chine. Signorini keeps a soft touch on the wheel and only occasionally reaches between the spokes to press the ­keel-cant buttons on his pedestal.

With three gigantic headsails deployed, they’re down the track in a blink, and Reggio guides the team to one last rock to round to starboard. The big jib is power-winched up the forestay, downwind sails furl and disappear down the forward hatch, the crew hit the rail as the boat’s rear admiral, America’s Cup Hall of Famer Brad Butterworth, goes straight for his blue windbreaker.

“Right, then,” he says aloud to no one, as if to psych himself up. “Time to go upwind.”

Rambler 88 pounds into the steep waves, pacing at 12 knots in 20 knots of breeze. The boat’s pitching is dampened by the sheer size and volume of the hull, as well as the topped-off water-ballast tanks. The rest of the Maxis are miles behind, their towering rig tops often appearing above islands, and Butterworth and Reggio are happy to be piling on the distance in the fresher-than-expected winds. Still, there’s just not enough racecourse, and that much is obvious as the crew completes their final rock rounding and Signorini points the bow to the area outside the harbor where they started five hours earlier. With each slow and agonizing jibe, which requires the big gennaker to be mostly furled to clear the headstay, Schmidt’s big blue machine is closing the distance with big gulps.

After finishing, Rambler 88’s afterguard watches intently as Deep Blue, a mile or so behind, nears the finish. All eyes are on the blue boat as it suddenly heels over, hit by harbor gust, and its gigantic white spinnaker splits in half, horizontal across the middle, from luff to leech. On Rambler 88, there’s a collective “Whoa!” and an instantaneously fleeting hope that the known race result could magically be different.

With no clue as to the time allowance for Deep Blue and the other Maxis, I ask Reggio for his assessment of the race, which seemed to have gone just fine: A good start, the sails went up and down, they didn’t hit any rocks. I mean, what else could they do?

“We’re last,” Reggio replies candidly. “Not enough wind. Not enough racecourse. Oh well.”

Later that evening, midway through the awards, Les Voiles de St. Barth emcee Phillipe Kin introduces the Richard Mille Monohull Record Trophy. Rambler 88 set the record two years ago, before COVID-19 paused Les Voiles, and earlier in the week, David missed beating his own record by a mere 13 minutes. On the record course to St. Maarten and back, Rambler 88 was the quickest of the Maxis and therefore has earned the trophy—a giant piece of glassware—as well as a Champagne magnum and a bottle each of rum and wine.

Kin calls for David, or anyone from Rambler 88, to come to the stage until, in the awkward pause, someone in the crowd alerts him to the fact that I’d been on board the boat one day. Standing stage side, deer in the headlights, I decline Kin’s invite twice. But egged on by the crew of Flash, I finally cave and rush up to accept the booty on behalf of Mr. David and the Rambler 88 crew.

Their rum and wine quickly disappear into the hands of the crowd, and I regift the Champagne to a few of the regatta’s volunteers. The glass slab will land in Reggio’s hands the next morning at the ferry terminal, a mass exodus of professional sailors. But until then, I stash it, cash in my last euros for drink tickets, and wrestle my way to the bar, where the attrition will continue into the night.

The post The Nirvana Of Les Voiles St. Barts appeared first on Sailing World.

Stan Joines has been racing in the St. Thomas International Regatta for almost three decades, winning the Performance Cruising class a number of times, most recently in his J/36, Paladin. But it’s not so much his participation or his wins that make his story interesting. Since the early 1990s, Joines has been bringing teenagers along with him from his native St. Croix, teaching them to sail, race and simply enjoy being on the water. By his count, he’s exposed 200 to 300 kids to sailing. That’s with no organization, no funding—just Joines giving the kids of Croix a slice of the good sailing life.

“When I first arrived here 32 years ago from Georgia to teach music at St. Croix Central High School, I had never sailed before. But I wanted to. There were some serious sailors here, and I asked them questions about port and starboard, and they looked at me like I was an idiot and walked away. So, I hung out with the kids on the beach.”

Joines, with his boyish looks, sun-bleached red hair and infectious laugh, fit right in as he learned to sail with the local yacht-club kids. “Before long, I’m out there racing in 420s with them. They’re having sea wars, pelting each other with fruit. You learn how to jibe and tack pretty quickly when you’re about to get hit on the head with a genip!”

Joines did learn to sail and, because of the high price of property on St. Croix relative to his teacher’s wages, he bought an Alberg 35 and lived aboard. “One day, I found myself surrounded by a dozen junior high and high school kids. They said, ‘We’re taking your boat to Puerto Rico to race, and you have no choice in the matter.’ I asked them, ‘What about your parents?’ and they said that their parents had already given them permission. So, off we went.”

Joines recalls there being very little wind at that event.

“There were 17 boats in our class. Our heavy boat was able to glide through the holes with momentum, and we beat them all. And that was that.”

From then on, there was a constant stream of diverse kids, ranging from local high-schoolers who had never been on a boat to the yacht-club kids who knew their way around the racecourse. “And they bonded,” Joines says. “A lot of those kids are still best friends, and they’re now in their 40s.”

One is Peter Stanton, who sails out of the St. Thomas YC. “We were sailing Optis in St. Croix, and as soon as we got on the water, we’d sail up to his boat, knock on the hull and yell, ‘Stan, are you up?’ And he’d come up out of his companionway and throw Chips Ahoy cookies at us. He always had those aboard. He loved it. He was like our big, older friend.

“When my twin brother, older brother and I got bigger, he said, ‘Hey, why don’t you come sailing with me in St. Thomas?’ So, about four to six of us would go over there, sleep on his boat and race. It was just him and the kids. As we got older, we jumped to the spinnaker racing boats, but as we and others moved on, new kids always came aboard his boat.”

Eventually, it got to the point where his Alberg was no longer competitive, so he moved on to a J/36.

“We won the 2013 STIR in that boat, and all the kids were really excited. It was so cool,” Joines says. “I’d tell them what to do, and they’d do it. If it was wrong, well, it didn’t work out so well. But if they had another way to do something, I’d listen, and by gosh, they were usually right. It’s a democratic boat, so everyone has a say—they aren’t treated like kids.”

