Ghost Helm
Once cramped, captain-only nav stations, pilothouses have evolved into larger enclaves where owners and guests gather to take in ocean views. Designers now consider the space a social area, adding tables, lounges and other comforts and amenities.
But Team Italia is pushing that evolution a generation ahead with its Dharma Next pilothouse, powered by the company’s intuitive I-Bridge touchscreen software, which was unveiled in October at the Monaco Yacht Show. While the name references the Hindu concept of aligning oneself with the cosmic order, there’s something of the fighter jet to the execution, with its large central head-up display that relays vital information without blocking the sea view. The designers also added a second helm station, just forward, as part of a first-of-its-kind lounge positioned beside the forward windshield.
“The owner and guests can sit and enjoy the view,” says Team Italia cofounder Massimo Minnella, adding that “if the owner also wants the captain there, we’ve designed a small navigation console.” The compact helm, embedded in an armrest, looks like a high-tech gaming controller with mini throttles, a trackball and two small displays. It’s more sci-fi than samsara—the type of “cosmic alignment” Captain Kirk would relish.
I hear their echoing huffs of breath before I see them. Gradually out of the sunset glow, dorsal fins appear: the male’s upright and as tall as a man, the female’s smaller with a gentle curve and the orca calf’s fin so tiny it brings to mind a toddler. As the sky shifts to pink, the orcas race across the strait. Each time one dives beneath the surface I hold my own breath, exhaling gleefully when the animal surfaces still closer and puffs out a fine mist that shimmers in the evening light. Before setting off on a multiday kayaking trip in Johnstone Strait off northern Vancouver Island, I listened as our guides offered a full orientation to our gear and this region— the traditional territories of the ‘Namgis (NOM-gees), Mamalilikulla (Mammaleel-eh-quala) and Kwikwasut’inuxw Haxwa’mis (Kweek-soo-tain-nuk-an-kwaa-meesh) peoples. Thanks to the nutrientrich currents circulating through this stunning landscape of islets and inlets, we’d undoubtedly see seabirds, dolphins, seals and even bioluminescence, an algae that glows at night. But whale sightings couldn’t be guaranteed.
The whales have their own idea though, and on our first evening, I watch in wonder as a pod of five or six of them swim toward our oceanside camp. Just meters from the steep beach they dive and begin rubbing their bellies in the rocky depths. As the night grows darker, the activity continues—we can hear the muffled rumble of undersea rocks joining the puffs of exhalation. Quietly, as moonlight replaces sunset’s final hues, one of the guides talks about the belly rubbing. The activity has been witnessed since time immemorial; old stories mention it. According to one myth, a whale spotted near shore was a human transformed into a whale and was now trying to communicate with his family. Scientists don’t know why some orcas rub their bellies. But the territorial family groups each have favorite spots. Our guides say they know of several in the area, but the rubbing happens unpredictably and is a special sight.
As the night grows cool, I head to my tent and fall asleep to hypnotic whooshes of orca breath. In the morning, we pack up our kayaks and paddle deeper among the islands. Coming around one bend, we catch sight of an orca pod in the distance. We stop paddling and watch as they forage and play. Finally, they swim away, leaving only the fine mist of their breaths drifting above the water.