At risk of stating the obvious... Bora Bora is LOVELY. It's beautiful, peaceful, and it's the last island we're spending time on before leaving for Rarotonga, in the Cook Islands, and the tiny rock that is Niue.

We're having a bit of down time (yes, it's not all cocktails at sunset y'know) which reminds me that I haven't slept for a year and am in need of a bit of a break. We will update when possible but, for a little while at least, I plan to hibernate in this island paradise and have some much needed r&r.

So watch this space, but I may be some time...

Yes there have been a few important birthdays aboard since last we last updated. Thanks for all the lovely messages. Both birthday girls were appropriately celebrated (some more messily than others...).

I have long been aware that there is a fine art to anchoring well. It’s something that varies with each boat, each anchorage and the conditions that you’re presented with and it’s only on the rare occasions that someone gets it wrong that you truly appreciate the skills involved in doing it right.

We have an additional member of crew on board for a while providing us with some extra help now that we’re sailing with an infant. This puts me in the slightly uncomfortable position of not only having to relinquish some of my usual jobs and duties but also to train another person in the skills that I have spent the last few years learning. He’s young, enthusiastic and has quite a lot of common sense but, in spite of this, I found that surrendering the helm while anchoring was the task that I was the most reluctant to part with.

Although James and I now have two ocean crossings and a substantial number of miles under our cruising belts we always look at our experience and abilities as very much a work in progress. There is always room for improvement, a better method to master and more to learn. I think it’s an aspect of the sailing life that is incredibly satisfying and helps to keep you humble.

Having said all that I’m also conscious that I’m really proud of my talent for anchoring. Since leaving Europe we have always approached finding the right spot to anchor in with me at the wheel, James at the bow. We get into a position we like, we nod in agreement and I stop the boat in a flash while he drops anchor and we then use the wind or the tide to help us in laying out the chain. Feeding out the correct amount of chain or making sure that the anchor is well set and dug in are easy enough elements to teach to our new crew as they don’t take long to get the knack of. But I’ve found that the real mystifying flair lies in knowing exactly where to place the hook in order to end up with the final happy positioning of your yacht in relation to every other one in the anchorage.

You need to really know how your boat moves in wind and tide and then add that to what you can deduce about each of the surrounding boats and whether they’re lying taut or idle on their chains. For example, as a monohull owner, I prefer to not anchor next to a catamaran, or a full-keeled sailboat as I know they will dance in the current very differently from us. Likewise you read the immediate topography of the land and water, anticipating which directions you may get wind gusts or strong currents from, if there are forecasted shifts in the weather and if any of that will affect the other vessels contrarily in relation to you.

Above all you need to be totally satisfied about the depth you’re in and what changes the tide may make to where your boat sits. You have to assume what depths the other boats may be sat in, how generous they’re likely to be with the scope of chain or rode they lay out and keep your eyes ever vigilant for if there are additional stern anchors set. The difference between where you drop and where you’ll eventually sit, either when lazing on the chain or pulling back on it, is a calculation that takes precision and practice. Sometimes the greatest challenge is to enter an anchorage when there is no wind blowing at all and every boat is floating about, all pointing in different directions and you can only wildly guess at where each anchor may be.

However, just how close is, in fact, too close is a matter of great subjectivity. It varies massively from anchorage to anchorage, country to country and is a mixture of habit, etiquette and what order people arrived in. A single boat, anchored off a pristine beach, is likely to be disappointed once another boat finds that same slice of paradise, and anchors a measly boat length away, unless they’re friends of course. Yachts tend to cluster in a formation, filling in gaps in between until any given anchorage becomes jam-packed. But being able to hear music booming from a neighbour, the incessant intrusion of running a noisy generator or an all too close-up view of the occupant using the next boat’s stern shower are all downfalls of being that little bit too crowded. From Portugal to the British Virgin Islands to Tahiti, we’ve experienced some pretty busy anchorages where being quite so full to capacity makes you seriously concerned about the consequences of a shift in weather. We tend to prefer a middle ground, where you can be near enough for a shouted greeting or wave but feel you have your own privacy and room too.