It was not uncommon for Joines to come home from teaching and find a dozen kids on the dock waiting for him. “They’d say, ‘We’re going to St. Thomas for the weekend,’ and I’d say, ‘Fine.’ And then they’d say, ‘On your boat!’”

The big thing is self-esteem, he adds. “If you treat them like they’re somebody, not necessarily putting up with them, but listen to them, it makes a world of difference.”

Stanton says: “He’d give us some room and then bring us back in. And then he’d show us, and we would be like, ‘OK, you’re right, Stan.’”

It was not uncommon for Joines to come home from teaching and find a dozen kids on the dock waiting for him. “They’d say, ‘We’re going to St. Thomas for the weekend,’ and I’d say, ‘Fine.’ And then they’d say, ‘On your boat!’ So, if I didn’t have a music performance to deal with that weekend, we’d go. We’d get to St. Thomas YC, pick up a mooring in the dark, and then go and get a burger. The next day, we’d go surfing. It was so much fun.”

A lot of kids from the informal Joines school of sailing have moved on to bigger things. Some have become boat captains, and many still race regularly. “One of my former kids contacted me about a month ago, and he’s in Chicago doing design work on some carbon-fiber rocket they’re building out there. He’s also done the Chicago-Mac race for years.”

Joines retired from teaching in 2021, so the pipeline he had to the kids at St. Croix Central High School is not what it once was. His J/36 was destroyed in Hurricane Irma several years back, and it’s been replaced by an aging Albin Stratus given to him. “The sails all don’t fit, and the mast is pushing a hole in the bottom of the boat,” Joines says. “It’d be great to find something better, but until then…”

However, Joines is still at it, racing at the 2022 STIR. Although, now it’s with a mix of adults and kids. But his imprint on Caribbean sailing is indelible. Stanton points to the post-race crowd at STIR and says: “If you look around here, you’ll see a lot of people who sailed with him. Any kid around here that sailed small boats and progressed up into big boats has probably gone through Stan.”

The post The Neverland Sailing Tribe appeared first on Sailing World.

The British Virgin Islands are at the top of many sailors’ list of favorite charter destinations — and once you’ve been, you’ll understand why. From the consistent sailing conditions to the abundance of gorgeous anchorages and beach bars, this place was made for cruisers.

Tortola is the largest island in the group, and its main settlement, Road Town, is where you’ll find several charter bases surrounding the large harbor; others are just a short cab ride away. There are grocery stores, bakeries and liquor stores near town for provisioning. Or better yet, have your charter company take care of it.

Whether it’s your first charter in these islands or they are an annual destination, the BVI doesn’t disappoint, and you can tailor your experience to your preferences. Love snorkeling and diving? Make sure that underwater hot spots like the wreck of the RMS Rhone and reefs at the Indians and the Dogs are on your itinerary. Want to stay up until the wee hours? Check out a full moon party at Trellis Bay or Bomba’s Surfside Shack. Love sailing? Include a jaunt to Anegada during your trip.

Most BVI charters last a week, which is enough time to enjoy several of the islands, but if you can swing 10 days or more, go for it! Leaving from Road Town, a typical route heads counter­clockwise through the islands, with most of the sailing in the protected waters of Sir Francis Drake Channel.

The Bight at Norman Island is an easy first-night destination. There are moorings and plenty of room to anchor, although if you don’t enjoy late-night crowds, choose a spot away from the William Thornton (aka Willy T’s), a floating bar and restaurant anchored in the southwest corner of the Bight. Ready to jump in the water? Be sure to check out the caves nearby at Treasure Point and the reef at Pelican Island.

Farther up Drake Channel, the Baths at Virgin Gorda are a fun place to explore — be sure to arrive early to secure a mooring — and there are cool photo ops among the giant boulders. An ideal spot to relax midcharter, Virgin Gorda’s North Sound is home to the Bitter End Yacht Club, Saba Rock and the Leverick Bay Resort and Marina, all good choices for a drink or meal ashore. North Sound itself offers well-protected, flat water that is perfect for trying out any water toys you might have aboard. Next, if conditions are good and you’re up for a sail, you can head out to Anegada, known for killer sunsets and lobster dinners on the beach.

Whether you’re sailing back from Anegada or over from North Sound, stop for lunch and a snorkel at Monkey Point, Guana Island, and then pick up a mooring for the night at Cane Garden Bay. This postcard-­perfect bay is the place to go for live music, and for a real taste of the BVI, there are tours and tastings at the Callwood Rum Distillery.

If you love beach bars, Jost Van Dyke has some of the best, from Foxy’s at Great Harbour to the Soggy Dollar at White Bay. A ­quieter ­evening can be had anchored off picturesque Little Jost Van Dyke. Wrap up your week in the BVI with a night either at Peter Island or Cooper Island, and you’ll be well ­positioned for an easy sail back to Road Town.

What to know if you go

Climate: The BVI has a tropical climate with temperatures that vary little throughout the year. On average, the rainiest months are September through November, and the ­driest are February and March.

Winds: During the winter months, the trade winds are northeasterly at about 15 to 20 knots, though from December to mid-­January, there may be periods of “Christmas winds,” which can blow 25 to 30 knots for days at a time. In the summer months, the trades are more southeasterly at 10 to 15 knots.

Sailing level: Steady breezes and easy navigation on mostly protected waters make the BVI an ideal spot for a first bareboat charter. Although moorings are plentiful, they fill up quickly in the high season, so skippers should be well adept at anchoring.

The post It’s all there in the BVI appeared first on Sailing World.

Just 16 out of 60 British Virgin Islands are inhabited, with everything from private-island resorts to nonstop beach-bar parties. That leaves 44 islands free for the exploring, from an island that looks every bit like the postcard-famous spot The Baths, only without all the people. Likewise, there’s the tiny spit of sand so pretty that a handful of Corona commercials were filmed there.

Read on to find the best islands for hikes, snorkel spots and beaches that you just might have all to yourself on your next getaway.

Fallen Jerusalem Island: Best for Photo Ops

Adore The Baths but hate crowds? This island, less than a mile south of the tip of Virgin Gorda, is home to another pile of basalt boulders that are every bit as picturesque and photo worthy as those of the iconic site. The differences: This island is smaller and has no infrastructure, including roads, so it’s much harder to access. In other words, it’s a totally private experience—like having The Baths all to yourself.

