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When Tom and Joan Sauer set out aboard Toucan in July 1993, the graceful Bob Perry designed cutter with the canoe stern and round bottom resembling an overstuffed burrito. Instead of guacamole and salsa spilling over the edges, the 40-foot Baba bulged with jerricans and fuel filters, anchors and water catchments, solar panels on the dodger and a wind vane on the stern. Somewhere onboard were a yogurt maker, beer kit and 100 silk-screened t-shirts emblazoned with the sailing vessel’s colorful namesake. For cruisers, some of the gnawing questions are what to take and where to store it. Belt-and-suspender types carry multiple sets of spares while minimalists believe anything can be fixed with duct tape or dental floss. Regardless of where Tom and Joan fit on the continuum, they knew once they were on the ocean they would have to be self-sufficient. While Toucan rested comfortably in her slip one final night, friends feted the couple with a bon voyage party. Relaxing on deck as the party wound down, Tom and Joan listened to last minute bits of wisdom from friends. "Where do you plan to stow those lawn chairs? … With the pink flamingoes?" my husband Bob Richardson asked, showing his minimalist leanings. In the next breath, he predicted they would slam-dunk the chairs into the dumpster at the next port. Always good humored, Tom made some wisecrack and then he and Joan folded their chairs and secured them to a stanchion in what seemed like the only remaining empty spot onboard. After one last round of hugs, friends gathered up empty potluck dishes and went home to resume their usual routines, heading to work in the morning while Tom and Joan cast off on the adventure of a lifetime. During the intervening years, Tom and Joan returned to the states only a handful of times. This summer, Tom was back in Seattle on a rare visit catching up with friends, getting a preventative maintenance medical check-up and stocking up on supplies to take back to Joan who was keeping an eye on Toucan. He spent a couple of days with Bob and me at our home on Whidbey Island watching the ships glide by and the sun ease behind the Olympic Mountains. Over libations, we talked about the cruising life. Sailing into Their Comfort Zone Blue-water sailing is far different from the island hopping Tom and Joan were accustomed to in the Pacific Northwest, or even from their sail down the coast where they were always within a few days of the next port. Four hours on watch, four hours off, days merging into nights without beginnings or ends, sea and sky awash with blue, 3,600 miles nonstop at six knots from Zihuatanejo, Mexico to Easter Island. From there, a whirlwind tour to Pitcairn, best known as the home of the mutineers of HMS Bounty; French Polynesia including the Gambier, Tuamotu and Society Islands; Suvarov, where legendary wanderer Tom Neale lived in solitude writing An Island to Oneself; Samoa; American Samoa; Nuiatoputapu—New Potatoes to cruisers— Vava’u in Tonga; and finally New Zealand. That was year one. Passages seemed endless. When Tom and Joan finally arrived at their destinations, there was little time for exploring. "We wanted to stay longer," Tom says, "so we slowed down." The idea of completing a circumnavigation in four years lost its appeal when they considered the alternative of enjoying the moment. When an opportunity in American Samoa arose, they took jobs there for a year, fattening the cruising kitty for new pursuits. Scuba diving in the tropics had turned out to be more fun than they ever imagined, but it was also more expensive. Finding they preferred short trips between islands to the long passages, Tom and Joan created their own circuit: three times to Fiji, once for a year; six times to New Caledonia and countless trips to Vanuatu. They sought outlying islands that offered remote anchorages, good diving and snorkeling on beautiful coral reefs, and opportunities to make friends with local residents. Australia became their base, a haven from cyclones and a good place to get boat parts for inevitable repairs. Surf and Turf Like an angler guarding his secret fishing hole, Tom won’t reveal his favorite anchorage except to say it’s in Fiji. The last time he sailed to the farming and cattle-raising community, friends motored their panga alongside Toucan and called out, "Joana, Tomasi, would you like some beast?" David Smith, a Fijian with an English-given name, and his family had butchered a steer. The kill was so recent, steam rose from the bottom of the boat where the carcass lay. "What part of the beast is it?" Tom equivocated. David grabbed a hunk of meat and passed the offering. Extending his hands, Tom beamed as if he had won the lottery, all the while mentally sifting through thoughts about sanitation and disease. Where’s the Styrofoam and plastic packaging? Where’s the USDA stamp? Glop, the still warm flesh landed in his hands, fresher than anything he’d ever purchased at Safeway. His concerns vanished that evening after barbecuing steaks. "They were excellent, very lean." Other delicacies peculiar to the South Pacific are an acquired taste. One evening after midnight the Smith family roused Tom and Joan from their beds to participate in the annual hunt for palolo, a sea worm sometimes compared with caviar. Carrying Coleman lanterns and nets, the entire village waded into the ocean scooping up thrashing, wriggling worms that resembled green spaghetti. Scientists will tell you palolo spawn once a year sometime