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From: Andrew Wallace (no email)
Date: Wed Aug 07 2002 - 09:25:11 EDT
Here's something my wife Robin wrote, describing an anchoring experience we
had this spring. Thought some of you might get a kick out of it - I sure
did...
My anchorage with Andy
Saturday, March 16, 2002
We were out for an early spring dinghy ride, a toot through the marina
neighborhood, and we ran into our sailing neighbor Dave and his dog Hunley.
He ended up giving us a recommendation for a good anchorage – Capers Island,
supposed to be really nice, a sandy beach, driftwood, TREES. Up the ICW
from Charleston, off the main channel, just a few hours away. Andrew wanted
to go, right here, right now, but it was Sunday, so instead we planned for
next weekend - our first overnight cruise of the season (warm weather
pending). Andrew talked about it all week.
Come that Saturday morning we did our prep work - filled water tanks, got
supplies, checked the engine - and set off, on time even, or just 10 or 15
minutes behind. Yet another excellent undocking, ho hum. It was a lovely
day, warm and sunny, a good strong breeze. Andrew talked me into having the
sails up, but he didn’t have to talk too hard. We motor-sailed, which
according to him is okay, from a purist’s standpoint, and we were making
good time. But as we rounded the bend for Sawyer’s Bridge it looked like
those 10 or 15 minutes might cost us. There’s the bridge off in the
distance, the opening-on-the-hour’s fast approaching, would we make it? We
squeaked through by luck - turned out a tug was on its way and the bridge
would open for him (most assuredly a him) whatever time it was, so we held
back a while, not minding the weekend powerboats flying by, until the tug
hove into sight. The bridgemaster opened ’er up, "Sailing vessel proceed",
and away we went again. That breeze was good for us, and we were feeling
pretty happy all in all. Then suddenly the gauges went haywire and
hysterical. No matter. I took the con, Andrew stepped calmly down into the
engine room, located a loose a wire and fixed it, and without missing a beat
we continued. Pshaw.
We'd been this way before, the year previous, when we anchored overnight
nearby to Jazz, at Dewee's Creek. We preferred not to think too much on
that particular anchoring experience - though it turned out fine, and all
boats should be christened with their new owners' blood - but that little
cruise had shown us something of the tricky shallow waters in these parts.
We had even grounded, just beyond Sawyer’s Bridge, right in the ICW channel
itself. But no big deal. You can't really hurt anything, it's just mud and
sand, and sometimes all you need is someone else's wake to push you off.
Now we had our charts out again, Dave had warned us about the particularly
tricky waters of Capers Island, and we felt ready for anything. So we
snacked and chatted, up the ICW, enjoying the Saturday day and happy to be
doing something other than fight.
Around 3:30 we found our entranceway, here goes! Our first attempt we
grounded. No big deal, we weren't grounded that hard, and Andrew used
sailpower and wind to get us off again, with just enough momentum on our
bow. But we also grounded on our second attempt, and our third and fourth.
I’ll say, tricky and shallow. Even the shouted-out advice of a local didn’t
help. The afternoon was getting late, and it seemed like the waters did not
want us there that day, so reluctantly we gave up and decided to seek the
familiar grounds of crappy dumb Dewee's Creek. We grounded once more for
good luck, then just got the hell out.
We picked our spot at Dewee’s, right about where Jazz had been the year
before. I had the helm and he threw out the anchor - after tying it off.
We to-and-fro’d, making sure it took, and to finalize I gave it hard
reverse. It took good. Then we discussed that little promontory, was it
too shallow this close, what would happen when the tide shifted, what about
the currents, would we swing too close and get stuck. We decided that
everything was fine.