Salt Island: Best for Hiking

Shelters line the shore of this island most famous as the home of the folks who rescued passengers from the R.M.S. Rhone when she sank in 1867. The islanders living there more recently were the descendants of the folks who had been gifted the island in exchange for their heroic efforts. All that changed in 2017 when hurricanes Irma and Maria rendered the homes unlivable.

Now, the island is home to goats only. Their footpaths double as hiking trails leading to overlooks—one above Lee Bay where the Rhone lies, and another on the cliffs overlooking South Bay. The second is much more dramatic, and leads to more trails allowing for a proper hike.

Great Dog Island: Best for a Unique Snorkel Experience

They call it Sharkplaneo: Local nonprofit Beyond the Reef sunk three airplanes sculpturally welded to look like sharks—a bull shark, a hammerhead and a nurse shark to draw awareness to local species. They’ve been purpose-sunk to a depth of 40 feet, so even snorkelers can enjoy the site, diving down for some photo ops near the planes.

Plus, these vessels were sunk just next to a shallow reef, so you can anchor or moor once then enjoy two in-water experiences.

Sandy Cay: Best for Beach Walks

Due east of the island of Jost Van Dyke, this island with a palm tree forest and wide but steep white sand beach is a hotspot among boaters. In high season, its west coast sees many at anchor, with vacationers coming ashore to play football on the beach or simply relax on the shores.

But, even in high season, almost nobody walks around the bend to the south shore. Here, while listening to waves break on reefs, you can enjoy the escapism of utter solitude.

Little Jost Van Dyke: Best for a Cocktail away from the Crowds

Nobody receives mail on this island, but there is a tiny beach bar called the B Line. One of the quirks of this yellow-and-green shack is that the bartender flies the ‘OPEN’ flag when he’s tending bar, so passing yachties know whether or not to drop anchor. You can expect a full bar, open in early morning—just don’t ask for coffee or food. There’s also picnic tables and cornhole set up to encourage lingering.

Dead Chest Island: Best for Connecting with History

It’s not hard to see why pirates prized these islands and their topography, from the caves of Norman Island to the hidden lairs of The Baths of Virgin Gorda. So it’s no surprise that a few tales of pirate lore have survived, including the story of Blackbeard, aka Edward Thatch, allegedly abandoning 15 men on this island after he heard of their mutinous plans.

Today, a narrow but rocky beach remains on the northwest and southwest shores. One option would be to dinghy close in and anchor. The beach is serene, but the more rewarding option is to snorkel off this island on which so few ever tread.

Ginger Island: Best Quiet Beaches

Right now, Ginger Island is uninhabited, but that could very well soon change. The privately owned island is for sale—and allegedly it’s under contract. For now, this 250-acre island is nothing but shrubby chaparral and small tropical forests of tamarinds, loblolly and cedar trees. While you can explore the hilly island, there aren’t footpaths. You’re better off dinghying to the beaches to enjoy some solitude.

This island is also home to a handful of famous dive sites, including Alice in Wonderland, found along its south bay. The site extends from 40 to 70 feet, so stretches of these scenic coral gardens are accessible to snorkelers.

The Indians: Most Memorable Snorkeling

OK, so this sheer outcropping of four rock formations just north of Norman Island doesn’t have the most politically correct name, chosen for the site’s resemblance to a feather headdress. But it is a magical snorkel spot.

Stick to the west side of these pinnacles to swim among schools of blue tangs and sergeant majors, as well as reef fish, such as queen angels, parrotfish and trunkfish. If the spot isn’t crowded, you may also encounter a passing eagle ray.

George Dog: Best for Playing Castaway

When sailors first passed through these parts, they mistook the barking for dogs, but it was actually the call of Caribbean monk seals. The seals are no more, but the name stuck. Now, this boulder-and-white-sand isle isn’t visited much. Boaters who do show up have George Dog to themselves, including the white sand beach, the smooth boulders and the protected coves of gin-clear water.

Sandy Spit: Best for Enjoying a Cold One

The 2017 hurricane season has changed the shape of this island, making it even smaller than it was when all the Corona commercials were filmed here, taking advantage of the utter escapism of a place that was all white sand and just a few palm trees—and only about as wide as you could throw a football.

The hurricanes stripped the spit of any greenery, but it’s still a choice spot for a picnic, game of football or just chillin’ in a beach chair enjoying, well, a Corona.

The post The 10 Best Uninhabited British Virgin Islands appeared first on Sailing World.

A protest hearing in paradise. A regatta should never end this way, but there sat two sun-kissed protagonists, astride at the aft salon table of the Sunsail 454 race committee catamaran. Rick Harris, the laid-back California skipper, and Andy Camarda, the energetic Chicagoan who won PHRF 3 at the St. Petersburg NOOD, faced the Helly Hansen Caribbean NOOD Championship’s PRO and umpire, Sue Reilly, to present their versions of a little pre-start port-starboard bump in the day’s first of three races.

While crews of the annual regatta’s six teams frolicked above and below the waters of the British Virgin Island’s Norman Island, protest proceedings got underway with complimentary Painkillers for the protestors. Over the next hour or so, facts were found, witnesses summoned, and when it was all said and done, Reilly ruled both boats were in the wrong: Harris, the port-tacker for failing to heed right of way, and Camarda for failing to avoid contact.

Call it draw, perhaps, but the outcome of the protest had the surprising effect of then vaulting the third-place team to the top of the score board. No one saw it coming, especially the Championship’s defender, Team Juhnksho, skippered by Vancouverite Kirk Leslie.

As the weeklong regatta began weaving through the jewels of the Caribbean, Leslie and his tactician John Caunter, had feet riddled with bullet holes, the first of which was inflicted in the opening race. During this lap around Cooper Island, Camarda and his teammates aced the course and put their first win onto the scoresheet. Following them closely around the track was team San Diego, with Harris at the helm. Juhnksho, the 2018 champions, followed across the line third after sailing into a windless hole while trying to cut a corner on the island’s western side. Juhnksho was followed by Gyt Petkus and his revelers from Chicago in fourth. Berit Solstad’s team, representing the Marblehead NOOD, sailed into the anchorage fifth, followed by Annapolitan Matt Shubert’s three-couples squad, which was late out of the base for reasons beyond their control.