The trick of being content with the spacing is something that simply comes with the more anchoring experience you gain, which is why it’s hard to articulate to a beginner. Yet it was in a fairly spacious bay that I was able to demonstrate to our crew what defined ‘too close’ for me. It was good mud holding but really very deep water so each boat had a considerable amount of scope out. Fortunately there was plenty of room for this, which added to our surprise when, just as the sun set, a catamaran anchored immediately off our beam. Now, to clarify, this was snug enough that they could talk at a normal, quiet volume and we could hear every word from our cockpit. In my book that’s certainly uncomfortable anyhow but we were especially wary of them given that we were in 20 metres of water, with more than 60 metres of chain out. However, their skipper was clearly not unnerved by this and everyone settled for the night.

By 2am the next morning there were gusts of 25-30 knots and, having dragged on no less than 3 occasions through the rest of the anchored fleet, this same boat motored back towards us, dropping anchor well within our swinging circle again. My sense of charity had worn thin by then and I pointed out the problem, the differences in our boats, the depth, the strong gusts and the impending damage. Heads were scratched, shoulders shrugged and they offered the farcical solution of merely putting fenders out along their starboard side before all filing off to bed once more. It was with a little gratification that I noticed our novice crew staring at this action with disbelief and muttering to himself “Are they just rather stupid or simply rude?”.

Luckily we haven’t met that style of sailor very often as we’re normally a rather well-mannered bunch. But it did help with my explanation of the extreme case: close enough for a friendly wave is just fine but too close is when nobody sleeps for fear of the outcome.

It’s morning and I climb our companionway steps to sip my coffee on deck. I nod a greeting to the couple on board the boat anchored behind us, much as I have done on and off for the last four months. They are in their late 60’s and the extent of our friendship is exchanging small talk and pleasantries. But, strangely, it’s an acquaintance that began over three and a half thousand miles away.

In Cuba a man told me that ‘after you’ve been sailing for a while you can go into any anchorage in the world and if there are 10 boats there you can guarantee that you will know one of them’. I’m not quite sure that we’ve got to that large a network of cruising friends yet but there is a distinct feeling of déjà vu present along our current sailing route.

The crossing of the Pacific ocean from various points up and down the coast of the Americas to ports in French Polynesia is certainly nothing new among sailors. Indeed it’s this stretch of water in particular that many people view as the pinnacle of their boating dreams and ambitions. However, with the increasing ease of navigation in these waters, the constant improvements in the accuracy of GPS and the ever-growing numbers of people setting sail what was once a remote and deserted cruising destination is now humming and heaving with boats.

There are organised groupings already, like the Pacific Puddle Jump rally and the Pacific Seafarers radio net, which help to create camaraderie along the lengthy stretches at sea that separate the island groups. Dock and bar-side talk almost always starts with “How was that last passage?” and “Where are you going next?” which adds to the feeling that we have ended up on some form of watery conveyor belt.

Given the limitations of the best sailing seasons for the Pacific ocean this is somewhat understandable. You have an initial choice of whether to complete an exploration of the Pacific in just one season or in several which seems to be the biggest divide. Those who are planning for a single season journey are either focussing their travels on French Polynesia with a view to then looping back to the States via Hawaii or their sights are set on New Zealand or Australia, which allows for roughly six months to get from the east to the west ends of this vast ocean, tucking in safely somewhere for the onset of cyclone season. Whereas a multi-season plan means that you can take your time traversing these waters and either weaving up north of the equator to escape the storm season or hauling-out somewhere within the cyclone belt.

We’re opting for the one-season, 6 or 7 thousand mile route which means that we inevitably keep stumbling across the same boats and same people who are on this equivalent track. The result is that I’m now raising my coffee cup to the couple who were on our dock in Pacific Mexico, who also crossed the equator a week after us, arrived in several of the same anchorages as us in the Marquesas, came into an atoll pass an hour behind us in the Tuamotus, dropped their hook nearby when they reached Tahiti and now wave back at me from their position astern of us in Huahine. It’s as if we’re buddy-boating almost by accident.