By now it was nearly sunset. We sat in the cockpit for a bit, taking the
lay of the land, breathing in the quiet, after the afternoon of listening to
the engine. I had a flashback to sunsets and evenings on the houseboat,
back in Canada, which seemed like such a long time ago. Then we retired
belowdecks, for a pleasant evening of dinner and the Saturday paper, and
later we’d have some Bilbo. The sunset too was quiet, muted. An exquisite
little yellow crescent moon rose just above the horizon, and when we looked
again it had gone. The evening was starry and mild. We had a $5 bet going,
on whether it would rain. I was against, he was for. It wasn’t optimism on
my part, of course, quite the opposite; I merely bet on forecast
unreliability. At one point we looked at each other and wondered about our
anchorage decision but the boat seemed to be floating just fine and when we
checked the stern it looked like we were swinging safely past. Our friend
Jeff called from the marina around 8:00 to check in and Andrew told him
about Capers thwarting us, but said things were now a-okay. Jeff was
feeling envious, we thought. Next time, he promised. We went back to our
book; Bilbo was having a hard time of it.
About 10:00, after high tide, we decided what the heck, let's go out and try
the lead line. It’s a nifty old gadget we'd never used before, and Andrew
wanted to show me. Perhaps he also wanted to reassure himself more
officially, like, though if so he didn’t say so. We each took a reading,
with mine being somewhat more correct. Hm. Our draft is six feet, and
according to this we're in five feet of water. That floating we’ve been
feeling really wasn’t. We're grounded.
We spent the next hour trying to get ungrounded. There was still wind so we
used the sails hoping it would again give us the momentum we needed, and
Andrew also tried using the windlass. Sails full, windlass straining,
engine revving, forward, reverse - but we're not budging. An odd sight -
deck lights on, white sails set, against a black starry sky - kind of
majestic and eerie at once. But we're still not budging, and the tide is
going out, and now we're listing slightly. We take the sails down, hoping
it's the wind doing that. But no, we're listing to port and it wasn't the
wind. This is starting to look kind of bad. No one around, TowBoat U.S.
not answering, closed for the night, and no one could help us anyway. We're
grounded, the tide is going out, and there's nothing we can do. Andrew
tells me, "This could get a little uncomfortable." One of those warnings
all the more chilling for its hint of understatement. So I laugh. And not
for the last time that night.
We both seem a little stunned, as reality starts to sink in (ha ha), though
I still have the bliss of some ignorance. Finally, after more gazing around
at our situation, we come below again and take stock. We find things are
just starting to change. He puts his lighter on the table and it careens
down onto the couch. And apparently it's going to get worse before it gets
better. He describes for me what the boat is doing, its keel now an anchor
in the mud, and says that over the next several hours we'll likely list up
to 40 degrees. I ask him where we're at now and he says 7. I'm starting to
get the idea.
For the next couple of hours, as Someday continues its slow settle to
portside, we prepare for what we now accept is coming. It is a queer
sensation, preparing for an adversity you know you cannot stop. You just
do. We need to find safe spots for his beer and my tea. We begin moving
everything that isn't nailed down - better to move things to port than have
them fall there. But there are places we haven't got to yet, or things
we've missed, and stuff starts sliding off the couch, the tables, the
shelves - and all of it seems in slow-motion. The floors and passageways
are filling up. It's starting to look less and less like a little home on a
quiet Saturday night, and more like a disaster area. Andrew, ever-sensitive
to my sensitivity, apologizes for my home being wrecked. But for me, this
is all so bizarre it has gone beyond that, way beyond. And I feel bad for
Someday, picturing the scene from outside, Someday falling over, such
indignity for a good boat.
At one point he considers getting the dinghy and trying that kedging thing.
This worries me – my first real worry of the night - picturing him trying to
carry the motor at a slippery angle, across the deck and down the ladder,
with several beers under his belt, and then leaving me alone on the boat.
That horrific story of the couple with the overboard bucket comes to mind;
the story that had started so benignly. I murmur something to this effect,
something of my alarmed skepticism (common sense), but we are after all
safely grounded, no one’s going to get swept away, right? and I don’t
actually know what this tactic entails. But still I’m thinking he’ll come
to his senses, which he does. He gets as far as lowering the ladder and
picking up the motor, and then he thinks better of the plan. It would
likely have proved futile anyway.