Not to worry, though, as all stress was soon left on the racecourse and the teams gathered to formally meet and greet at the Coopers Island Beach Club with the sun dropping behind fleecy clouds, producing a stunning sunset as backdrop for the Helly Hansen welcome party and Oktoberfest.

An early rise and motor gave teams a chance to explore The Baths of Virgin Gorda before a prompt 11 am start for Leg 2 to Virgin Gorda Sound’s Leverick Bay. The top-two teams commenced their blossoming rivalry with Camarda cruising to victory again with Harris in close pursuit. Solstad’s Team Marblehead made its presence known with a third on the scoresheet. Juhksho rolled across the line fourth with a defeated appearance and a look of shock smeared across their sunburnt faces.

The defense, according to Caunter, was not going as planned. To quote, “We sucked.”

Team Chicago claimed its fifth place while Team Annapolis, now confident they were dealt the slowest boat in the charter pool, checked in with another six.

An overnight respite at Leverick Bay gave the sailors a chance to consider their place in the fleet and prepare for the Mount Gay Rum drink-recipe contest. The race committee stood court as drinks arrived in succession: first an “interesting” combination from Team Chicago: rum, prosecco, cranberry juice, chopped mint and lime. Then came a bizarre concoction of Nerds candy, Swedish fish, rum and other assorted ingredients. Team Annapolis delivered a taste of Fall with a delicious apple cider composition. Juhnksho arrived with a cored pineapple filled with a refreshing blend of rum and fresh squeezed juices. Team San Diego’s version of a Painkiller was presented in a pineapple, too. Team St. Pete, late to the party, showed up with a single red Solo cup, a heavy two-finger rum pour, and a topper of Coca Cola. “It’s a proper rum and coke!” proclaimed its creator, Tony Barrett.

After much debate and the lingering taste of sour Nerds sucked through a paper straw, the panel gave the nod to Team Junhksho’s mixologists (2018 drink contest winners as well), giving them high marks for presentation, taste and repeatability.

Juhnksho’s cocktail victory must have rekindled its competitive juices for the day’s next race, Leg 3 of the regatta, which featured a short course inside Virgin Gorda Sound before crews exited through the reef passage for a long broad reach to Anegada. Team Marblehead nailed the start, tacked, and played the shifts on the right while Team Juhnksho favored the left. The two teams soon met at the top of the beat and Leslie attempted a late tack at the mark instead of ducking, fouling Marblehead in the process. Camarda’s Team St. Petersburg tried a shy starboard layline but failed to fetch the mark and sat dead in the water attempting to get its sails filled.

Team Marblehead, of course, emerged from the fracas and led out of the sound, but Camarda and his crew reeled them in and passed well before they sailed across the finish line in the crystal blue shallows of Anegada, adding another win to their scoreline. It was starting look as though Camarda and Co. would run away with the championship, but Harris and Team San Diego were right on their tail once again, giving them chase to finish second.

An Anegada lay day allowed teams to dispatch across the island to the numerous beach bars and excursions before returning to the mooring field for the late afternoon’s SUP relay races. Here, Team Annapolis finally broke its string of sixth place finishes with a win, which was then followed up by another triumph—on the dance floor of the Halloween eve party, as a team of lifeguards. Their whistles surely could be heard all the way to Tortola.

The following day, with two races on the schedule, the first from Anegada to Guana Island and a distance of 14 miles or so, it was not surprising to see San Diego and St. Petersburg locked into combat again. As Camarda tailed the Californians down the line on port, however, they misjudged their speed, glanced the race committee’s dinghy and hooked their stern-mounted grill on the committee boat’s lifelines. It was penalty turns for them and they started a step behind, but soon after, they hailed the race committee by VHF, announcing their retirement from the race for having started and raced with their engine accidently left in gear.

San Diego ultimately claimed the leg win and Juhnksho was beginning to make its climb with a second. Team Chicago put in its best result with a third. Team Annapolis, certain with its place in the fleet, declined to start and instead, slid into cruising mode for the remainder of the week.

With the day’s second start off Guana Island’s Monkey Point, San Diego executed a perfect downwind start, jibed immediately and opted for an inshore track along Tortola’s steep and green northern coastline. Juhnksho and St. Petersburg held offshore and crossed the line in that order, followed by San Diego. The scoresheet now had the two rivals tied at the top, with Juhnksho lurking in third.

After the passage of a 38-knot rain squall, racing resumed off Sandy Cay on the final day with Camarda wasting no time putting his match-racing skills to work on Team San Diego in the prestart. There was a lot of yelling, a bit of light rubbing, and then of course the dueling protest hails before they sailed on toward Norman Island. Team Junhksho led off the start and extended its lead through the challenging Thatch Island Cut at the west of Tortola. While the defenders were then left wallowing in a windless hole, Team San Diego made a daring split, tacking away, directly toward the island, and eventually bit into a streak of 100 yards upwind, which propelled them into the lead and launched them into the Bight, followed by St. Petersburg and Juhnksho, respectively.

The race committee then immediately set to work setting marks for two riveting in-port races, both handily won by Camarda and crew. After racing, scores were tallied and the two teams were tied, with the paddle board race results to be applied in favor of San Diego.

But there was that small of issue of the protest hearing, to be held on account of their being contact. Upon both skippers earning their DSQs, the results reshuffled and championship bragging rights were handed to an incredulous Team Juhnksho. Kirk and Annabelle Leslie, John and Katy Caunter, and Kim Ford had conquered the BVI again and vowed to return for a third defense. In doing so, they calling on three-time winner Jim Sears to return and challenge them for the ultimate bragging rights of the BVI champions in 2020.

At press time, Sears had only hinted an intent to challenge, but so long as the taunting from Juhnksho continues, he may find it impossible to decline. Winning is too much fun, Sears would say, especially in the BVIs where everyone is a winner no matter where you finish.

The post A Caribbean Championship of Champions appeared first on Sailing World.

Sitting in the cockpit of Ron Zarella’s custom-built Taylor 49 Blackfish, the crew waits for a tender to take everyone ashore. We’ve just completed the first day of the 2019 St. Thomas International Regatta, and we’re ready for some shade and a round of Painkillers.

