By the time you read this, Kinship, an American-flagged Saga 43, will have made its second Atlantic crossing in little over half a year. As I write, the yacht is staging in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, just off the coast of Morocco.
“I always put the fear of God into people that this is the world’s third-largest barrier reef,” says Capt. Joe Dyll of the western Florida Keys, which have long been one of his favorite cruising grounds.
As the sailing world gears up for the America’s Cup, it seems that all eyes are on the City by the Bay. But 500 miles south, just grazing the Mexican border, lies a city where you can sail year-round, the weather is nearly perfect and sailors are friendly as can be.
It was the summer of 1946. Three of us teenagers from Grand Rapids, Michigan, all about to join the military, caught a car ferry to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and backpacked through the Porcupine Mountains on one final adventure together.
Everyone fears the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway the first time they attempt it. I know I did. I’d heard so many stories—about shoals, rough water, tricky inlets, narrow channels, aggressive tugboats.