around the seventh night of the full moon following the autumnal equinox. On that night, the invertebrates snap their bodies off from their heads, which remain buried in the substrate, sending their back ends spiraling to the surface in a gelatinous soup of eggs, sperm and worms. Connoisseurs eat all they can plucked fresh from the sea. The rest are served fried in fritters. More palatable to American tastes are the freshwater shrimp Joan and a friend catch up river at night. They spot the crustaceans in the dark by the ruby red glow of their eyes. Tom’s, best catch was a 60-pound wahoo near Port Vila, Vanuatu, or maybe the 60-pound yellow fin tuna he caught underway. Then there were the four mahi mahi he landed near Majuro. "Fresh fish on the barbecue with lemon or lime and butter, or sashimi caught that day, eaten with wasabi. Mmmm," Tom smacks his lips. No Reason to Hurry Home The tropics aren’t always what Tom envisioned. He first entertained the idea of cruising more than 25 years ago after viewing a colleague’s slides taken while crewing in the South Pacific. "I expected 10 to 15-knot breezes, beautiful native girls—though my wife would be with me—gentle, swaying palms, nice weather, pristine beaches and quiet, secluded anchorages." Photographs can be deceiving even in the absence of Photoshop. Tom describes the more realistic experience as reinforced trade winds of 20 to 30 knots and intermittent squalls. Days are hot and humid. Anchorages may be crowded or uncomfortably rolly; or, they may be illusorily peaceful, until the horseflies gallop in and attack Toucan like a dog on a bone. It’s not personal, any boat with warm-blooded bodies will do. In a flurry, Tom and Joan close up the boat, slam in the screens and play a virtual game of badminton, swatting the air with electronic racket zappers, felling flies by the hundreds. When the last one drops, they sweep up the corpses. If it’s not horseflies, it’s mosquitoes angrily buzzing the screens and threatening to spread Dengue fever. Sometimes, though, an anchorage is perfect, with good holding ground, a gentle breeze, seclusion and a beautiful beach. Social problems exist in all cultures, even paradise; but, because an island is small and isolated, there’s no place to hide the alcoholism, spousal abuse, out of wedlock pregnancies, pollution or litter. On the other hand, the e-mails Tom receives from friends paint a grim picture about terrorism, the Iraq war, security issues around bridges and other potential targets, and the ?high price of food and fuel in the motherland. It’s enough to cause anyone to think twice about hurrying home. Perhaps the most accurate description of the cruising life however, was coined by some forgotten wanderer long ago who said, "Cruising is boat maintenance in exotic places." Whether it’s a loose screw, a torn sail, a leak, or a worn out engine part, something always needs fixing. Tom can put in a new cutlass bearing or replace a heat exchanger with ingenuity. Joan can repair the Genoa and make new weather cloths. While not exactly fun, there’s satisfaction in these tasks as well as the pride and confidence that come with self-reliance. Despite the problems, Tom can’t think of anything else he’d rather be doing. "We both like the tropics, and there’s a lot to be said for island time. The U.S. is too fast. We want to sit back, take stock and not be rushing everywhere." Some precious moments can be experienced only from a sailboat: swimming naked while becalmed at the equator—for safety, they went in one at a time—and showering while viewing the Southern Cross perfectly framed through the porthole. The Coconut Cup Not long ago in cruising time, November 2005, Tom and Joan broke from their comfort zone and escaped Australia’s hold, sailing west for Majuro Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Upon arrival, they learned the racing season for Mieco Beach Yacht Club was beginning. For years, the couple’s competitive genes lay buried beneath layers of cruising mentality, but a tiny spark of competitiveness ignited, inciting them to enter Toucan in the first race. The wind was blowing 20 to 25 knots on the 11-mile course when Toucan rounded the downwind mark dead last. Beating into the wind with a full Genoa and main, she pulled ahead of a couple of small boats. The winds increased to 40 knots and Toucan was in her element. Sneaking through the pack like a sly fox, she surprised everyone and took line honors. Hooked, the Sauers got serious and entered the next month’s race, winning with a corrected time of 1 hour, 11 minutes, 24 seconds. The final event for the season was the Coconut Cup, a race similar in spirit to Seattle’s Tuesday night Duck Dodge. Local residents racing outriggers started first, followed by dinghies and wind surfers. Because these were so fast, they rounded the mark and were in the middle of the course headed home when the yachts, mostly visiting cruisers, crossed the starting line. It was chaotic, with smaller boats sailing circles around big boats and everyone playing dodge. Hitting one meant instant disqualification. At the end of the five-race season, Tom and Joan won bragging rights. Handicapped, Toucan took first overall. Tom’s Biased Advice Column At the risk of sounding curmudgeonly, Tom admits he’s put off by the increasing trend of sailing rallies that swarm into an anchorage. As if safety came in numbers, sailors hover together, anchoring dangerously close, and descend on unsuspecting villages as one impenetrable force, losing