“You’re supposed to sound a horn three times to get the tender to come,” Zarella says. He’s standing behind the helm, relaxed, but growing impatient. His boat captain, David Abramski, descends through the companionway and returns with a foghorn, walks to the stern, and blows three sounds across Cowpet Bay toward St. Thomas YC.

Soon after, a beat-up RIB comes skidding alongside us, its motor stalling as it nearly crashes into the boat’s ­gleaming black topside.

“Can you send the other one?” Zarella asks, eyeing the RIB’s deflated tubes. “I don’t think we’ll stay afloat in that thing.”

The driver smiles, shoves off, and tells us he’ll be right back. As the tender drifts away downwind, we watch its driver struggle to pull-start the ­outboard.

“This could take a while,” Zarella says, sitting down behind the helm. He’s a big man with a big personality—but at this moment, he’s just another skipper waiting for a ride, on island time. He accepts his fate and rests his palm on the boat’s varnished wooden wheel. From beneath his sun hat flapping in the breeze, he admires the teak deck of his Spirit of Tradition masterpiece and a smile stretches from cheek to bearded cheek.

Meanwhile, over his shoulder, the RIB in distress drifts toward the reef, forcing the driver to throw out an anchor.

“I’d much rather be stranded on this boat,” Zarella says.

Our waiting time has increased exponentially, yet no one complains. The trade winds are whistling through the rigging and whitecaps curl in from the southeast. Across the bay, the Caribbean Sea stretches out on the horizon, its blue and green hues reflecting the tropical sky. All in all, there are far worse places to be stuck on a mooring.

To pass the time, we extract a handful of beers from the cooler and debrief on the day’s racing. Only three years have passed since Blackfish was launched, and Zarella’s sailing team is as new as the boat itself. As with any new crew, dividing responsibilities is a process of trial and error. In this regard, there is much to discuss: “It seems like the ­tactics-by-committee ­concept is working well,” trimmer Pat O’Conner says.

Until this moment I’d never heard the phrase, “tactics by committee” and thought it to be odd.

“What happens when you’re in a situation that requires a quick decision?” I ask. “Who makes the final call?”

“That would be Carolyn,” Zarella declares, nodding toward Carolyn Grant, his wife of three years. “She’s the one who ­ultimately calls the shots.”

“The only problem is that Ron has his head so far up Pat O’Conner’s ass that he’s developed hearing issues,” she responds.

The crew pauses, and then a round of laughter erupts. Zarella brushes off the remark, but beneath Grant’s zinc-covered face is a hint of frustration, and I understand why. There was a point in the second race when the course took us through St. James Cut, a tight little strait southeast of St. Thomas.

The water in this section of the course is shallow enough to see stingrays darting through coral heads. O’Conner, trimming the spinnaker, was telling Zarella to head up to keep the spinnaker filled. Zarella followed orders and turned the wheel ever so slightly until Carolyn spoke out. Her eyes were glued to the depth sounder and she knew we were approaching dangerously close to shallow water.

Blackfish was headed toward rocks and only after a moment’s hesitation, Zarella heeded his wife’s advice and changed course to pass safely through the cut. A moment such as this is inevitable when a Nantucket-based power couple runs the show themselves. Grant says they didn’t want a boat captain calling all the shots: “Between Ron and I, we have more than enough confidence in our experience to manage whatever comes our way.”

Zarella takes pride in his ability to gather information from the people around him and choose the best course of action onboard, a style of leadership he’s honed through years of corporate management. Grant, on the other hand, has enjoyed a long career in the sailing industry. Her accomplishments include three IOD World Championships and a circum­navigation. She was once the head coach of the Hampton University Sailing Team and is the retired Director of Sailing at Nantucket’s exclusive Great Harbor YC. Zarella and Grant come from differing management backgrounds, but Grant’s sailing knowledge dwarfs that of her husband, a fact he ­readily admits.

“Carolyn has forgotten more about sailing than I’ll ever know,” Zarella confesses. “She’s great at crew training in specific positions, and that’s part of the reason we fit so well together. The most important part of owning this boat has been understanding our relationship as husband and wife.”

“People kept asking us who was going to be the skipper,” Grant says. “Ron is so type‑A that he needs to be on the helm, and I hadn’t steered in such a long time that I didn’t mind running the crew.”

Grant, who spent so many years coaching, now coaches Zarella, “When he manages to listen, that is.”

RELATED: Smith Returns to Defend at Marblehead NOOD

And there were plenty of coachable moments in St. Thomas. The regatta’s courses require teams to navigate islands, shoals and channel markers rather than windward-leeward buoys. The racing is close-quarters combat at times as competitors fight for ­favorable windshifts and current relief. When boats get close to shore and tacticians start hollering for “water,” someone inevitably gets ping-ponged to the back of the fleet, particularly in the legs when boats are overlapped. Throughout this first day, Blackfish had a number of quick decisions to make, and based on the day’s results, Zarella might’ve been wiser to listen to his wife more often.

“It’s a constant battle,” Grant says, taking a sip of chardonnay as the wait for a tender continues. “But we’re working on it.”

Before tying the knot, the couple had known each other for years at Great Harbor, where Zarella serves as Commodore. His interest in Spirit of Tradition yachts was piqued a decade ago when he bought a Herreshoff Alerion 26, a retro classic now popular on Nantucket. He missed his days of Farr 40 sailing, however, and decided he needed more waterline.

“My design vision for this boat was the Ferrari 550 Maranello,” Zarella says. “To me, it’s the most beautiful car ever designed, but it can still blow anyone off the road.”

With Blackfish, he got the nautical Ferrari he was looking for. With its traditional teak overlay and Alaskan cedar deck boards and the warm off-white and varnished brightwork interior, the boat is 50 feet of pure craftsmanship. The modern-shaped hull is built of cold-molded, tongue and groove Alaskan cedar planking nestled between western red cedar veneers. The boat’s sleek black lines resemble an orca, from which it takes its name—but it’s more like a grand piano on water, a true work of art.

“The designer kept asking me if I wanted a pretty boat or a fast boat,” Zarella says. “And I repeatedly told him I wanted both.”

