What Kind of Sailor Are You?

Chapter 1

Friday Evening — The Preparation

You're leaving tomorrow morning. The boat is on the pontoon. The crew arrives tonight. You have twelve hours to prepare a vessel, provision for a weekend, brief a crew, and become a systems engineer. Your day job is in accounting.

Question 1

First things first: who planned this trip?

Me. I always plan the trips. I planned this one in February.
I planned the route and weather window. Someone else sorted the crew.
I said "let's go somewhere this weekend" in the group chat. Here we are.
Someone invited me. I said yes. I haven't asked where we're going.
I don't care where we're going. I've already planned the menus.
I checked the long-range forecast on three different models before committing.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 2

The crew is arriving. How many people is the right number for a weekend passage?

Just me. Or maybe one other person I trust.
Two competent crew. Three watches. Proper rotation.
As many as want to come. The more the merrier.
Enough to share the watches so I can cook properly.
I need someone on the bow, someone on the sheets, and everyone else out of my way.
However many fit. Someone always cancels anyway.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 3

You're provisioning. Your contribution to the boat is:

A detailed meal plan, watch-compatible snacks, and a breakfast strategy that accounts for sea state.
"I'll grab beers and ice on the way."
Protein bars, electrolyte tabs, and nothing that needs refrigeration.
Enough wine, gin, and mixers to befriend every boat in the anchorage.
Whatever's on offer at the supermarket. We're going sailing, not hosting a dinner party.
I checked the coolbox temperature, battery state, and solar forecast before thinking about food.
I did all the provisioning. I always do all the provisioning.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 4

While loading the boat, someone asks where the fire extinguishers are. You:

Show them. All three. Plus the fire blanket, the EPIRB location, and the abandon-ship bag.
Say "under the companionway steps" without looking up from the chart.
Didn't hear the question. You're below, organising the galley.
Know exactly where they are because you checked them last week.
Say "somewhere in the boat" and offer them a drink instead.
Tell them to read the laminated safety card you've put in every cabin.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 5

The passage plan. Yours consists of:

Waypoints on the plotter, backup route on the tablet, tide tables printed, weather window confirmed 48 hours ago.
A paper chart with pencil marks, the tidal atlas, and a note about the shipping lane.
A laminated checklist: weather, tides, crew rest, emergency contacts, nearest harbours of refuge, fuel calculations.
"We're going THAT way" and a finger pointed at the horizon.
Whatever the skipper says. I just need to know what time meals should happen.
I planned it. I'll execute it. Nobody else needs to see it.
A WhatsApp message to six boats: "Leaving at 9. First to the bay buys dinner."

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 6

Last check before bed: the fuel gauge reads a quarter full. Somewhere in the NMEA network, your engine knows exactly how much fuel you've burned — to the millilitre. That number is three menus deep on a screen you've never opened. The gauge, meanwhile, is a float on a stick. A 1930s float on a stick.

You trust it:

Not at all. I keep a written log of every litre bought and every engine hour run.
Not at all. That's why I carry jerry cans.
Completely. It's a gauge. That's its job. (The gauge disagrees about its job description.)
I dip the tank with a stick, like proper sailors do.
I planned the fuel for this passage properly. We have enough.
I once drifted into a marina pretending it was an intentional sailing manoeuvre. I've learned nothing.

Please select an answer to continue.

Chapter 2

Saturday 0700 — Leaving the Berth

The morning is cool. The harbour is quiet. Something beeps. Nobody looks up. It beeps again. Everyone assumes someone else is dealing with it. It stops. It was probably nothing. It was the depth transition alarm. You'll find out later. Or you won't.

Question 7

You're leaving the berth. The wind is pushing you onto the pontoon. Who's at the helm?

Me. Nobody else can do this.
Whoever's calmest. I'll take the lines.
I'm already on the bow, ready to spring us off.
I'm on the pontoon, ready to cast off and push.
I'm making coffee below. You'll want one when we're clear.
I'm chatting to the boat next door. "See you in the anchorage tonight!"

