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THE JOURNEY

The JOurney

2022 - United States, Mexico, French Polynesia, American Samoa, Samoa, Fiji, Kiribati, Marshall Islands

2023 - Micronesia, Guam, Palau, Indonesia, Singapore

2024 - Malaysia, Thailand, Cocos Keeling, Mauritius, Reunion, Madagascar, Mozambique

2025 - South Africa, St Helena, Brazil, Martinique, UVI, Puerto Rico, Panama

COUNTRIES

THE FILM

We will be filming a documentary during this journey covering: “The Healing Power of the Ocean.” It’s no secret that sailing the ocean saved Captain Brian’s life. He began to heal through the support of his marina community and connecting to the ocean’s raw power. Brian just passed the five year mark in his sobriety and finds himself enveloped in a new world, one in which he feels joy for the first time. This new feeling follows 25 years of severe depression, alcoholism and addiction compounded more recently by the trauma of twice losing his home, his possessions and nearly his life.

Some of these struggles were highlighted in ADRIFT, an award winning short documentary Brian directed in 2017 based on his life. He speaks very openly about his struggles and encourages others to do so as well. Bringing these struggles to the forefront is imperative. Internalizing them only leads to further pain and anguish. It takes action, commitment and support to heal. Brian committed to change when he saw how drinking nearly destroyed his one joy in life, that of sailing, and began rehab. He found support from his community, family, friendship and a higher power, all related to sailing the ocean. From the camaraderie and competition of racing to celebrating the holidays with his marina family, there simply is no other life for him to live.

As we embark on this journey, we intend to further develop this community while continuing to tell Brian’s story of recovery and hope.

Hold Fast Teaser #6 2025

The Film

The Boat • 2004 44DS

"The best way to find out Kitty is to get her out on the ocean. If anything is going to happen, it's going to happen out there."

―Captain Ron

The Boat

SAILING SIMBO

PROFILE > REUNION

SPINNACKER TIME

STERN > MAURITIUS

STERN > ST CROIX

SALON > WAYAG

COCKPIT > MALAYSIA

THE FAMILY

FAMILY

Marina Family

Rarely in life are you fortunate enough to be in the right place and right time to live somewhere surrounded by such truly authentic people. The love from them means absolutely everything to me. Leaving this place and these people is going to be one of the most difficult things I have ever done.

― Captain Brian

The Parentals

This trip would not be possible without the love and support from my amazing parents. I have said it a hundred times, I am the luckiest man in the world to have them in my life. I know I will make them proud on this journey. I called them 3 months ago and said "How cool would it be to have someone that circumnavigated in the family." And here we are! it's actually is a reality!

― Captain Brian

PARENTALS

The Gram

THE GRAM

Captains Log: Corn Dog of Destiny

Keeping it simple today. I give you a monkey in Lombok, Indonesia digging through a trash can, clutching two corn dogs like the Holy Grail of fried snacks. He’s not eating—he’s ascending, baptizing his tiny soul in mustard-dipped joy. His face says, “Forget fire, forget the wheel, forget TikTok—this is why we climbed out of the trees.”

So here’s to that monkey, patron saint of bad decisions and cheap victories. May we all eat our corn dogs in the sun with the same unashamed, unhinged joy. 🐒🌭

Days Sober: 2,093

Amazon Packages & Offshore Lessons: Hold Fast Edition

So Brian, you ask, how does one prepare for sailing around the world? Easy. Step one: buy a boat. Step two: drain a year’s salary into Amazon’s pocket like it’s a slot machine in Vegas! 😂

Flashback to this time in 2021, when I bought this “ready-to-go” world cruiser. She already had wind steering, a bow thruster, a 6k generator, a mountain of batteries, and solar panels—you name it. Supposedly, everything I’d ever need.

But thats not close to everything... So, I added… well, everything else. The marina office turned into an Amazon distribution center—packages stacked higher than a Jenga tower in an earthquake. And that was just shipment one. By the end, I’d clicked “buy now” about 500 times. Five. Hundred. Orders. From Amazon alone.

And that’s not even counting Defender, West Marine, Sailrite, eBay, Craigslist,

Think about it: the list ranged from safety and comms gear—Garmin inReach, Iridium Go, life vests, EPIRBs, personal locator beacons—to everyday household basics like pots, pans, plates, silverware, carpets, towels, and shampoo. Then there were the nuts, bolts, tools, spare shackles, random fittings, and all the other bits that keep a boat afloat and a sailor sane.

In short, if it could fit in a cardboard box, it probably passed through that marina office. Anything you’d need in daily life on a boat—to cook, to clean, to navigate, to simply function as a human—you have to stock it. And not just one of each, but backups, extras, and redundancies for everything.

