“No. We are not spending that kind of money.”

For a solid decade, that was the answer from Steve Olsson’s wife whenever he raised the idea of buying an American Tug. He’d spotted one in a marina and been smitten at first sight by the height, the beam and the amazing sense of space for the length overall. It sure seemed like a boat built for adventures much grander than he could ever possibly undertake on the 30-footer he towed behind his truck from their home in the Seattle area.

“I lusted after it for at least 10 years,” says Olsson (pictured above). He even tried to negotiate a compromise: a 50-foot converted fishing boat that cost less. “That boat was fine,” he says, “but I really, really wanted the American Tug.”

Sometimes divorce has a way of helping people get what’s important to them, which was the case for Olsson. In October 2020, he bought a 2008 American Tug 41. He was in his early 60s when he moved on board, named the boat Coda—as in a concluding section of a song or story—and decided to set off. in 2021, he retired from a career in electronics and software, and ended up cruising 22,000 miles.

He learned a lot from that experience, and met a lot of people along the way. The ones in and around the boating community, he says, are
pretty darn great.

The first six months were a shakedown cruise, which turned out to be a good idea because a couple of engine injectors cracked.

“It had been sitting on the hard for a while,” he says of Coda. “It probably hadn’t been run in over a year. It ran fine for the inspection, but on the fourth or fifth cruise that I took, the engine—a 500-hp 9-liter diesel—just wasn’t running well at all.”

So began his preparations for long-distance cruising with total confidence—which is why he wanted an American Tug in the first place. He felt that it was a solidly built boat, and that with the right attitude toward maintenance and upkeep, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything other than finding his way through his new life. He spared no expense on outfitting and upgrades. For instance, he didn’t just replace the damaged injectors, he replaced them all. And he bought spares for everything he could fix himself.

“The key, to me, was having a reliable boat,” he says. “I didn’t want to be stuck in some third-world country trying to get parts. People who have to do that in places like Mexico, they have a rough time.”

Once he had everything squared away, Olsson set off with a friend on a buddy boat for Alaska. The pandemic was raging at the time, which meant that when they arrived in Glacier Bay, it was blissfully empty.

“It was just completely desolate,” he recalls. “Take away the cruise ships and the tour boats, and there’s only 50 boats in that bay, which has to be a hundred miles long. It was sunny and warm pretty much the entire three months we were up there. Nobody around.”

Olsson and his buddy cruised in tandem around Baranoff Island. They stopped at Sitka, Ketchikan and Juneau. They checked out the waterfalls, the hot springs, the wildlife. “We rafted up and anchored every night,” he says. “We would hike almost every day, run around in the dinghies. It’s just an incredible place. The solitude is amazing.”

His next itinerary was down the West Coast. He joined the Panama Posse, a seasonal rally of boaters who share information along the way to Central America. “That was extremely valuable,” he says. “At any port that we went into in Mexico, Costa Rica or Panama, there were other boats that were doing similar things. You would run into them and you could share stories. They’d help you with the weather and choosing a sailing date. They’d tell you where the safe ports were and give you pirate reports. They offered a lot of advice on charts and routes and many other things.”

All of it helped him make his way to places like the Sea of Cortez, where, once again, he was able to clear his head and take in the beauty all around. “That’s like boating on an aquarium,” he says. “It’s great diving. The water is 80 degrees. You get up and go swimming and then make your coffee and get ready for the day.”

Insurance requirements during hurricane season held him up in Costa Rica and northern Panama, where he waited until November. His goal was to meet friends in Florida for a buddy cruise around the Great Loop starting in January or February, so he used the time to prepare for the longest open-ocean crossing of his life, from Panama to Jamaica en route to Florida.

Olsson’s sister was on board with him for the three-day run out of Panama. By that time, he wasn’t nervous about having the skills to run the boat, and he had full confidence in the boat itself. But still, Coda had only one engine.

“When you’re driving around here in Washington State, a single engine is great,” he says. “It’s not as much maintenance. It’s cheaper to run and all of these kinds of things. But when you’re leaving Panama heading north for 800 miles, out in the open ocean 250 miles offshore, I was concerned that I was going to have an engine failure.”

He didn’t sleep much during those three days. They cruised at 7.5 to 8 knots along the course that a lot of ships use, so he could see them on AIS within a few miles, just in case he needed help. And he hoped the weather would be as good as the forecast, since he’d never before been in a situation where there was no place to duck ashore and hide. In the end, he says, the crossing was perfect.

“It’s like God himself laid the route out for us. It was outdoor weather the whole time.” And again, simply being on the boat, out in nature, helped him to feel a sense of peace and calm. “The water is a different color on the Caribbean side. It’s bluer,” he says. “It’s so beautiful and amazing. The weather was really good, so we sat out on the bow of the boat and watched the porpoises jump.”

From there, he cruised Coda to the Caymans, and then up to the Dry Tortugas and Key West, Florida—this time with everything stowed securely, a lesson he’d learned after a heavy Kitchen-Aid mixer flipped over a countertop fiddle and crashed to the sole.

“We’d take down the bottles of wine and booze and wrap them in cloth, putting pillows and covers where the plates are,” he says. “If the boat’s rocking, it’s uncomfortable, but if you’re not hearing things crashing, it’s way nicer and much less nerve-wracking.”

In the Keys, his two buddies were preparing their own boats. When everybody was rested and ready, they set off together up the East Coast to start the Great Loop.

“I really loved the Erie Canal and the Trent-Severn Waterway, the Thousand Islands—it was very different. It’s like boating on a river,” Olsson says. “At every one of these locks, a little city pops up around it, and each little city has a bar and grill. One had a chocolate factory. One had a band that played. There’s no weather, no waves, and you stop at these places where everybody’s super happy to see us.”

On the Great Loop, he again realized that a lot of boaters were similar to him: looking for like-minded folks. He joined the America’s Great Loop Cruisers’ Association and got to know many of them.

“You become friends and get together on each other’s boats for drinks,” Olsson says. “It’s just a lot of fun. It’s like going to the yacht club every night, where you meet up with people you get along with.”

As of late December 2024, Olsson was back in Seattle, living aboard and planning another cruise to Alaska. His advice for anyone thinking about following in his wake is to get over whatever it is about life that’s holding you back.

“It’s just such a fun, rewarding adventure,” he says. “I have friends who are afraid to go to the San Juan Islands. Man, start small. Go somewhere close by. Get experienced with your boat. There’s so much fun you can have. It’s crazy how wonderful the people are. It renews your faith in humanity, that everybody’s just out there getting through life. This is a great lifestyle. I’m not stopping.” 

March 2025