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 8

We're clear of the marina. The fenders are still hanging. You:

Stow them immediately. Fenders out underway is like walking around with your flies undone.
Already stowed them, coiled the dock lines, and have coffee in hand before anyone noticed.
Tie them to the rail and forget about them until someone mentions it. Two hours later.
Have a designated fender person. It's not me.
Leave extra ones ready. You never know when there'll be a raft-up later.
Check that they're the right size for the next marina's pontoon height.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 9

The sails are up. The engine is off. The boat heels to 20 degrees. You:

Love it. This is what sailing is.
Ease the main. Flat and fast, not heeled and dramatic.
Start calculating the rig loads at this angle.
Brace yourself against the galley counter. The risotto isn't going to make itself.
Wedge into the leeward cockpit corner. Your drink is miraculously still upright.
Reef. 20 degrees is unnecessary. Check the lifejackets.
Take a video. "LOOK AT THIS!!"

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 10

Your boat's electronics include:

Two plotters, AIS, radar, wind instrument, depth, NMEA 2000 backbone, a Raspberry Pi running SignalK, and a backup handheld GPS.
A compass, the sun, and a paper chart.
Whatever came with the boat when I bought it.
All the safety kit: EPIRB, PLBs for each crew, DSC VHF, AIS MOB beacons.
I don't touch them. I touch the stove.
My phone with a marina booking app and the local restaurant menus.
Everything — plus an anchor load cell from AliExpress and a custom dashboard I'm still calibrating.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 11

A ferry crosses your bow at 2 miles. Your AIS saw it fifteen minutes ago, but the plotter was on the chart page, not the AIS overlay, and the CPA alarm was set to 0.5nm by the previous owner. Nobody changed it. Nobody looked. The data was there. The data is always there. You had right of way. Didn't you?

Obviously. Sail over power. It's the law.
It's complicated. Motor-sailing? Narrow channel? TSS? The answer depends.
Right of way doesn't matter when the other vessel weighs 40,000 tonnes.
I don't care who was right. I care that we didn't collide.
I already altered course ten minutes ago. I could see where this was heading.
I waved at them. They probably waved back.

Please select an answer to continue.

Chapter 3

Saturday Afternoon — The Passage

You're offshore now. The coast is a thin line astern. Forty miles to the anchorage. The rhythm settles in. Somewhere in the wiring, your boat is having a very detailed conversation with itself — engine temperature, battery voltage, bilge level, fuel flow, wind angle, depth, heading — fifty data points a second, broadcast to nobody. Your engine coolant is up 0.3 degrees on the hour. Your bilge pump just cycled for the fourth time today. You don't know either of these things. The boat knows. The boat isn't telling.

Question 12

Fifty data points a second. Depth, wind, engine temperature, battery voltage, heading, speed, rudder angle, bilge level, fuel flow — all of it streaming through the NMEA backbone, all of it available, all of it ignored. Your boat is essentially screaming into a pillow.

How many of these are you actually watching?

All of them. I built a custom dashboard.
Three: depth, wind, speed. The rest is noise.
Whatever's on the screen when I glance at it.
The one that tells me when the beer fridge temperature drops.
I didn't know it was broadcasting anything. Should I be worried?
I check engine data. Everything else is someone else's department.
None. I'm watching the oven timer.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 13

The autopilot is on. Your relationship with it is:

It's a crew member. I've named it.
It's connected to plotter, wind instrument, and heading sensor. I calibrated it on Tuesday.
I never use it. Hand steering builds character and situational awareness.
I love it. Frees me up to cook properly on passage.
I love it. Frees me up to enjoy the sunset.
I use it, but I keep one hand near the helm. Just in case.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 14

You're doing 5 knots. A fishing boat does 12. A ferry does 20. A container ship does 15. You are slower than virtually everything afloat. Threats can come from any direction. The dodger blocks the view astern. The genoa blocks port. You haven't turned around in — how long, actually?

How much of the horizon can you genuinely see from where you're sitting right now?

360 degrees. I fitted mirrors on the pushpit.
About 180 degrees. I turn around constantly. My neck hurts.
Enough. AIS will tell me if something's behind me.
I'm facing aft in the cockpit. With a drink. So about 220 degrees.
I'm looking at the sails, not behind me.
I sail with enough crew that someone is always looking aft. Usually the one I've bribed with food.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 15

Six hours in. The published boat polars say 7.2 knots. You're doing 5.4. You think:

The polars were written by the marketing department.
The hull needs a clean.
I don't know what polars are, but we're moving and the sun is out.
5.4 knots is fine. The risotto needs another 20 minutes anyway.
Whatever speed gets us there before sunset.
I'm on the foredeck fixing something, so I haven't checked.
Something is wrong. I need to check the instruments.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 16

