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Sailing Vessel Prism

@svprism

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Jon Neely - Cinematographer - Writer - Boatwright
Cali native, began in Seattle in 2013 when I was 23, 13 years later still sailing the world.

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Baddeck was to be home longer than any place yet on my trip. It was here that I finally let myself relax and pursue true idleness—something I'd never been able to accomplish. I chose this town because it has a fairly well protected anchorage, with fallback anchorages within an hour should the winds come from an unprotected direction. The water was warm enough to swim daily, hiking trails scattered the shoreline, and the locals were friendly.

The town itself is the busiest tourist town I'd experienced yet—like a small stream full of fish, tour buses loading and unloading constantly, and Main Street carrying a current of people through its sidewalks, cafes, and restaurants. Much to see and experience, as a strong current can clutch anyone who wanders too close to it. I wanted to spend the first ten days not moving. I hadn't really decompressed since San Diego, and my body and mind longed for a respite.

My goal of purposely doing nothing, until I felt comfortable with the act of doing nothing, was difficult in ways I hadn't encountered. Until I restructured idleness as an act of maintenance rather than generationally perceived laziness, I struggled. I chose to do this without any anesthetic, which took away the easy numbing that substances offer. Alcohol and weed were already absent from my life, but relationships, family, even sailing itself—social media too. I needed a break from all of it to fully experience and absorb the lesson I was to learn.

As I rested, I was able to put my values, goals, and self-worth into perspective, and truly feel I had control over my need to dull my thoughts. I adopted the idea that everything I have, and everything I still want, requires effort—the more ambitious, the more effort—effort that must be pulled through the moment. Substances only obscured that effort. They kept me from believing intrinsically in that process, despite knowing it.

After ten days of this, for the first time in my life, I felt free from the ease of substances. I had lived through it myself—unfiltered and solely load bearing. I trusted my intuition. I relished the challenge. I found my truth in a way only sobriety offers. taken in Baddeck, Nova Scotia by @svprism

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12 days ago

The transit to Baddeck from Kelly's Cove is all about timing. The Bras d'Or Lake has a misleading name—it's more of an inland sea than a lake, and the entire tidal contents of it get flushed through two bottlenecks. Carey Point marks the official northern entrance, and its strong flow runs in sync with the listed tide chart. Beyond that entrance lies a 15-mile narrow arm with one additional pincer at the Seal Island Bridge, where the outflow lags behind the ocean tide by hours, not minutes.

I hadn't fully grasped this until I approached the bridge on a windless day and watched my speed steadily drop. A mile out, my forward progress had slowed to under two knots without ever touching the throttle. When the opposing current is that strong, you change tactics. I peeled off, dropped the hook near the shore, and cracked open the novel I was reading. Some quick mental math made it clear: at least three hours before trying again. Steinbeck carried me off to the Salinas Valley, and before I knew it the alarm was going off—time to continue.

Despite my patience, the current was still there. This time I managed 4 knots, running all 35 horses of my diesel to claw my way under the iron gateway. The current didn't fully surrender until I pulled out of the arm and broke off for Baddeck. Only then did I ease off the throttle, and Prism finally felt like she was slipping through water again instead of maple syrup. by @svprism

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13 days ago

Sometimes it takes seeing home through someone else’s eyes to remember just how extraordinary it is.

This summer, Jon Neely of SV Prism explored Cape Breton Island — from the sheltered coves of Port Hood and Chéticamp to the dramatic cliffs of the Cape Breton Highlands and the tranquil waters of the Bras d’Or Lake.

Along the way came whales, dolphins, quiet anchorages, welcoming coastal communities and miles of breathtaking shoreline.

And somewhere along that journey, looking out at the cliffs, ocean and endless horizon, John kept reflecting:

“Wow, this is pretty.”

Maybe that’s the magic of exploring Cape Breton by boat.

From the water, familiar places become extraordinary again. Harbours become destinations. Villages become discoveries. And a coastline we sometimes take for granted can stop you in your tracks.

Cape Breton isn’t just somewhere to sail past. It’s somewhere to slow down, drop anchor and experience.

Thank you @svprism for seeing our coast with fresh eyes — and reminding us just how lucky we are. 🌊

#BoatingNovaScotia #visitCapeBreton #SailNovaScotia #ExploreByBoat #visitNovaScotia taken in Cape Breton (Nova Scotia) by @svprism