If I were suspicious I would almost think that we are being followed but, on the contrary, we seem to be doing it as well. Funny to think that many of us buy our boats and go out sailing as a way of embracing our sense of adventure and exploration into the wilds, a form of declaration that we are different and unusual, only to find that we too are subject to the herd mentality that leads us all to the same anchor spots and immaculate beaches.

There can be no doubt that the number of yachts out here is rising with over 250 boats registered in this year’s Puddle Jump fleet and easily over 200 sailboats in the main anchorage in Tahiti alone. It’s nice to cruise in company at times, having your mates nearby to touch base with, especially when you have kids. We’ve been in the happy position to have totally impromptu reunions with friends made 6 months, 9 months and even 2 years ago, from all different countries, just by the pure chance of where we drop the hook. It’s not uncommon to hear a sudden knock on the side of the hull, and be greeted by a cheery “ahoy!” and a familiar face no matter where we are.

Now as we approach our next stop we make a game of it, guessing how many boats we already know out of the handful we can just make out in the anchorage. Is it just a case of safety in numbers; the need to have other peers to compare notes with? Perhaps but then we’re also all referring to the same information sources, the cruising guides, compendiums and blog posts of those brave boats who went before us, taking the element of search out of our exploration, almost as if we’re striking certain points on a Pacific greatest hits list. But, for all that we might fight against it, there is something nice about seeing a friendly face when you pull in and being able to knock glasses with an old mate at the bar.

As for our route from here, well I’m pleased to say that it includes a few stops that no one in our current fleet seems to be heading to. Will we be lonely? Unlikely as we’re bound to bump into a few boats we know. But it should mean that at least we have some new stories to tell when we next see the rest of our friends.

Sometimes having a baby feels like damage control. You can easily spend a whole day consoling your howling infant from their latest fall, pre-emptively snatching away all the tempting unsuitable objects that they manage to get their sticky hands on or spending a good hour jiggling, rocking and crooning your little one to sleep for a much needed nap only to have them awaken red-faced and tear-stained only moments later.

Sometimes having a boat is the same thing.

We pushed off confidently from the shores of Mexico happy in the knowledge that we were crossing the Pacific ocean at just the right time of year, along a well-trodden route and doing what is in fact the norm for hundreds, even thousands of other sailors. Ah, trade-wind sailing, how we were looking forward to experiencing it again as it has been years since we last felt that lovely consistent downwind push that makes sailing in the trades so easy and pleasurable.

And then comes the child. Not our child, I hasten to add, but el niño, the child who we hadn’t planned on accompanying us across the Pacific.

El niño is the name given to the periodic warming of the Pacific Ocean along the equator which causes major shifts in the weather patterns across the globe. Normally, in a non el niño year, the trade winds both north and south of the equator produce a west-flowing push of the top layer of warm water towards the western Pacific basin. This gets replenished by colder waters from deeper below the ocean surface, that come up along the coast of South America. The temperature difference drives the atmosphere and winds to follow the same pattern, resulting in a steady cold to warm movement of winds, reinforcing the trades blowing from east to west.

But, every three to seven years, at irregular intervals, this cycle get disrupted and the trades weaken. The feebler prevailing winds can’t push the warm water far enough westwards so it builds up further and further east, continuing the cycle that drives the winds to become more insubstantial and flukey. The cooler waters can’t move upwards from the coast of Peru and the whole system is stuck in this pattern for around six months to a year.

Upon leaving Mexico the prediction for 2014 was that there was a minimal chance of this being an el niño year. However, once we arrived in French Polynesia, the probability had shot up to over 70%. My “Pacific Crossing Guide” helpfully states about el niño that should one be occurring you might want to put off your Pacific crossing for another year. Alas, it’s not such helpful advice once you’re already mid-ocean.

Much like our parenting strategy on witnessing the sudden transition from a calm baby who sits and observes the world around her to one who is all at once mobile in every possible direction; crawling, climbing, standing and cruising all over the place, our sailing policy in these waters has become one of rolling with the punches. Big seas, inconsistent winds and sudden onset squalls may not have been our chosen order from this vast ocean’s menu but it’s what we’ve been given and, like it or not, there’s six or seven thousand miles to cover before we’re safely tucked in for the next storm season.

