The Gospel of the Yellow Cans

The Gospel of the Yellow Cans!

Over the last four years, I’ve come to realize the most annoying, obnoxious, completely irreplaceable objects floating around my deck are my jerry cans.

They’ve been with me since day one — ten yellow five-gallon diesel cans, lashed to the rail like loyal but unruly crew members, always underfoot, always in the way. They trip me day and night, and they’ve certainly claimed more than one. But without them, I wouldn’t have made it halfway around the world.

When I first bought my boat I was obsessed with aesthetics. Everything symmetrical, polished, a total show pony. Nothing left on deck, every line and fender tucked neatly into some locker like I was about to go on the cover of a yacht catalog. Which is fine when I was weekend-sailing twenty miles from home, cold lemonade in hand and hair blowing in the breeze. But once I started to spread my wings, explore the world a bit, and cross oceans, I realized that looking good is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

I’m not saying your deck should look like a junkyard. It should be organized and secured — everything in its place, lashed down, ready for a blow. But out here, it’s not as much about pretty; it’s about practical. The fuel cans strapped to the rail, jack lines snaking down the deck, antennas and Starlink, liferaft, fishing gear, radar reflector, dinghy, fenders, life sling, spare anchor, a wall of solar panels, and my Hydrovane hanging off the stern (she’s actually quite pretty, for the record) — it might make the boat look like a bit like a floating yard sale, but everything’s right where I need it, exactly when I need it.

Truth be told, people used to make fun of my fuel cans and my “production” boat’s lack of built-in fuel capacity early in the trip. What I realized later is that those folks just didn’t get it — the trade-off you make to go to far away places, play in remote corners of the planet, and have the kind of adventures you don’t reach on a single tank of go-go juice.

Fuel cans are the pinnacle of that truth: giant plastic eyesores that keep the adventure moving! My boat only holds 50 gallons (200 liters) of diesel in the main tank—yes, it’s a sailboat, they use wind. But she requires electricity even when the wind is ripping, not to mention an engine when it’s not. Yes, I’ve got 1,400 watts of solar and 1200 amp hours of lithium, but cloudy days happen, very often in some part of the world and sometimes using the put-put or the engine are the only way to keep the air conditioner running offshore. KIDDING! I wish I had air conditioning offshore. All jokes aside, it takes energy to make energy. So those ten little obstructionists became my lifeline. The long and short is they turned my commuter into a bit more of a long-haul setup.

People love to say, “It’s a sailboat, just sail.” Sure, you can. Some folks wear it like a badge of honor: “I haven’t fueled up in years.” Cool! It’s like saying you gave up smoking—I am proud of you, sure it's achievement. Is it a necessary one? Nope. They don’t mind flogging in two knots until the end of time, beating up their rigs or waiting endlessly ashore for the wind to pick up. Does that make them a better sailor? According to them, yes! Kidding, kinda... 😂 Here is the thing though we end up in the same stunning places, seeing the same amazing things. It may cost me a couple of bucks more—no worries. Plus, trying to impress other humans out here with your “sailoriness” is just another form of hubris, and one thing I have definitely witnessed out here is that Mother Nature will punish hubris in short order.

There’s romance in sailing—that’s why we all signed up—but there’s also reality to cruising: it’s called time. Some people don’t have a lifetime to get from A to B. The truth is, diesel is just another kind of wind—the one you make yourself when nature runs out of breath.

For example, if you were to arrive in Sorong, Indonesia from the north as I did, and make your way down and around through Sulawesi, along Bajo, Komodo, Lombok, Bali, and Java, up into Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand—all under sail—it would take you until the end of time! Not really, but certainly not in a single season, especially if you want to stop and explore things. Which is fine if you are on the lifetime cruising plan. Some people have a decade; others only a couple of years, or just a season...

Do I need ten cans? It’s all a matter of preference. For me, the weight is the perfect amount of mobile ballast — not to mention I can fill my tank on a single onshore adventure. If you’re new to this, keep reading — you’ll realize the true value in that!

Besides the obvious, they have other uses: first and foremost weight distribution. Ten cans, forty pounds each—about 400 pounds of movable ballast. I can slide them from port to starboard depending on the wind angle and flatten the boat like magic. Plus, it’s like having my own little gym set onboard, except every rep smells like diesel and regret.

But the real education came in the refills. I could write an entire "epic" documentary called Diesel Diaries: The Global Jerry Can Experience. Sunburned, flip-flopped, and fumbling in three languages—hauling cans uphill while locals laugh and point. That’s the glamour of circumnavigation right there. Because in four years and 28 countries circling the globe, maybe ten towns had actual fuel docks. The rest? Oh, you’re hiking. In the rain. With sloshing cans that make you smell like a mechanic’s armpit for three days.

You hitch rides on motorbikes, trucks, and cars, barter with taxi drivers, strap cans to wheelbarrows, and sometimes carry them miles and miles like a donkey begging for mercy.

Of course, no one takes credit, so you need cash. Now there’s a side mission to find an ATM—which, unlike in the West, isn’t in every convenience store or around every corner. That alone turns into a Lord of the Rings–level adventure adding a bit more spice to the day. When you finally find one four towns over and after a five-mile hike, uphill in 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity, trying to have a conversation with someone who speaks a word of English and is trying to direct you, the next step is: does it take your card, or does it physically take your card and not give it back? Getting a replacement in some faraway place is a nightmare, and now you’ve got no cash and no fuel. Not to mention you probably owe the human with you some money, and now you have none or no way to get any. Things can get dicey quickly—everyone is friendly when you’re paying them, but when you can’t, it’s 50/50 there’s going to be an issue. Plus, say it goes to plan and reads your card—is it in English? I’ve had to have someone push the buttons for me while the locals watch me pull $500 out of an ATM in a place where they make that in six months! It’s pure absurdity, always entertaining—and absolutely glorious.

Tip: Before leaving one country for another, make sure to download the offline language pack in Google Translate and the offline map in Google Maps for your next destination. This one-minute act can be the difference between utter misery and simple success in everything you’re trying to achieve when you arrive with no data onshore.

Tip: Always bring your InReach or Iridium with you to shore on these types of adventures. Local SIM cards are normally not that reliable. If you end up in a situation like this, you’ll want to be able to text or call someone if things go sideways. Personally, I don’t go anywhere on the planet without my InReach. Whether I’m hiking in Fiji, diving off the reef in Palau alone, or just exploring Brazil—I want to be able to contact someone in an emergency, always and everywhere. The SOS functionality is amazing. Plus, I’m physically trackable online at all times. I’m actually trackable three ways: through my phone if it has service (Find My), through my InReach on the Garmin site, and through the KML data my InReach sends to my PredictWind tracking page. AND it stays charged for 6 months to a year powered down. I have a spare that just lives in my ditch bag. Safety first!

So yeah, my deck may look like a yellow plastic scrapyard, but those cans? They’re the unsung heroes of this voyage. They may still be the worst party guests I’ve ever had—but damned if they didn’t get me around the world.

So here’s to the humble yellow cans—the loudest, ugliest reminder that out here, survival beats symmetry every time.

Days Sober: 2,149

Side Note: If you look at the picture where my fuel cans are tied to my rail, you’ll notice that I have no lifelines on my sailboat. I have "solid stainless rails" from the bow to stern. Came with the boat, I did not do that. When I first bought the boat, I thought that it looked powerboat-y and not super aesthetically pleasing, but I can tell you in no uncertain terms, four years in, it is one of the biggest aids in either A: functionality or B: safety on my boat by a country mile.