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15 days ago

Kelly's Cove was my first stop in the Bras d'Or Lake. I slipped in just as the light transitioned from clear afternoon white to its honey amber hue. The cove sits at the base of a steep hill covered in interlocking branches of forest green. Joyful screams and laughter projected from the end of a pier that shared space with the anchorage. After stowing the boat I aired up the paddleboard—the protection of the cove provided ideal conditions to explore. By the time I got on the water the kids had retired as the sun began to set, and in their place was a group of adults enjoying the last of the light from camping chairs with a bottle of wine. As I approached they invited me to join. I didn't take them up on it but got to talking, and they told me how the kids were part of a camp for burn victim children. Tonight was their last night, and to mark the end of camp and the end of summer, the local firefighters would put on a firework show from the hill overlooking the cove. They invited me to join them on the pier and I told them I'd definitely be there. As night fell and blue sky slowly turned black on this cool late-August evening, boats and cars began showing up. By the time the show began, close to a hundred people had converged. Standing front and center with her red spreader lights on was Prism, and for a moment I was the talk of the town—handed off from conversation to conversation like a plate of hors d'oeuvres, everyone nibbling until the first flare shot across the sky. Instantly the cove went silent and all that could be heard was the echoing booms ricocheting off the lake's steep hills. A feeling of accomplishment swept over me; not having any role in this community yet being so well received, my subconscious couldn't help but take some ownership of the celebration. I felt proud, yet shared a sense of communal melancholy realizing this was the end of summer—we all must go home or begin our transition to winter. Once the finale's volley finished, the smell of powder and haze of smoke settled onto the water. One of my newfound friends asked, "What are your plans next?" I simply said, "More of this." They smiled. "Must be nice" "It is" taken in Bras d'Or Lake by @svprism

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17 days ago

Luck is largely a thing of perception. This season I believe I had been receiving my fair share—not luck against disaster, but convenient luck, or serendipity. So far I had found myself in the right place at the right time when it came to wind, current, and tide. Some of this was due to planning, much more to not forcing anything, allowing life to shape my passages and having a bit of foresight to help my chances.

Leaving Deadman's Pond for my southbound transit to the mouth of Bras d'Or Lake, I needed to depart at first light to cover the 65 miles. Sunrise just so happened to fall at high tide that day, which was necessary for me to make it out of my sanctuary pond.

The east coast of Cape Breton is just as stunning as the west. What made this trip even more special was the flyby my rhumbline afforded me past Bird Island: a puffin sanctuary. It being late August, the probability of seeing any was low, but that didn't deter me. I brought Prism within a stone's throw and with my 500mm lens and capture a gulp of cormorants and an isolated bald eagle. Despite the lack of puffins I still felt fortunate. I had planned on spending the night outside the inlet to the lake due to an impassable amount of current if I missed slack tide. After consulting my charts and the time, it appeared I was going to arrive thirty minutes before slack. With this I once again felt that tickle of luck, and I made my way into the lake. by @svprism

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21 days ago

As I rounded the north point of Cape Breton my southerly wind withered, then veered directly on the nose at 15 knots. I hardened up the sheets as Prism heeled over, engaging her keel into the surprisingly temperate Gulf of St. Lawrence. My destination was a small inlet ominously named Deadmans Pond—a body of water that according to my chart had just enough depth for Prism's 1.8m/6'2" draft. Due to the wind, my options were pretty bleak if entering turned out not possible; outside the entrance did look manageable, but the placid pond inside sounded much more enticing. As I committed into the narrow man-made channel, people on both sides began to take photos—I never know if it's because they think the boat is pretty or they're ready to capture a kerfuffle. The incoming tide swept me in, and due to the width of the channel and the movement of the tide I was committed; there was not enough room to turn Prism around. I bit my bottom lip softly and began to hold my breath. I watched my depth sounder continue to drop. The overhead sun penetrated the still water, allowing me to see the bottom with clarity—sand with grass—confirming the skinny water, it was going to be tight. As I ghosted into the pond I glanced behind me to notice my prop wash suspending weed and leaves in my wake. A group of spectating fishermen warned me there wasn't a lot of water beyond the end of the pier and told me to tie up. Luckily there was a slot, and after a bit of manoeuvring those same fishermen helped me with my lines and gave me a warm welcome. I finally exhaled and turned off my engine. by @svprism

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23 days ago

The west coast of Cape Breton is breathtaking. It's easy to forget where you are because the topography is so much different than the rest of the surrounding areas of the East Coast. Here, some of the oldest parts of the Appalachian Mountains meet the sea, the steep bluffs cascade directly into the ocean, allowing you to sail uniquely close to them. With a steady southerly wind, I sailed Prism on a deep reach being propelled with a steady breeze and a following current. Pilot whales, humpbacks, and dolphins, all transiting south as I was going north, were my only company this day as I never saw another boat. I was consumed by the profound beauty as I looked up through the canyons and cliffs that constitute the Cape Breton Highlands. Saying out loud, "wow this is pretty" at times only in whispers and at other times at the top of my lungs, my voice cracking with excitement and emotion. A unique gift of solo sailing is the complete lack of composure you can allow yourself, you own the domain, if you want to scream an emotion, you can. A true freedom from conventions. I found myself processing how far I've sailed, my capabilities as a solo sailor and how lucky I am to experience life the way I do. Despite being thousands of miles away, this 50-mile run up the coast gave me a hallowed sensation that only my native West Coast California gives me. With watery eyes I felt the warmth of home. by @svprism

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a month ago

The town of Chéticamp offers a very protected cove in most weather conditions, which is why I picked it. It's a perfect stopover point about halfway up Cape Breton's west coast. The town is a base camp for people wanting to explore the Highland national park and also a throughway for people doing the Cabot Trail.