Does any parent relish the times their child is teething, fussy, grumpy or unsettled? No. But, like any good sailors, we’re learning, we’re trying and it’s keeping us fulfilled.

I planned for this to publish while we were most likely out of all contact. Why? Because we are off exploring the Tuamotu Archipelago. This is the largest chain of atolls in the world and one of the most extreme places we've gone to with the boat. Plus it's the sort of place that you would have had to be a mixture of crazy and a fantastically skilled sailor to visit before the huge improvements in the accuracy of GPS that have been seen in recent years.

It's 550 miles from the Marquesas to get there and we plan to visit the atolls of Fakarava and Toau before heading down to the society islands where Tahiti, Moorea, Huahine and Bora Bora are.

So no we won't be struggling to get online in such a remote place. Rather we're just going to enjoy the time that we have there and promise to post a whole host of lovely pictures when we next can.

No news really is good news, just picture us being here.

A while back a friend of mine wrote a post on her blog that was called “Love letter to my captain”. It was an acknowledgement of her appreciation of just how much work she realised her husband did on board when he needed to fly home to the States for a few months and all the boat work was left to her. Such things may seem sentimental but I’m now in a position to understand just what she meant.

For a long time now James and I have both been very comfortable with him being the skipper. This means that although we plan, discuss, consider and work out everything that we do on the boat together we also decided mutually that he should have the ultimate authority on board. That way we have a deciding vote in any conflict that could come up and it also makes more and more sense now that we have a child.

However, we always prefer to work as a team and have really enjoyed sailing together in this way.

But our Pacific crossing experience, from Mexico to the Marquesas, meant that James was compelled to advance his skipper role like never before and such gargantuan efforts to my mind deserve recognition.

First of all he got us there. By that I don’t mean the passage itself but I’m referring to the weeks and months spent slogging away at all the boat jobs of preparation necessary just to get us to the starting line. He took apart our steering quadrant, he fitted our Hydrovane wind vane from scratch, he wired in and fitted our new windlass, he installed our new solar panels, all while working down the ever-growing list of other sundry jobs that each required him to learn a brand new skill. All this without too much grumbling and all while still making dinner for his family most nights and having some time for me and Rocket. His motivation pushed us towards that first hop, from the marina slip to getting out to anchor at the North of Banderas Bay, Punta de Mita.

The jump itself was tough. Stronger seas than we’d hoped and planned for, flukier trade winds than predicted and slower speeds than we really wanted. Plus there is the fact that 26 days at sea, no matter how hard or smooth, are a real test of your talents as person, not to mention as a sailor. But really just the strength and power that he showed on the crossing when he always found that extra scrap of energy left to go up to the mast and reef, or play with the sail trim, or experiment with our cruising chute, put the fishing line out again, cook yet another tasty meal as well as being on almost constant watch took his skills of endurance to an altogether greater level. Put simply, without his efforts, we’d still be tied to the dock in La Cruz.

And yes it’s sentimental of me to say it but I’m really very proud of the skipper he’s become.

I wake to the scent of fresh coffee and the familiar clatter of pans and plates as someone moves about, making breakfast in the galley. But, to my surprise and delight James, my boyfriend, is still fast asleep next to me. Welcome to one of the perks of taking on casual crew. It’s a very different scene from the same galley, 3 weeks previously when neither I nor James could get our rather obstinate crewmate to so much as put the kettle on for a drink, let alone make us a meal.

The vast majority of cruisers that we’ve met have been single-handers or couples and, most of the time, all the sailing that you do solo or as a pair is totally manageable. But certain challenges like ocean crossings, long offshore passages or having children on board can make an extra set of hands (or several) a very welcome thing. Or there could be the urge to learn more, master new sailing skills and techniques from a trained instructor or simply people who’ve got more experience than you. Perhaps you might just want some company for that longer voyage.

Whatever the reason taking on casual crew can be a great way of making certain aspects of cruising much easier. When your only sailing goals are connected with the remarkable experience of the journey, rather than speed, it’s sensible to make efforts for that experience to be as comfortable as you can make it.