When Blackfish‘s construction began, Zarella and Grant were mere acquaintances. Zarella leaned on Grant’s expertise to guide him through the boatbuilding process. After a year and a half of ­interviews, he and Grant chose Jim Taylor as its designer, and Main’s Brooklin Boatyard as its builder. Working so close together, one thing led to another and Zarella found himself a partner in Grant, both on the water and off. By May of 2017, a year and a half after their wedding, they commissioned their one and only child.

“When we were sailing the last windward leg, I had a moment to myself,” Grant confides. “Just being here, realizing that all the hard work has paid off, and that we’re finally doing what we set out to do. It’s been a great experience, and I couldn’t have found anyone better to make the adventure with than Ron.”

After sharing so many stories and rambling on, the cold beer is depleted and the crew grows restless. We start blasting the signals toward shore again, and after a few more minutes, a bigger and better tender finally arrives, gliding smoothly up to our beam. Zarella takes Grant’s hand and helps her transfer. It’s a long step down and the ­tender is twisting in the waves.

As we shove off, the ­couple fires glances at their baby, tucked in for the evening, its dark hull shining against the bright blue water. In the glow of another Caribbean afternoon, Zarella wraps his burly arm around Grant and pulls her close as we weave our way through the mooring field.

The three of them are good together.

The post A Classic Couple appeared first on Sailing World.

Dave Franzel looks out from beneath his faded ball cap at the gust coming down off Deck Point on the southeast side of St. Thomas, USVI.

“It likes to go left up here,” he says, pulling on the backstay of his IC24 as we practice for the upcoming races of the St. Thomas International Regatta.

Below deck, empty beer ­bottles roll and clink in the bilge. Up top, Franzel’s trimmed white beard ruffles in the wind; the skin on his knuckles is tan and leathery, and his eyes are as blue as the Caribbean waters he now calls home. He looks as though he’s been in the islands for a lifetime, but the truth is it took him 30 years of running Boston’s premier adult sailing program before he realized St. Thomas’s climate better suited his lifestyle.

“I’d been coming down to the Caribbean for years,” Franzel says. “We would teach offshore passage making between Boston, Bermuda and Antigua. Once we got down to the Caribbean, we would run cruising and coastal passage courses between Antigua and Grenada, so I’ve had a long relationship with the region. It’s a great place to be, especially in the winter.”

Franzel ran the Boston Sailing Center from 1977 to 2007, serving more than 400 clients annually until he sold the business. After three decades of focusing on a single project, he went through a period of reinvention. “When you’ve been doing one thing for most of your life and you’ve built your identity around that, it’s hard to let it go,” he says. “You have to transition to the next thing.”

Franzel began stringing together various sailing gigs around the country, including coaching for North U. At one clinic held at the U.S. Virgin Island’s St. Thomas YC, Franzel ­discovered his next thing. “Some of the members were lamenting at their decrease in membership, and I told them about some of the things we had done in Boston to increase retention and grow participation in other ways,” he says. “One thing led to another, and they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

In 2017, under his direction, St. Thomas YC started the St. Thomas Sailing Center, an adult sailing program focused on growing club membership through racing and social sailing activities.

“When I got back to work, I found out how much I missed it,” Franzel says. “It wasn’t just about being involved in a local sailing community, but about engaging the world in a ­meaningful way.”

Three years after ­opening the center, membership has increased and the island’s adult sailing scene is as vibrant as ever. One-third of new members who joined in 2019 came through the sailing center’s courses, boat access, racing programs or open-house events.

“A statistic I think is quite telling is that 75 percent of new members under the age of 36 joined as a result of STSC ­activities,” Franzel says.

He also attributes this ­success to the center’s popular weekend racing program for locals and visitors, meetups, barbecues and other fun ways of getting out on the water in a non-racing environment.

“Sailing doesn’t always have to be competitive,” he says. “Getting people to engage with the local community is the best way to make them lifelong sailors. Retention is easy when people have fun and make friends.”

St. Thomas Sailing Center owns 10 IC24 keelboats for its sailing activities. The IC24, a modified J/24 hull with a Sonar-style deck layout, is completely local to the Caribbean and is the only one-design action in the region. Having won two Sonar world championships himself, Franzel considers one-design racing to be the peak of the sport.

“One-design is where it’s at,” he says. “When all the boats are the same, there are no excuses for going slow. If someone is faster, you need to figure out why. You can’t just blame your rating, like many people often do when sailing the ­handicapped format.”

When the St. Thomas International Regatta rolls into town each year, Franzel is keen to get out on the water and mix it up with the region’s best sailors. Eighteen IC24s raced in the 2019 STIR, with competitors traveling in from the U.S. ­mainland and Puerto Rico.

“We can offer ­mainlanders short-term memberships, which allows people to come down and use the boats for the event. After the winter months, many of them are super-excited to get back sailing. And here, the water is blue and warm and beautiful,” he says. “There’s no better place to sail in the world. It’s perfect down here.”

An individual IC24 charter fee for St. Thomas’s winter regatta is $2,200 for a boat with decent sails and $2,700 for a boat with new sails, which includes a practice day before the event and a 30-day membership in the St. Thomas YC. Franzel recommends booking early because with only 10 boats, charters get snatched up quick.

With any blissful sailing ­location, however, there’s usually a tradeoff. For the Caribbean, it’s hurricanes—and the past few years have been especially brutal. In early September 2017, hurricanes Irma and Maria swept through St. Thomas, causing island-wide blackouts, tearing up roads and devastating boatyards.

“The boats that were on ­trailers were blown onto their side[s] and tossed around like dice,” Franzel says. “The [IC24] fleet was totaled, and afterward the yacht club was ready to give up. But I got my friend, Chris Small, to come down from New England and help with the rebuild.”

Small and his team rented a wedding tent big enough to store two boats at a time. They worked around the clock for a month straight, bringing in pallets of supplies and equipment. By the time they were finished, the IC24s were like new.

“It’s like the resurrection story. It really inspired the club, and a lot of people on the island as well,” Franzel says. “It became a symbol of recovery. The Caribbean is a hearty region. People here have seen hurricanes before, and they’ll see them again. The key is to keep pushing forward.”