I enjoyed my walk along the waterfront despite the gray day. This is a French-speaking town, which is unique. The street signs, the interp signs, and pretty much all the literature are all in French, which felt very foreign to me, but it was a type of foreign that makes you feel like you've actually gone somewhere. by @svprism

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a month ago

After a relaxing day on the beach in Port Hood, I continued up the coast to Chéticamp, which is about halfway up the Cape Breton. The sail was lovely and the scenery reminded me of the west coast of the US. The water is deep along this coast and with a southerly wind and a lack of swell it allowed me to hug the cliffs uniquly close compared to other passages. I passed the time by watching small little communities built into the hills pass by. At one point I spotted a cabin that was completely isolated from everything perched up on the hill, couldn't even make out a road to it. It was fun to think what it would be like to live in these places. As I pulled into port the wind was just about to switch to the north. By the time I got situated at anchor the north wind came in with a rain storm. This was to be the last of my blissfully sunny summer weather I had gotten up to this point. by @svprism

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a month ago

The primary headsail I've been using this entire season has been my 130% drifter, made of 2-oz. nylon, which is a great sail, but it's not nearly as durable as Dacron.

I generally use the autopilot to assist in shading the headsail with the main in order to do a very slow and methodical jib dousing. Upon sailing into Georgetown, my autopilot, after discovering a quirk of it, burned out a fuse, and I was left with no one to steer the boat. I had to resort to the old method of going up into the wind and dropping the headsail. Of course the wind was a bit stronger than I would have liked and because this headsail's so large, a big part of it goes against the rig.

Due to this decision, it got caught on my flag halyard cleat, which is attached to my lower forward shroud, and it put a nice hole into the leech of the sail.

Luckily, I have a @Sailrite that I bought back in 2010. This machine has paid for itself, I don't know how many times, not only for sail repairs because it is a zig-zag variant. It also has made all of the cushions on Prism, all of the outside canvas on Prism, and actually has brought in a couple paid gigs from other cruisers who needed covers and sail repairs in remote places. Although it had been over a year since I had pulled it out, with a little oil and cleaning of some key components, the machine immediately came back to life and sewed a beautiful zigzag patch.

While I was at it, I had a hole in one of my favorite pairs of insulated pants from a sprocket bite when I was riding my bike in San Diego. I decided to use some old tanbark Dacron from the original mainsail and make a little patch for the leg too. Definitely a style choice indeed.

Again, having the right tools on board can keep you always moving, a very "unstoppable boat" Pardey mentality. by @svprism

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a month ago

The stop at Port Hood was actually supposed to just be a resting place for a night, as I was planning on making it a stopover to time the tides for Mabou Harbour just north of it. After looking over the weather and seeing a rainless window to head further north up to Cheticamp, I decided to instead just hang out in Port Hood. This harbour is known for its beautiful beaches, and these beaches are made possible by a large break wall that extends between the mainland and the island of Port Hood. This break wall has a narrow little cut in the center of it. On the chart, there is a note that says not to try it unless you're a local, but the depths looked completely appropriate for a keelboat like mine. People were using it constantly, and the conditions were very moderate. Because the wind was supposed to pick up from the south and my anchorage was fairly exposed to the south, I decided to go through that break wall and make that break wall my southerly protection and nestle up against one of the iconic beaches of this area. Going through the cut was not a big deal at all. It was well marked and carried 16 ft. all the way through. Once I was through, I was able to approach the beach and actually get fairly close in, anchoring in 15 ft of sand. The beaches were full people, as it was a sunny day, and I very much looked forward to walking the beach, as I havt done so since leaving San Diego months before. Instead of launching the dinghy, I just pumped up the inflatable paddle board and I landed with that. That was a tip from my brother: if you're solo sailing, you don't necessarily need to launch the dinghy every single time. There was a co-op grocery store that was a 10-minute walk away, which actually made it a very reasonable place to re-provision if you need it. It had more provisioning than Georgetown, so I got some fresh produce and meat there. I got back on my paddle board and prepared for my jump up to Cheticamp the next day. taken in Port Hood, Nova Scotia by @svprism

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2 months ago

As with all of my sailing so far this season, I have very much stuck to waiting for the perfect conditions to take me to my next location, and in this case it was Georgetown PEI back to Cape Breton, specifically Port Hood. During the summertime, southerlies are your prevailing winds, but from time to time you will get a north wind that comes in right after or before a system.I waited for a northwesterly to come through, which gave me wind right on the aft port quarter and had a beautiful broad reach.

I have noticed that the forecasting in this area is always very conservative. I was actually expecting 20 to 25 knots that day, and I never saw really anything over 15. That's been kind of my experience so far, except that on the capes, the forecasted wind has always been fairly moderate compared to the actual wind. Another mellow sail in the books.

Port hood island which I spent my first night looked like a miniature town model with the sun backlighting its scenery. taken in Port Hood, Nova Scotia by @svprism

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2 months ago