Lunch emerges from below. A hot meal, in this sea state. The cook has:

Earned everyone's respect and a permanent exemption from deck work.
Made something I could have made. But I was steering.
Performed a miracle. I couldn't boil water in these conditions.
Served it with wine, obviously.
Made me feel guilty for lying in the cockpit doing nothing.
Used the gimballed stove correctly, which is more than most people manage.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 17

Mid-afternoon. The chartplotter shows your position. But many of the depth soundings on this chart predate 1940. Less than a quarter of the world's seabed has been surveyed to modern standards. Does that concern you?

Extremely. I cross-reference multiple chart sources.
1940? The rocks haven't moved.
I use paper charts. At least I know what I'm looking at.
I didn't know that. I'm going to think about it for the rest of the passage.
As long as there's enough depth to get to the anchorage, I'm fine.
I check the echo sounder against the chart regularly. Discrepancies make me nervous.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 18

Your phone has Starlink reception. Mid-passage, you use it to:

Check the weather models. Again.
Stream a film. You're off watch. You've earned it.
Post a sunset photo. 47 likes within the hour.
Look up a recipe for the tuna someone just caught.
Nothing. Connectivity at sea defeats the entire purpose of going.
Check the routing software and adjust the passage plan.
Call home. Your family think you're brave. You're actually nervous.

Please select an answer to continue.

Chapter 4

Saturday Night — The Watch

The sun went down an hour ago. Stars everywhere. The off-watch crew is asleep below. Something beeps. Same beep. Same pitch. Same rhythm. Was that the depth? The AIS? The autopilot? You stare at the screen for two minutes, see nothing, go back to scanning the horizon. That beep was your AIS telling you about a cargo ship doing 18 knots, 6 miles out, on a closing bearing. It sounded identical to the depth transition alert from this afternoon, so your brain filed it under "already dealt with." It wasn't. Or maybe you're the one asleep below. Be honest.

Question 19

It's 3AM. Navigation lights off the port bow. Red and white. Or is that green? Your eyes have spent three hours adjusting between the dark horizon and the glowing plotter, so your night vision is essentially decorative. The AIS has the vessel's name, speed, and CPA — but to read it, you need to cross the cockpit, unlock the screen, find the AIS page, and squint at a label the size of a postage stamp. By the time you've done that, you've lost sight of the lights entirely.

You:

Wake the skipper immediately and point at the screen.
Already plotted the CPA on three different devices.
Adjust course, make a coffee. This is YOUR time.
You're not on watch. You swapped yours for galley duty.
You were supposed to be on watch?
Assess the situation visually before touching anything electronic.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 20

Seventeen hours awake. Science says you're now cognitively equivalent to someone over the drink-drive limit. You missed a light on the horizon five minutes ago because you were staring at the compass without actually reading it. Rule 5 requires "a proper lookout at all times." The law demands continuous vigilance. Biology says no. They can't both be right.

You:

Go to bed. You trust the science.
Set every alarm you have, clip on, and stay up anyway.
Have automated monitoring on AIS, radar, and depth. The machines can watch while you can't.
Were in your bunk twelve hours ago. This is someone else's problem.
Made a flask of coffee and a snack box at hour 14. You're the reason anyone is still functioning.
You're fine. You've done this hundreds of times. (The science says otherwise. The science is right.)

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 21

When did you last turn on your radar?

It's been on all day. Guard zones set.
Last time it was foggy. Spent 10 minutes remembering the settings.
I turned it on once in the marina to check it worked. It did. I turned it off.
I don't have radar. I have eyes, ears, and a well-developed sense of unease.
We have radar?
I practise with it in clear weather so I'm ready when I need it.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 22

Something beeps. Your boat has twelve alarm sounds. Depth. AIS. Anchor. Engine. Battery. Bilge. Wind. Chart. MOB. Rudder. Autopilot. Smoke detector. Twelve systems, twelve beeps, one sound. The same beep for "you're about to run aground" as for "the waste tank is full."

Without looking at a screen, how many can you identify by ear?