So what makes for a good temporary addition to your crew list? What are the questions that should be asked before you commit to welcoming someone into your sailing home? And what do you do if it doesn’t work out? Most of our sailing to date has been done as a twosome, which suits us and our plans just fine. However, what with various friends, professionals and family signing on for stretches of our journey we have now had some 21 different people on board, helping us along the way, and they’ve taught us a thing or two about what makes an ideal extra crew member.

One option is that you could take on board a professional; we’ve been lucky enough to have two friends who were also sailing instructors join us at certain stages who clearly had more experience than us. The great thing about that is that you can learn all sort of new abilities and methods, can compare their ways of doing things with versions you already know of have heard of, and discuss them. A pro will usually have a genuine love for sailing as well which means that they tend to enjoy finding different techniques for doing things or debating the merits of one approach over another. The only foreseeable downside here would be if they show a view that the captain or skipper’s chosen set up or logic is wrong. You might come into a clash of ‘by-the-book learning’ versus experience or instinct, which could definitely cause conflict. Plus in all likelihood you’ll need to pay them, as well as whatever arrangement you come to over food costs. But, particularly when tackling a tricky stretch of sea, having a expert on board can help things run smoothly and give you an extra benefit if things should turn sour.

Another idea is someone with a bit of sailing knowledge, perhaps they’ve attended a few courses or done a few passages informally. What they may lack in experience will be that they might only know one method for coiling line, trimming sails, using the engine etc. so a certain amount of tolerance to retraining them in your preferred techniques and processes is important to start out on the right footing. Casual crew that you may meet in certain boating hubs, looking for their next ride can often strike the balance of knowing enough of the right jargon to understand any instructions you give them but also be happy to not have the full responsibility of the boat and her crew. More often than not no money needs to change hands and duties and costs can be shared out equally, which makes it even easier for such crew to come and go as you need them, no strings attached.

The third option is the total or almost novice who is keen to learn. You may well find such types hanging around yacht clubs and marinas or they might be island-hopping backpackers. Although they’re often young they tend to have great strength, energy and enthusiasm which, with the right guidance and a certain amount of patience, can make them a real asset to any sailing experience. The brilliant thing here is that you can ensure that your boat is sailed, managed and maintained in just the way that you like to do it, assuming that you know the yacht well enough yourself. The downside is that it will not happen overnight and the skipper will need to accept a certain amount of double-checking of all work done by this type of crew.

But, as with so much of life, it really is the little things that make all the difference. No matter what type of crew you’re using the energy that they add to the sailing experience, their eagerness to offer an extra pair of hands, the willingness to muck in with the dirty jobs, the passion for cooking good food or simply their keenness to offer you a cup of tea can make all the difference in the world. On the other hand if you perceive a reluctance to do their fair share, an obstinacy when given an instruction or any other type of hostility it is most definitely time to sit down, air the grievances and reassess whether the arrangement is really working. A good crew member of any skill level will appreciate the importance of camaraderie as enjoyable sailing very much requires one to be a team player.

The magic ingredient to making it work and, above that, ensuring that your time spent in each other’s company is pleasurable, is a simple personality dynamic. There are certain alarm bells to pay attention to before you even leave the dock which are good indicators that you may experience problems down the line:

- Are they already repeating the same stories and jokes, after only hours or days of meeting? Chances are these same tales will become more annoying and grating on your nerves once you’ve heard them a hundred times!

- Do you have significantly different values or backgrounds that could cause friction? A crew member once brought out ‘the book of mormon’ on the first day of a passage which turned James’s face quite green!

- After some time on board have they still not offered to put the kettle on for anyone other than themselves? This is a good general sign that you’re not in the presence of a team player.

- Are your instructions met with understanding and open-mindedness or are you faced with contradiction and hostility? We once had the misfortune to have a know-it-all member of crew who would often snap “I’ve been doing this for 30 years” despite making constant errors and unsafe blunders.