As we pull up to our mooring in front of the yacht club after our preregatta practice session, the hurricane becomes a distant memory. The refurbished boats float lazily on their anchor lines, steel drum music echoes out over the water, and the palm trees lean in the breeze. “Unfortunately, I’m all out of beer,” Franzel says, plucking the empties from the bilge. “Good thing there’s plenty on shore.”

The post Led to Water appeared first on Sailing World.

I wake to the sound of wind battering the shutters and linger under the billowing white mosquito net. Listening to it howl outside the house stirs a cocktail of excitement and nervousness. I think about the forecast; 13-foot seas and 30 knots isn’t something to be taken lightly.

Anticipation of the forecast is visible among my teammates as we roam around our shared house and gather our belongings on the morning of the start of the Caribbean 600. I go easy on the coffee, which never helps my nerves. We have high goals and expectations for this race, which adds to the stress. Given the forecast, there’s a chance we can beat the record, but our objective is to beat Rambler 88, the big American maxi, across the finish line. We have a strong desire to win overall because the Caribbean 600 may be the last major race for Paradox. The likelihood of stars aligning is slim, however, and our margin for error decreases as the wind strength builds.

Soon enough, boat covers are off, sheets led and we’re casting dock lines. We could use another sailor or two given the expected conditions, but a last-­minute crew addition is too much to organize. We collectively leave concerns about being shorthanded next to our flip-flops on the dock and motor to the start. Our six-pack crew includes Paradox‘s owner, Peter Aschenbrenner; our skipper, Jeff Mearing; navigator Jonny Malbon; Paul Larsen, aka the world’s fastest sailor; Helena Darvelid; and myself, trimming, and running the pit.

For reference, Rambler 88 has 18 crew to our six, but we have strong assurances in our favor. We know the boat intimately, having sailed thousands of miles and many races together. We’ve pushed the boat hard before, especially during the 2015 RORC Transatlantic Race, which had five straight days of white-knuckle downwind charging, continuously touching 30 knots and more of boatspeed. We know Paradox, a Nigel Irens-designed racer/cruiser built in 2010, is strong.

A race-committee delay ­following the first start, to wait for squalls to roll through, is puzzling because the conditions match what we expect to experience over the course of the entire race. It’s blowing a steady 26 knots and 35 in the squalls. We know what we’re getting into, but I’m worried many of the other competitors do not. I’m a fairly cautious individual, and if I were on many of the boats I saw gearing up for the start, I wouldn’t have left the dock. The sea state and the squalls are going to be horrendous, and conditions will be boat-breaking, which often equivocates to people getting injured. Humans break before carbon fiber does.

Adrenalin and concentration soon replace the waning anxiety. It’s time to get a good start and sink our teeth into what will be an epic race. It’s time to shift into a lower gear and dig deep. We settle for a full-speed charge at the start line on starboard near the committee boat and then tack immediately after we cross the line. Every monohull in the fleet had started before us, so we need to create some space and open ­runway to the first turning mark off Barbuda.

The elation of getting thrown into it straightaway is extraordinary. We’ve been dreaming about this race, and the conditions on the racecourse are exactly what Paradox is built for. We take unadulterated pleasure in passing nearly every boat ahead of us. Around the top of Antigua, while beginning the reach to a mark off Barbuda, we pluck off the fastest remaining boats one by one: the maxi Proteus, the Volvo 70 Warrior and then, finally, Rambler 88. I give an enthusiastic wave to the crew on Proteus as we blaze past, hoping it’s the last we see of them until we’re ashore with a beer in hand.

After its recent refit, Rambler 88 now draws 23 feet and is about a ton and a half lighter. We anticipate the race being a 600-mile game of snakes and ladders with Rambler, which we expected to be the better boat upwind, but we’re confident we’ll get the best of it on the reaches.

Now, about those reaches. We’re continuously touching 30 knots or more of boatspeed here. That’s wet. Very wet. The pressure of the spray on your face ranges from a tolerable annoyance to an outright smack. The smack is followed by a gasp for air and a head shake, and a continuous dribble of salty spittle down your chin that you continuously eject. The inside of your top and bottom lip becomes pruned, as if you’ve held a salt cube inside your lips for hours.

At times it’s both exciting and fear ­inducing. My emotions are in sync with the trimaran’s heel. Heel angle dictates whether or not it’s an orifice-clenching moment or exciting acceleration. Racing at such a high level, you’re always going to be pushing the edge. We can’t afford to take our foot off the gas pedal with Rambler 88 only a few miles behind.

That is, of course, until the gas pedal gets taken away.

A smart yachtsman once told me, “In order to finish first, you must first finish.”

Though we didn’t really heed this ­philosophy until two-thirds of the way around the racetrack, there are moments when we simply must slow the boat down. Especially in this amount of wind, the sea state, the squalls, all of which take a toll on the equipment. Stuff breaks, right?

The first piece of gear to fail is one of our winches. Paradox has two winches in the pit on either side of the center hull and no way to cross lead lines, so it will be an issue if not sorted soon. I begin to accept that there’s no way we can maintain our lead if we are down a winch.

But it also isn’t the best time to have Jeff go below to try and fix it. Things are getting very windy on the back side of St. Kitts and Nevis as we work our way toward Saba.

We avoid the wind shadows but fight our way through numerous squalls. In one huge acceleration, we spin out into a crash jibe. Time to tuck in the third reef and deploy the storm staysail. We recover quickly and carry our new sail combination to Saba. But then we struggle on the upwind leg with our small foresail. It’s time to peel back to the staysail.

The wider-than-average reach angle from St. Barts to Guadeloupe is where we can lay some track and possibly pull away from Rambler, which is less than a mile away at times. Off we go, thundering into the black, moonless night. The night is made darker inside my tinted goggles, but from where I reside, holding on to the traveler control line in the cockpit, I can still see the numbers and the angle of heel. That’s all I need to see. I’m camped out on the traveler while Jeff and Paul take hourlong turns driving.

Enter my world for a moment. I’m ­terrified of getting washed overboard by a wave, so I’m clipped in forward. My role with the traveler is to control the boat’s heel, which means I’m the safety backup to the driver. Think of it like cutting the fuel line to the accelerator. I have a sense for people’s comfort level and driving style; Paul likes to push it, so I don’t dare deny fuel to the fastest sailor on the planet. Yet even Paul has a tipping point. Literally. We shout back and forth to each other over the noise produced by the speed.