All of them. I've trained myself.
Three: depth alarm, anchor alarm, and the smoke alarm — which goes off whenever I cook.
One: the one that wakes me up. I've silenced the rest.
None. They all sound the same. That's literally the problem.
I have one alarm: the wind changing tone in the rigging.
I can identify the sound of a cork being pulled from 30 metres.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 23

Fighter jets use a female voice for critical warnings because it cuts through engine noise better. On your boat, whose voice actually carries over the wind?

Mine. Everyone knows it.
My partner's. Especially when I've done something wrong.
I've never thought about it. But now I'm going to test it.
The person in the galley shouting "LUNCH!" — it carries across any sea state.
Whoever shouts "DRINKS!"
This is why I sail alone.
The person on the foredeck screaming "ROCK!"

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 24

You're below, trying to sleep. Something beeps in the cockpit. Just once. You lie there, heart going, staring at the cabin ceiling. Was that the depth? The AIS? The autopilot? You wait. Silence. You wait longer. Nothing. You get up, climb into the cockpit in your underwear, check every screen. Everything looks normal. You go back to bed. You don't fall asleep. Your watch starts in 40 minutes. The beep told you nothing. The silence told you less.

What do you do with those 40 minutes?

Lie there, wide awake, listening for the beep to happen again.
Go up and take over the watch early. Might as well.
Check the instrument logs to find out what beeped.
Make a hot chocolate for yourself and the person on watch.
Roll over and go back to sleep. If it was serious, someone would have shouted.
Text the person on watch: "What was that beep?" They reply: "What beep?"

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 25

It's 0400. The stars are out. The only sound is the bow cutting water. This moment is:

The reason I sail. Pure peace.
Beautiful. But I'm also monitoring the AIS, checking the course, and scanning the horizon.
Something I'd enjoy more if I wasn't worrying about the anchor alarm at the other end.
Perfect. But I'd enjoy it more with company.
I wouldn't know. I'm asleep.
Mine. This watch is mine. Nobody else's.

Please select an answer to continue.

Chapter 5

Sunday 0600 — The Anchorage

Dawn. The bay is calm. The hook is down. You set a phone anchor alarm before dinner. You also checked Instagram, replied to three WhatsApp messages, took a sunset photo, and let someone use it as a hotspot to call their mother. The phone is now at 11%. The anchor alarm needs GPS running all night. GPS needs battery. Battery needs not being used for Instagram. Do the maths. Everything should be fine. Should be.

Question 26

Anchoring in 5 metres. How much chain are you deploying?

15 metres. 3:1. I know the maths.
25 metres. 5:1. I've read about catenary forces and I'm not gambling.
35+ metres. With a snubber. And a second anchor ready at 45 degrees.
Whatever comes out before the windlass stops. I'll add more if it drags. (This is not how physics works.)
I use the markers on the chain. Red at 10, yellow at 20. I'm methodical.
I don't know. But dinner will be ready in 20 minutes regardless.
Enough to reach the beach bar.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 27

"We're safely anchored for the night." The wind is forecast to back 40 degrees by midnight — putting you on a lee shore. The tide drops a metre overnight — changing your scope ratio. The boat behind you is on a shorter rode at a different angle — your swing circles overlap at 3AM. You won't know any of this because you'll be asleep. "Safely" is doing extraordinary heavy lifting in that sentence.

It makes you feel:

Twitchy. "Safely" is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.
Confident. I set the anchor, I checked the hold, I monitored the swing.
Relaxed. Open the wine.
Hungry. The anchor is down. Time to cook.
Uncomfortable. I never say "safely." I say "anchored." The word "safely" is presumptuous.
I've set two alarms, checked the weather, and I'll check the rode before bed.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 28

Your phone is your anchor alarm. It's also your camera, music player, Instagram, WhatsApp, weather app, and alarm clock. Android puts background apps to sleep after minutes of inactivity to save battery. Apple suppresses notifications it considers "non-essential" — and your anchor alarm doesn't qualify as essential. Neither operating system thinks your safety is as important as its battery.