My Prime account probably christened Jeff Bezos' yacht. Realistically, it was probably just enough to pay for one of the cleats on that monster. 😂

Thank you everyone for all the birthday love across every platform! Means the world to me! ❤️🎂❤️

It’s absurd, hilarious and amazing how many different ways people can send birthday wishes these days—Facebook, Instagram, Messenger, WhatsApp, TikTok, iMessage, Email, Google Voice, Telegram, smoke signals, carrier pigeons, and probably a message in a bottle drifting somewhere in the Gulf Stream.

Birthdays never go as planned (but then again, neither does life at sea). This one zigged when she should’ve zagged. My friends aboard SV B3 took a direct hit from a lightning storm that left their boat looking like Poseidon tried to hot-wire it, so they couldn’t make it. But, nonetheless, it all worked out perfectly: a great dinner with my buddy Russ from SV Restless Russ, followed by the entire bar staff belting out a chorus like a gospel choir with megaphones borrowed from the harbor master, handing me a brownie sundae, with candles blazing bright enough to signal the space station.

Once again, strangers swooped in and turned into family faster than barnacles on an idle hull—faster than socks disappearing in a dryer.

Days Sober: 2,088

🎉 🎂🎈 BIG 50 TODAY 🎈🎂🎉

One of the best parts of sailing around the world is the people. Strangers turn into family overnight through shared experiences, and before long you’re sharing meals, laughter, and stories that shine like polished brass in the sun. Birthdays out here aren’t about big gatherings—they’re about connection, especially since I’m sailing solo. Each friendship glows like bioluminescence, turning solitude into unforgettable memory.

Days Sober: 2,087

Today, that sober count holds a special weight. Looking back on the 25 years that preceded it, the odds of me ever seeing 50 were about as good as a popsicle surviving in a sauna.

Milestones like this make me stop and laugh as much as they make me reflect—the wild things I’ve done, the ridiculous scrapes I’ve survived, the incredible people I’ve met, and the hard-won lessons I’ve somehow picked up along the way. I’ve been absurdly lucky with the human beings I’ve been surrounded by, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be here without each and every one of you.

Captain’s Log: The Great Wiffle Ball Debate

Two Americans teaching an Englishman and a South African the sacred art of the home run derby—wiffle ball time in Panama! ⚾🇺🇸 #america

They won. 🥇 Their cricket-style pitching (sorry, bowling) is trickier than it looks—like trying to hit a curveball thrown by a wizard with a grudge. And my hand-eye coordination? Let’s just say it peaked somewhere around age 12, when swinging plastic felt like Excalibur in my hands. Now it’s more like waving a pool noodle at passing flies.

The great wiffle ball debate: should one swing the bat with one hand or two? One feels smoother, two feels safer—like choosing between chopsticks or a shovel when you’re starving. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but hey, science should study this.

My swing had the consistency of a drunk flamingo trying Pilates—core wobbling, coordination shot, but entertaining to watch.

I came armed: wiffle ball, baseball gloves, a bat, a proper American football, and even one of their footballs. LOL. Doesn’t matter where I go—tossing a ball is a universal language. Baseball, football, wiffle ball… it’s just humanity’s way of saying, “Catch!”

*don't let this clip deceive my only "good" bat. 😂

Captain’s Log: Mold, Peace, and Panama Dreams.

Slipped in late last night, tossed my bag down, and crawled into my own bunk. Sweet mercy—best sleep it! The air‑con’s humming like a loyal crewman, which matters because Panama doesn’t play around. It’s like trying to nap inside a sauna wrapped in a wet blanket—sweltering, soggy, and relentless.

The old girl’s holding up. Topsides look sharp, hull’s a little dull, but a quick scrub will sort her out. Inside though? Different tale. Leaky windows, mold colonies staging a takeover, and the wood’s had a soaking. All fixable—with enough money, of course. Because that’s the law of boats: everything costs money, then a little more.I’ll get the windows sealed up next week and have her back to fighting trim.

Couldn’t resist sending one last love letter to the so‑called “craftsman” in South Africa who mangled the earlier repair. May the trade winds always shove him into a headsea. But hey—curse, pay, patch, sail. That’s the game.

Outside of boat work, the horizon looks good. I’ve got some editing jobs brewing, a hop back to L.A. in a month for the doc, and looks like a boat delivery by year’s end, sweet little run—Puerto Rico to Belize, or Los Angeles. Either way, another notch on the logbook, another adventure at sea.

For now, I’m just happy to be home. Back aboard Hold Fast, mold and all—and damn, it feels good.

Days Sober: 2,084

Hola, Panamá!

Alarm at 4:45, out the door by 5:15. Little hop: Augusta → Atlanta, 6:30–7:15. Feeling smug, on schedule. Next up: Atlanta → Panama at 9:00 a.m. We’re over Cuba by noon… and then someone has a heart attack at 35,000 feet. Hard U-turn to Miami.