- Is there a lack of initiative? Giving instructions and commands is fine but you don’t want to have to be doing it all the time, for every stage of each process involved in working on a boat, as it can be pretty tiring work. The crewmate who starts sentences often with “Let’s do … now” or “Shall I get started on …?” is an asset to have aboard as often even the skipper needs motivating themselves!

- A selfish fondness for using a lot of water from the tanks, a desire to use every electrical socket to charge their devices, a tendency to sleep all day, a strong interest in the contents of the alcohol cupboard or an endless string of faddy food preferences are sure warnings that they’d be better off on a different boat.

Above all it’s important to keep a sense of humour about it all, particularly if you realise all too late that you’re lumbered with a nightmare crew member. In all likelihood they probably feel the same way about you! And, if nothing else, you can comfort yourself with the thought that it’s only temporary and will make a great story once you get into the next port.

For us the reality of sailing with a baby rapidly gaining mobility means that casual crew across our longer South Pacific passages enable us to have more sleep, more energy and therefore more time spent as a family; so although it wasn’t originally part of our plans it certainly makes good sense. It acts as way of making new friends and enabling people to hitch rides from island to island. Plus our daughter gets some extra doting minions to wrap round her little finger!

When our families in the UK mentioned to others in conversation that we were expecting our first baby in Mexico, while sailing around the world on our boat, the news was met with shock, awe and interest. Yet, while adapting to our new roles as parents afloat, we learned that we were one of no less than six international families with a baby born in 2013 on boats just in our little town alone in Banderas Bay, on the Pacific coast. It seems that the boating baby boom has started.

We sailing families in Banderas Bay were choosing a brief period of Mexican infancy for our little ones as foreigners, coming from America, the UK, the Netherlands, Canada and New Zealand; generally far from home however you look at it in the land of mariachis and fish tacos. Yet all of us were considering our new arrivals as enhancing our sailing experience, all planning to continue cruising rather than pregnancy sending us back to reality as land-lubbers. In fact, of the six new boat babies born, three were to first-time parents, and five of the families were considering the Pacific crossing this year.

Was there something in the water? Or is it becoming increasingly common for liveaboards to sail with children in tow? Perhaps the option of starting a family while sailing is even the reason that some couples are choosing to put to sea.

So far on our travels we’ve come into contact with families sailing with the whole spectrum of childhood represented: from infants to teenagers. The kids have all been, without exception, noticeably confident, bright, and forthcoming which had quite a great influence on us deciding that it was a good idea to have our own children aboard. They generally posses a manner of complete ease, clambering all over the deck like a troop of mast monkeys, reclining prone at the bow resembling a figurehead when the boat pulls into an anchorage, or standing strong and tall in a dinghy, impervious to the swell and spray.

Children are a universal ice-breaker, from the first signs of a baby bump to travelling with an adolescent there is suddenly an extra element to the conversation with officials when clearing into a new country, or when you’re deciphering the menu at a restaurant or trying to find what you need in a market. Kids tend to be fearless and without embarrassment which can actually smooth over a lot of cross-cultural awkwardness. Plus a big smile can open doors anywhere.

The issue of what to do when your children reach school age if your sailing with them is much more straightforward than might be assumed. In fact the schooling options available to cruiser’s offspring seem to be able to be negotiated with a similar simplicity to the social interactions. Widespread internet access in even the most remote islands allows for distance or correspondence learning to be an effective method of teaching, with the ability to email off tests and assessments for the relevant credits. Perhaps the kids can go into the local school in whatever town, or country you drop your hook for a time, which allows them to have immersion learning, meet other children and swiftly become more adept at a new language than their parents. Or, depending on the age of the children, the parents may well have taken on the role of directing their education themselves; either by administering the remote learning materials from an institution back home or by tutoring. This enables the savvy parent to choose a more instinctive curriculum generated by the circumstances of the journey itself: learning about Captain Cook, French colonial foreign policy, local breeds of reef shark and manta ray or the French language when sailing in Tahiti for example.

Few could argue against what a stimulating learning environment a yacht has the potential to be, with its complexity of functions and design creating an incredibly rich backdrop to any schooling. Plus living on board enables you to be full-time parents, totally engaging with your youngsters’ teaching and development. The contrast in education that the children can receive when compared to over-crowded classrooms where teachers may end up wasting valuable lesson time on disciplining disruptive students is another factor that’s prompted many parents to attempt raising their families this way.