out, in Tom’s mind, on one of the greatest joys of cruising, befriending local residents. And because the new breed of cruisers moves as a group, they often don’t learn self-reliance. "People spend so much money and time preparing their boat, but not themselves," Tom says. "Many of them don’t know how to sail. They read magazines and think they’re going to have fresh flowers, silver and china. It’s not like that. It’s ten percent terror, ten percent ecstasy and the rest is a combination of the two." Tom’s first three rules for preparing to go cruising are: Learn to sail. Learn to navigate. Learn celestial. With conviction that sounds personal, he advises, "Spouses don’t make the best teachers. At a minimum, take a Coast Guard class." When Joan signed up for classes, Tom signed up for a refresher even though he had his Captain’s License. Putting their knowledge to practice, they sailed nearly every weekend for three years, in good weather and bad, in small craft warnings and sometimes gales, gaining experience while they were still close to home. Satellite systems have made navigation easier, but in the salty marine air environment, anything can go wrong when it comes to electronics. Having a sextant on board and knowing how to use it is a key to safety. As are paper charts. The proliferation of digital charts is part of what Tom refers to as the "more dollars than sense syndrome." He tells us, "You wouldn’t believe all the cruisers out there using their computers with C-Map to go everywhere. We hear them on the radio trading waypoints. They’re not talking about ranges or transits. They’re not looking for the breaks or reefs in the water." Shaking his head, he mentions a recent wreck that involved a tired crew entering a small pass at night on a southern island of Vanuatu. "Their only chart was a pirated copy of a chart program, at a scale of something like 750,000 to 1." Talking about wrecks can be cathartic, as if analyzing and dissecting them purges the possibility of it happening to you. Remembering a difficult trip from Fiji to Port Resolution, Tom says, "When we got in, we were chilled by the sight of a wreck to the left of the entrance. Later we learned it was a 55-foot, one-year-old yacht, make unknown, big-buck boat, electric Lewmar winches, trash compactor, washing machine, bow thruster, 9 kilowatt genset with only 375 hours on it, 140-horsepower Yanmar diesel, roller furling, everything. The owner and crew were lucky enough to be on the rocks, only a few yards from the beach, so they walked off. They tried to leave after dark. He misjudged his position and a large wave took him right onto the ugly rocks. Another lesson or two learned for us through him." For some cruisers, the greatest difficulties are personal. For sure, your relationship with your significant other will be tested. An old salt warned Tom and Joan that blue-water passages are like living in a closet with someone. "You eat there, you sleep there, and all the while the closet is flipping in 40-degree arcs." If it’s just two of you, you’ll never get enough sleep, and during the first three days, you may not feel well as your body adjusts to the ocean’s motions. Plenty of relationships can’t withstand these conditions. It takes understanding and care; it takes work and communication to avoid becoming a casualty. Long term cruising isn’t for everyone. Some people don’t want to be away from the grandkids, or they’re concerned about aging parents. Tom advises that you look at your situation carefully and be realistic. "Joan misses her friends. They’re disappearing," Tom says, and then optimistically paraphrases something he heard, "When you’re traveling through your life, you’re traveling through friendships; they drift away, but you make new ones." Before you leave, get your finances in order; pay off the boat. No one needs that additional stress. Summing up his admittedly biased opinions, Tom advises, "Leave a good wake; interact with people the way you’d like to be treated. Turn off the noisy generators and loud music. Don’t anchor in someone’s face. Don’t try to save the world; some people are on a mission whether the locals want it or not." He ends full circle back where we started, "Be self-reliant." Gazing into the Crystal Ball Tom and Joan are continuing west, not too quickly mind you. He gets a little defensive when Bob suggests they might complete their circumnavigation in 14 more years. "That could be pushing us. We’re not even sure we’ll ever do it completely. We keep hearing the Pacific—north and south—are the best." They’re thinking about Malaysia and Thailand. Maybe the Philippines if they can avoid the Sulu Sea where kidnappings and other problems occur. Chagos and the Maldives in the Indian Ocean sound tempting for diving. All the while, they’re looking for a place to settle down eventually. "So long as it’s warm, we’ll be happy." So where exactly is Joan while Tom pontificates on a terrace overlooking Useless Bay? Pohnpei, Federated States of Micronesia. She and Toucan are tucked in a cozy anchorage two miles from the sea, protected by reefs on one side and mountains and hills on the other three sides. On shore, she has a green Honda Bravo 100cc bike to get around. Right now, she may be snorkeling, or she may be relaxing comfortably in a lawn chair that Tom assures us is still onboard, the same one Bob chided them about 14 years ago as being about as useful as a pink flamingo. ...back to 48° North title page.
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