At 3AM, your phone is most likely to be:

Dead. You were on Instagram at dinner.
On the chart table, connected to a backup battery, with anchor alarm set as critical notification.
In your pocket. You sleep with it. Don't judge.
Irrelevant. You don't use a phone for anchor watch. You use a dedicated system.
Being used to photograph the stars by someone who should be sleeping.
In the galley. Charging. Next to the recipe you're planning for breakfast.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 29

2AM. A boat nearby is dragging anchor. You:

Noticed 40 minutes ago. Your anchor alarm went off. You've been watching.
Are already in the dinghy with a torch, a spare shackle, and a fender.
Wake everyone up. Loudly. Check YOUR anchor. Twice.
Hail them on 16. Then invite them for breakfast.
Watch from the cockpit with a whisky. Natural selection is nature's anchor alarm.
Start the engine, take the helm, prepare to move.
Have a second anchor down. Always. This is exactly why.

Please select an answer to continue.

Chapter 6

Sunday Morning — Anchorage Life

The sun is up. The water is turquoise. The crew is stirring. Someone asks how you slept. You say "fine." You woke up twice to check the anchor, once because of the mystery beep, and once because the wind changed and nobody noticed except you. Fine. Another boat has arrived in the bay. The day is young and full of potential — for relaxation, for argument, or for both.

Question 30

Hauling the anchor at... well, when exactly?

0600. I set the alarm. We have a schedule.
When I wake up naturally. Which is 0530 because I checked the anchor at 0400.
Whenever the coffee's ready.
After breakfast. And a swim. And maybe a second coffee.
After we've said goodbye to the three boats we met last night.
At first light. Before the wind fills in. Using the right technique.
I'm already at the bow, waiting. Chain coming up.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 31

A new boat enters the anchorage. Fenders still out, courtesy flag on the wrong spreader, tender dragging on a painter that's too long. You:

Wince. But say nothing.
Swim over and help them sort the tender.
Mutter "amateurs" and adjust your own perfectly coiled lines.
Check that YOUR boat looks immaculate by comparison.
Film it.
Pour them a drink when they've anchored. They clearly need one.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 32

Your navigation app has been quietly uploading your sailing data to a corporate database. Every anchorage you've visited. You:

Didn't know that. Feel slightly violated.
Knew that. It's how crowd-sourced depth data works. Fair trade.
Don't care. If they want to know I sail between the same three anchorages, good luck.
Have disabled all data sharing, location services, and autoconnect.
Wait — some of those anchorages are SECRET.
Use paper charts. My data stays on my chart table.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 33

The heads are blocked. You:

Fix it. You've done it before. It's fine. (It is never fine.)
Diagnose the joker valve failure remotely from the cockpit.
This is absolutely not your department. You handle food, not the other end.
Announce loudly that someone used too much paper.
Suggest the bucket-and-chuck-it method. Like real sailors.
Volunteer to go ashore "to find a marine plumber." Return three hours later smelling of beer.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 34

Someone mentions that statistically, lawn mowing is more dangerous than sailing. You:

Quote the exact fatality rates. Lawn mowers: 70-90 per year. Sailing: much lower. But the MOB stat is terrifying.
Say "that's because most of the time sailing is just sitting around drinking." Which is technically the denominator problem.
Find this reassuring.
Don't find it reassuring at all. You've seen what happens when things go wrong.
Change the subject. Statistics ruin a nice morning.
Say "those are people who don't respect the sea." (You are very fun at parties.)

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 35

You slip on the side deck. Over the guardrail. Into the water. The boat sails on. The autopilot doesn't care. The crew is below — one asleep, one reading, one cooking. The VHF is in the cockpit. Your phone is in your pocket, which is now in the sea. The boat is doing 5 knots away from you. In sixty seconds you'll be 150 metres behind it and getting smaller. Nobody heard the splash.

How long before someone notices you're not aboard?

Seconds. I always tell someone before I move on deck.
Seconds. My AIS MOB beacon would trigger automatically.
A while. They'd notice when the helm went unattended.
A while. They'd notice when lunch didn't arrive.
They'd find the empty glass first.
I clip on. Always. This question makes me uncomfortable.
Immediately. Someone is always watching because there are always people around.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 36

Tethers: essential safety equipment, or potential drowning device at 7 knots?

Essential. Clipped on, no exceptions.
I clip on at night and in heavy weather. Not pottering around at anchor.
I own a tether. I know where it is. I use it... sometimes.
I carry a knife to cut myself free if dragged.
Both answers terrify me. I've thought about this more than is healthy.
I clip on AND make sure someone's always watching.

Please select an answer to continue.