‘But what about socialising your child?’ would, logically, be the next query. The key phrase here is ‘kid boat’ and was a term that we learned when sailing the 350-odd beautiful islands in the San Blas, off the Caribbean coast of Panama. At Christmas time, one particular group of these islands was announced over the local radio net to be full to bursting, with absolutely no room for one more vessel to squeeze into the anchorage. The reason? No fewer than 22 ‘kid boats’ having met, grouped together, and organised themselves a Christmas gathering. A veritable mob of a flotilla had been formed. And that’s just one anchorage, in one island group, a sure sign that such bonds are being made all over the place. The marina that we proudly returned to in Mexico with our baby girl was a veritable social whirl of birthday parties, poolside barbeques, dock gatherings and pot-lucks all aimed at families.

Now that we have joined the ranks of such boats there are some tell-tale signs that you have little ones on board: the nappies drying on the line, the pint-sized life jackets sitting in the dinghy. But the classic indicator is the netting around the guardrails or life-lines. The very fact that this is a standard, stock item in every decent chandlery around the world should be a clear guide to the current prevalence of sailing families.

There are in general a lot more people taking to the seas these days, and living aboard a sailing yacht no longer needs to be a dream saved up for one’s retirement. The reasons behind ‘why wait? why not go sailing now’ vary immensely and it’s even possible for many young families to continue to run their business, rent a property, or work for half of the year while on the move.

Actually, it’s hard to discern how much of this increase is due to a rise in younger cruisers choosing to start their families while living afloat or if it’s simply a matter of these people being far more able to communicate, share and broadcast their lifestyle online. If you type ‘baby on boat’ into Google you’ll find a huge number of sailing blogs (including ours) that document how these families are making it work for them as well as sharing information and practical recommendations for products, systems or philosophies that help them do so.

Then there is also the issue of safety which I would suppose is the thing most on the mind of anyone wondering why we choose to sail with a baby, rather than put it off until she’s older. Every family’s take on this will differ, no doubt. Our thought is that all sailing is a form of measured and calculated risk, as is driving on the motorway. We never attempt any passage, no matter how big or small, without both the boat and the crew being as ready and prepared as possible. This means that for every plan we make, we generally have one, two or three other options up our sleeves in case of inclement weather, significant boat problems or other potential unforeseen issues. So although we have some additional equipment because of sailing with an infant (lifejacket, harness, playpen, hammock, netting etc) it hasn’t meant a huge alteration to our safety approach.

Although there can be no denying that there are more and more youthful cruisers, at the same time it’s worth acknowledging that having babies and children on a sailboat is nothing new. We’ve met people who were born aboard who have now also chosen to raise the next generation at sea as well. These ‘anchor babies’, now grown, seem to have had the love of the sea instilled in them and want to recreate that salty childhood that they experienced. And that’s coming from one or two generations back, long before GPS, accurate weather forecasting, digital charting or internet and satellite communication made our adventurous voyages that significant amount easier, capable of being handled by sailors who are learning as they go.

So what if you’re not a member of this sailing kindergarten? Are your secret anchorages or favourite marinas due to be inundated by kid boats? To date all the cruisers that we’ve met of the older generation seem to be genuinely pleased by the recent influx of young blood into the sailing community. We’ve lost count of the number of occasions on which we’ve been told “we wish we’d started this when we were your age”. Like us they too have families of their own that they’re missing and a little time with us is like a snatch of time with their own children and grandchildren.

Now that we’ve redefined both how our boat is viewed by others and adjusted our sailing strategies because of our new addition we’re still confident that a life afloat is working well for our young family. Our daughter now has her first ocean crossing under her belt and has even learned to crawl despite fairly bouncy sea conditions. We can’t wait to see how she grows and love that by doing it this way neither one of us misses a moment of that journey. We’re happy to surrender to that ‘kid boat’ label. Ok, I guess it’s time to put up the netting now.