“Ease!”

“How much wind is there?”

“More traveler!”

I have as few wraps on the traveler winch as possible, so I can dump it quickly, holding on to the abrasive sheet as tightly as possible. My fingers begin to ache, but I can’t switch hands because I’m using the other one to hold on tight. The pelting spray makes it hard to take a breath, so I tuck my chin for a clear pocket of air. With my chin tucked, spray now penetrates the goggle’s top vents and I have no free hand to clear the salt from my eyes behind the goggles.

I’m sitting, precariously perched, with one leg outstretched to a foot brace. After a while my leg starts to quiver violently and I can’t tell why. Fear? Cold? Fatigue? Combination? I read recently that it’s a way for the body to release adrenalin. I’ll buy that.

I hold out as long as I can on my perch but max out at three hours. The race is long, but if I’m sleep deprived, I can’t perform at 100 percent, the boat’s performance suffers and my role is diminished. I yell for someone to swap with me.

It’s my turn for a break. The boat’s interior looks as if we’ve had a water-balloon fight down below. I’ve never seen Paradox‘s cruising interior in such a state of disarray. On longer races we pay a great deal of effort to keep it livable down below, but all rules are off in a mad dash of 600 miles.

The tedious process of going off watch begins by removing the tether, then PFD, hat and goggles. Latex wrist seals peel over chapped hands, and the latex neck seal is gnawing through the skin on my neck. It’s painful, but it’s actually much worse when putting it back on. I go to grab a nap, but it’s not a good one. I dream about the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I made myself before leaving.

I wake when I sense the boat has come to a complete stop. It’s sunrise, and we’re only doing 10 knots, wallowing in the lee of Guadeloupe. The long reach down to Guadeloupe, and whether you get to play through or sit wallowing in the island’s expansive wind shadow, are two of the most anticipated markers in the race. The slowdown lasts long enough for Helena to strip her kit and hang it outside to air. But soon I see a dark ripple of pressure ahead and help her to pass everything back down below. We’re about to get wet again.

At this point, we are ahead of the record, but as we plod along near Guadeloupe, the record slips away. By our later calculation, we managed an average of 17 knots to Phaedo’s record-setting pace of 19. Not bad, considering we still had our cushions to sleep on and a working refrigerator, stove and shower.

As evening falls, we set a gennaker for a run to Redonda. I take another opportunity to recharge and hit the bunk. I study the back of my eyelids to force sleep, but Jonny soon wakes me with a shout that we have a complete electronics blackout. Barreling along at 24 knots toward the looming dark mass known as Redonda without instruments for radar is disconcerting. Jonny and Jeff have performed numerous repair miracles during the race, but this one will be a biggie.

Our electric winches are still working, ­fortunately, allowing us to furl the gennaker and get the boat under control. We slow the boat and give our wizards time to work their magic. While they do so, Rambler is drawing ever closer. Only a 30-mile beat to the finish remains. We later estimate that we spent more than an hour of slowing to 6 knots or less to deal with different issues on board. We can only hope that everyone else is dealing with breakages. This much we know: Conditions aren’t being kind to the fleet. Of the 84 boats that started, 41 of them will retire.

We cross the finish line first after 37 hours on the course, returning as happy, albeit broken, sailors. We’d set a few lofty goals months before, which included, in order: Fly to the Caribbean. Beat Rambler around the Caribbean 600 course. Win cask of rum. Consume cask of rum with friends.

Mission accomplished.

Editor’s note: The author, a Volvo Ocean Race veteran with Team SCA, is setting out to be the first person to sail all seven seas and climb the seven highest mountains of the world’s seven continents. www.sara.blue

The post How Paradox Won the 2018 RORC Caribbean 600 Race appeared first on Sailing World.

On September 6, 2017, Hurricane Irma reached its peak intensity over the Virgin Islands, leaving a swath of destruction across the Caribbean. In St. Thomas, buildings were leveled, the island’s infrastructure was destroyed, and access to ferry and cargo service was impossible. Three months passed before power was restored to parts of the island, but by then, the St. Thomas Sailing Center was back up and sailing.

“There were winds over 200 miles per hour in places,” says Dave Franzel, the Sailing Center’s ­director. “There were people who were in their houses when the roof was blown off. When it was over, people were shell-shocked; they couldn’t believe the destruction.”

All the boats that were on stands had blown over, he says, including the fleet of IC24s, which the club uses for sailing classes, club races, and regional regattas.

“The interesting thing to me was what would happen next,” says Franzel, who founded and operated the Boston (Massachusetts) Sailing Center for 30 years, and literally wrote the book on beginner sailing. “We couldn’t give up.”

Enter Chris Small, who is part of the reason Franzel’s IC24 fleet is seaworthy today. Small and Franzel met when Small had done boat work on J/70s in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Franzel says that Small’s work ethic and talent is unrivaled in the boat-repair business. Little did they know that Small would someday be on a plane to St. Thomas, carrying with him all the supplies, tools and materials necessary to resurrect the damaged IC24s.

An old tent was pitched to create a makeshift workspace, and soon Small and St. Thomas Sailing Center manager, Forrest Hardy, were hands-on from sunup to sundown, six days a week, cleaning, grinding, glassing, fairing and painting. After a month, six of the fleet’s boats went from being totaled to ready to sail again.

While the island will not be totally healed for some time, the local sailing community has found a sense of resilience embodied by the IC24 fleet’s survival. “­People who have been managing without basics since early September — electricity, internet, fully stocked stores, etc. — have been craving a sense of normalcy, community and recreation,” says Franzel. “I’ve seen more people this year signing up for our programs. There’s more enthusiasm than before.”

St. Thomas Yacht Club ran the first Island Race of the season in late ­December 2017 and had 12 boats participate, which was more than they had the previous year. Franzel is hopeful the momentum continues.

“The energy and ­excitement of doing something fun that everyone loves to do was evident,” he says. “It’s the same with our Saturday racing program: full attendance, three new teams, and lots of ­enthusiasm. It all augurs well for a very good season at the St. Thomas Sailing Center.”

The post Sailing in St. Thomas Post-Irma appeared first on Sailing World.