Chapter 7

Sunday Afternoon — The Return

The wind has shifted. The anchorage is emptying. Time to head home. You think about the trip. The beep you couldn't identify. The fuel gauge you didn't trust. The watch you couldn't sustain. The phone that nearly died. The anchor alarm you hoped was working. The tanker you didn't see until you could read the name on the hull. All of this happened. None of it was unusual. This is what sailing is. One more passage, one more docking, one last chance to find out who you really are on a boat.

Question 37

Your boat knows everything. Depth, wind, engine temperature, battery voltage, anchor position, fuel burn, bilge level, heading, AIS traffic for twenty miles in every direction. It knows all of it, every second. And it communicates this extraordinary intelligence to you with a beep. The same beep. For everything.

If your boat could actually speak to you — in words, in a voice, like a crew member who never sleeps — what would it say most often?

"You're dragging. Again."
"I have 47 unread NMEA messages and you're looking at Instagram."
"Stop touching the helm. You're overcorrecting."
"Someone is cooking something incredible and I'm jealous I don't have taste buds."
"There are 14 people in the cockpit. My waterline was not designed for this."
"The fenders are still out. I'm embarrassed."
"I'm fine. You're fine. Please go back to sleep."

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 38

On the return passage, a tanker. 320,000 tonnes. Crash stop: three nautical miles. The bridge officer can't see you — his forward blind zone is 500 metres long. Your yacht has the radar cross-section of two seagulls rafting together. Your insurance company calls a collision "a total loss." The tanker's insurance company calls it "Tuesday."

You:

Get out of the way. Immediately. Physics doesn't negotiate.
Already altered course 20 minutes ago because I planned around the TSS.
Call them on VHF to confirm intentions.
Stand on your rights under Rule 18. (Your insurance company would like a word.)
Didn't see it. You were below making dinner.
Are composing an Instagram story: "OMG look how close this tanker is."

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 39

You're coming alongside. The wind is on the beam. The marina is watching. Who moors the boat? Be properly honest.

Me. Always me. ALWAYS me.
I jump off with the lines first. Every time. Even when nobody asks.
I commentate from a safe distance, then say "nicely done."
I go below to prepare the arrival snacks.
I'm chatting to the neighbours on the pontoon while others sort it out.
I'm on the bow with the boathook, checking the depth, watching the wind angle.
Whoever's strongest takes the lines. Whoever's calmest takes the helm. I take what's left.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 40

The lazy line at the stern is covered in slime and algae. You:

Grab it bare-handed. It's just character.
Hand someone else the gloves and point.
You're in charge of lunch. Lines are not your department.
Wonder aloud whether Mediterranean lazy lines promote biofilm resistance in harbour ecosystems.
Take a photo for the group chat first.
Check whether the slime could indicate elevated harbour pollution levels.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 41

You're tied up. Engine off. The trip is over. The single most important thing on a boat is:

The skipper's judgement.
The data.
The crew's stomachs.
The rig.
The safety equipment — and the people trained to use it.
The anchor holding.
The guest list.
The hammock.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 42

"The best moment on a boat is..."

When everything is trimmed perfectly and the boat does exactly what you want.
When all the systems are green and the instruments agree with each other.
When the first hot meal comes up from below after a rough watch.
When the sails are set, the engine is off, and it's just wind and water.
When everyone's in the cockpit, the sun is setting, and someone opens a bottle.
That moment at 3AM when the stars are out and you're the only one awake.
When the anchor is down, the hook is set, and someone hands you a cold beer.

Please select an answer to continue.

Question 43

Your crew would describe you as:

"Intense but capable. Wouldn't trust anyone else at the helm."
"Always installing something. The boat has more screens than our house."
"Hard-working, reliable, and permanently slightly damp."
"The reason we eat well. Also the reason nobody else is allowed in the galley."
"Great company. Not great at 6AM departures."
"Thorough. Very thorough. Sometimes... exhaustingly thorough."
"The reason we know everyone in the marina. And the next marina. And the one after that."
"Old-school. Doesn't approve of our phone usage. Secretly checks the plotter when nobody's looking."

Please select an answer to continue.

What kind of sailor are you?

Friday Evening — The Preparation

Saturday 0700 — Leaving the Berth

Saturday Afternoon — The Passage

Saturday Night — The Watch

Sunday 0600 — The Anchorage

Sunday Morning — Anchorage Life

Sunday Afternoon — The Return

Your sailor personality is ready.