In the 12-year history of 59º North, we’ve had 1,037 crew on our boats. Only four of them won’t be invited back.

At 59º North, we call it the DNAB list: Do Not Allow Back. It is our secret, exclusive offshore sailing club, and you never want to be a part of it.

A common question we get from prospective crew is “how will I know I’ll get along with everyone onboard?” Most people show up as individuals and won’t know anyone else in the crew. Our answer sounds like a joke, but it’s true: You have to.

In hindsight, we should have seen it coming. I’ve always viewed our lengthy, detailed application process as a filter—a way to weed out those who aren’t serious before they ever step on deck. This particular crew member had filled it out with a sort of smug minimalism: one-word answers and snarky comments. We gave the benefit of the doubt, and we were wrong. While not every short application leads to a disaster, every DNAB we’ve ever had left a trail of red flags in their paperwork that we only fully realized during the post-passage debrief.

By the time we hit the dock for departure, those red flags had turned into flashing sirens. Yes, you can tell right away when someone is a DNAB, and no, we won’t turn the boat around once we’ve set off unless it’s a real emergency. This person was already disrespectful, late for briefings, and generally walking around like they owned the place. It came to a head the night before departure when I caught this crew member in the marina office trying to score a bottle of rum—a direct violation of our strict “dry boat” policy at sea. This wasn’t about a souvenir. It was about the ego hinted at in the application finally showing its true self.

That night in the marina office I confronted the crew and didn’t let them bring the booze onto the boat. They weren’t happy with me, but they relented. I pulled the skipper aside and emphasized that I supported leaving this person on the dock, refunding them their money and proceeding with the passage, but that ultimately it was the skipper’s call. Isbjörn departed the next morning with a full crew.

Offshore, it was a heavy-air, deep downwind passage. The crew in question could not be left unattended. The skipper didn’t trust them to follow instructions, and sure enough, on more than one occasion they veered off course, thinking they knew better. BANG! The skipper bolted upright as the reefed main accidentally jibed, the dyneema preventer pulling up short and stopping a disaster, but it was way too close a call and it happened more than once. Our instincts back at the dock had proved correct. Thankfully they had proper preventers rigged and no harm was done, but this was a dangerous situation.

When you’ve got an unsafe crewmember onboard, it’s a real challenge threading the needle of still making sure they get a good experience—they’re paying to be there after all—that the rest of the crew get what they came for, and that the tension doesn’t ruin the crew dynamic. Good skippers manage the boat; great skippers manage this tension.

In the end, Isbjörn’s skipper adjusted the watch rotation so that this problem crew was never left unattended, yet did so in a way that still made them feel empowered. By changing up the watches, the rest of the crew, who quite clearly saw what was going on, were in an unspoken way given even more responsibility, as much of the skipper’s energy went into reining in the wild one.

If you wanted to boil down what makes a DNAB, I’d say it’s ego and a lack of self-awareness. In the end, that crew member got their offshore passage, and the rest of the crew got a study in leadership from a skipper under pressure. Everyone got what they came for. 

We still don’t turn the boat around for bad attitudes, and we still don’t judge a snarky application too harshly. But we do keep the list. There are currently 1,033 former 59º North crew I’d go to sea with again in a heartbeat. As for the other four? I hope they’re enjoying their rum on someone else’s boat. 

This article was originally published in the June 2026 issue.