Cue three hours on the tarmac, four more marinating in the aluminum sausage, and a masterclass in patience. What should’ve been a four-hour hop turned into a 15-hour endurance test, plus a tidy two-hour “target extension” for good measure.

Just landed. One last 90-minute car ride and I’m back aboard Hold Fast.
Love international travel—paying full price to play roulette with time, oxygen, and sanity.

Captain’s Log: Reunited With My Floating Circus

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, after seventy-seven long days ashore, the time has come. Tomorrow at first light, I head back to Panama—back to my fair Hold Fast, back to Shelter Bay, where the rain hammers down in sheets and the lightning cracks the sky like a drumroll for my return.

It’s been a beautiful stretch with my parents, with old friends, with air conditioning, stand-up showers, full-size beds, and the rare joy of not having to worry about batteries or bilges—like taking a vacation from listening to your boat’s organs wheeze in the middle of the night. But truth be told, I’ve been dreaming of fiberglass and teak, of creaking lines and the smell of salt on the breeze.

Tomorrow, I trade sidewalks for docklines, cars for cockpits, and grocery carts for the endless hunt for 10mm bolts. Home isn’t always a house—it can be forty-four feet of absurd, leaky, stubborn magic that somehow carries me across oceans.

Hold Fast—I’m coming back with a locker full of bits and pieces to set you ten and ten. Clear the decks and cue the squalls, because Captain Hathaway is once again reporting for duty with his floating circus.

Days Sober: 2,082

The Accordian of Accuracy!

Doing some work around my parents’ place in Aiken and found this relic.

The folding carpenter’s ruler — the pre-tape measure. Back in the day, this was Excalibur in my grandfather’s hands. He’d snap it open with the authority of a samurai unsheathing a blade, measure twice, cut once, and remind me that precision wasn’t a suggestion, it was the law.

Now it just feels like holding a little piece of time — heavy, clunky, and perfect.

#pretapemessure #aiken #grandpastools

🏴‍☠️ The Salty Sailor’s Scorecard 🏴‍☠️

Turns out my tattoos need a mileage upgrade. Cross the equator once, and you graduate from soggy deckhand Polywog to shiny “Trusted Shellback,” courtesy of Neptune’s salty fraternity. The ceremony’s part hazing, part ocean‑blessed baptism, and the prize is a turtle tattoo — your lifelong shell of honor. After that, tradition says every 5,000 miles earns you a sparrow tattoo.

Cover myself with a flock of sparrows? No thanks. So I promoted my wrists to prime real estate — the billboards for my nautical scorecard. Think frequent‑flyer miles, but saltier, inkier, and about as easy to redeem as a coupon in a hurricane.

I’ve stacked up more than 40,000 miles under my keel — enough saltwater scribbles on the log to fill a lifetime — which means the board is begging for another graceful tally mark.

Also tradition says you only get a turtle tattoo the first time, but I’ve danced across Neptune’s line ten times and I like tattoos. So... 😂 I’m overdue for a tenth tally mark there as well. These aren’t trophies to brag about — they’re living memories carved into skin, salt‑stained chapters signed off by the sea god himself. Each mark whispers of crossings survived, storms bested, and Neptune’s grin when I dared to step over his line again.

Days Sober: 2,078

Seven days ‘til I climb back aboard Hold Fast, and the supply gods have delivered. First up: a new dripless shaft seal. The old one’s been hanging on like a retired prizefighter who doesn’t know when to quit. This little ring of rubber is the gatekeeper between my bilge and the Atlantic—ignore it, and you’re basically inviting the ocean to rent a cabin.

Second delivery was pure personality—a box of twenty sunglasses in every color from funeral black to tropical parrot. Some skippers stockpile spare fuses, I stockpile ways to look like a different pirate every day. Call it emotional camouflage.

The forecast says rain and lightning, but that’s just Neptune rattling his pots and pans. Any time on the ocean is better than shore leave, and I’ll meet the storms head-on—dripless sealed, shades armed, and spirit ready.

The day Hold Fast and I rounded Cape Agulhas in South Africa—where the Indian, Southern, and Atlantic Oceans all seem to meet. After months of being slapped silly by the Indian Ocean, dodging rogue moods in the Mozambique Channel, and surviving the dreaded Wild Coast, the ocean suddenly went soft on me. I motored around the Cape in flat seas, grinning like I’d just unlocked the cheat code to sailing—no drama, no monsters, just the hum of the diesel and me sipping victory like cheap champagne.

Little did I know Cape Town had a surprise waiting, with the famous tablecloth draped over Table Mountain and one last good smashing before I could park it in the marina! 😂

Days Sober: 2,077

This is the teaser for documentary in progress, stitched together from a trip that was basically equal parts epic, ridiculous, and ‘how the hell did I survive that?’ It’s storms and sunsets, chaos and calm, and more questionable decisions than I can count. Hope you guys enjoy it.

Bigggg Fishy! 🐋 #whaletime

She came up out of the deep like a submarine on a mission — as big as the boat and twice as graceful. Unreal to share the ocean with something that massive, wild, and free. And a bit terrifying! 😂

Whale Traffic Jam – Cabo Style!

Cabo San Lucas, 2022. In season every single day the whales run right off the coast, and all you’ve gotta do is take your boat out and sit there like it’s rush hour on the 405. The whales pop up, and boom—50 tourist boats hammer their throttles like they’re drag racing to the world’s slowest finish line. The whales dive, and suddenly everyone’s dead in the water, craning necks like they’re watching Wimbledon. Then—splash!—they pop up again and the circus stampedes over. Sad? Yeah. Entertaining? Absolutely. And yes, I admit it: I partook.

I had a few friends on board that day, and what we saw was pure insanity. These whales are the size of the boat. When one went under, it stretched from bow to stern like a living submarine. Absolutely majestic, completely terrifying, and slightly underwear-changing.

At the end of the video, one whale slipped right under the rudder. I swear I thought I was about to lose steering and end up drifting into a Margaritaville franchise. The beast slid beneath us like a shadow from the deep, reminding me that while we may think we’re captains, out here we’re just clumsy guests in someone else’s living room.

Taveuni Island, Fiji — 2022

So lush, so alive, a slice of Eden dropped in the South Pacific. I’ll never forget the way the greens swallowed the horizon, every ridge dripping with rainforest like it had just rolled out of a dream. My friend, I’ll see you again. Until then, stay wild!

“The Beauty of Not Knowing”

There’s something about night diving that gets me every time. Deep below the surface, your world shrinks to the size of a flashlight beam, and everything outside that circle? Pure mystery. Could be nothing. Could be a manta ray. Could be a shark with an appetite. Maybe even a mermaid—I wouldn’t know. That’s the thrill.

The video above is Raja Ampat, off Waisai. Technically “muck diving,” but at night the muck turns into Times Square at 3 a.m.—every weird critter clocking in for the graveyard shift.

I’ve gone night diving solo a few times in Palau, Indonesia and Thailand. Yes, I bring a spare mask, spare pony bottle, spare light—because if you’re gonna do something questionable, at least do it with redundancy. 😂

And the payoff? It’s not just the danger—it’s the freedom. Hanging there in the dark, not knowing what’s above, below, or behind you, it’s like surrendering in the best way and you just exist. Floating, breathing, surrounded by a world that doesn’t care whether you’re there or not.
Would you go?!

Days Sober: 2,069

“Mortal Danger, Offshore Sailing”

Going through these photos for the site, It reminds of the sheer number of dangers we offshore sailors train ourselves to face—collectively, daily, almost casually. Always there, always lurking. That’s not to say there isn’t the occasional prayer or profanity tossed into the sky. But the trick is learning how to compartmentalize—how to not just deal with whatever’s right in front of you, but to thrive in it.

That discipline is essential to doing what we do.

Mother Nature has endless weapons: seas rise, winds howl, swells thrash, squalls explode, lightning strikes, reefs smash, tides rip, currents drag, rogue waves appear without warning. Each one a reminder of how small we really are. And all of it while sailing on a thin, man-made shell of fiberglass or wood—capable of failing catastrophically in a hundred different ways, at any moment, for any reason. Add in tankers, cargo ships, cruise ships, tugboats, flatbeds, fishing fleets, FADs, logs, nets, stray lines… plus a fleet of recreational vessels that either don’t understand the rules of the road—or just don’t care. And you’ve been offshore for 5, 10, 20 days—sleep-deprived, eating like a five-year-old dealing with any other daily stresses or health issues that arise! Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

And for me, I am alone.

Yet, in spite of it all, I find myself not only wanting, but needing this in my life. Because the other side of danger is wonder—anchoring in lagoons clear as glass, steering through horizons set on fire at sunset, a billion stars overhead, laughter shared with new friends, stepping into unfamiliar cultures, and finding silence where ocean and soul feel the same.

That’s the paradox I live with: unforgettable wonder wrapped in mortal danger—waiting around every corner, at any moment, all the time.
Sound like a good life? Or just flat-out insane?

Days Sober: 2,068

*this photo is me, solo sailing up the Malacca Strait in yet another torrential rainstorm—with Zeus lighting the sky up like a rave cave. Hundreds of bolts of lightning struck a stone’s throw from the boat for hours. Just another day of sailing in SE Asia.

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