We rest for a bit, me pinned against the portside settee, Andrew on
starboard, his feet against the table to prevent him falling off. We
chuckle at the sound of objects shifting unseen. He assigns lifejackets, we
don’t put them on of course, but must know where they are just in case, and
same with the radio and his knife. Check – check - check. Then back to
work. We keep seeing more things to do, or hearing them. But getting
around is becoming increasingly difficult, you're moving at an unnatural
angle, pulling yourself by handrails off the couch, along the hallway, using
the walls for support against your back. If you let go you will slide. I
bruise my shoulder on a wall.
Andrew gets the radio and puts a lame call out into the darkness, “Anybody
out there feel like giving us a tow? We’re grounded pretty bad - ” Nobody
does. He takes regular readings of our Lev-O-Gage SR. and dutifully reports
them back to me. At 25 degrees the idea of 40 seems insane. The place is
becoming a funhouse. You look out the portholes and the view is not right.
The kitchen is krazy, the gimballed stove is at an absurd angle, the pots
all pointing to the floor, yet it is level. It is more level than we are.
We’re both finding the smallest task a challenge, you feel like you're
moving underwater, or against a strong wind. This was supposed to be an
evening of quiet enjoyment, of the boat, the setting, each other, and here
we are in a surreal nightmarish comedy. And it is very funny. Clothing on
the back of a door is hanging horizontal, you turn on the tap and the water
comes out sideways, a pillow falls onto a wall and stays there. None of it
makes any sense and I get dizzy if I move my head too fast. But I am
laughing. Perhaps I am nervous, or perhaps I just find this funny.
Andrew’s laughter seems a bit forced. Despite his reassurances to me, I
suppose he is somewhat concerned. I know he is annoyed at himself. I ask
him how he’s doing. “I wish this wasn’t happening. Other than that, I’m
fine.” I laugh pretty hard at that one; he does too. We look out the
portholes on portside and we see water there, right there, and it is rising.
Or rather, we are lowering. Our laughter at that has a tinge of alarm.
It reminds us of the Titanic. Suddenly the depth meter alarm starts
sounding, and it stays sounding. Well thanks for that warning there!
Nothing Andrew tries will turn it off so finally he disconnects the thing.
Eventually our alarm and perplexity and camaraderie and good humor turn into
plain fatigue. The Curse of Dewee’s Creek has had its way with us again.
But it's 2:00 a.m. and there’s nothing more to do, except somehow sleep, and
wait for morning to bring the next high tide. Earlier I’d had a notion we’d
be sleeping together. No chance of that – I’ll go to the stateroom, he’ll
take the portside settee. We leave a small light on, we call out lonely
goodnights and I'm okays to each other, and separately we fall into bed.
But we're sleeping on walls and the sleep is not good. Someday has settled
at 42 degrees. My head is getting crunched into a corner and gravity is
crushing my lungs, so I switch and put my head where my feet are supposed to
go. When I open my eyes I can't make sense of what I'm seeing. I realize
with dread that I have to go to the bathroom again, and though the head is
two feet away it takes me ten minutes to get there and back, climbing up a
cliff of piled stuff and hoisting my 125 pounds around the doorway. New
meaning to the phrase hit the can. Once again I fall into bed, out of
breath. Andrew is now snoring but he’s out of reach of my elbow, damn the
man. My sleep comes fitful and confused. His comes fitful and concerned.
The morning comes almost anticlimactic. Overnight Someday has returned to a
leveler way, and by 7:00 it is sitting nearly upright. By 8:30, high tide,
the engine, and a bit of effort get us off our ground. Standing in the
shambles of the galley floor I make coffee, though our Sunday morning
breakfast has been cancelled. Damage is minimal – one dilapidated
wind-gauge cover stepped on and in pieces, and the ladder now bent by the
mud. But all breakables are safe and accounted for, and only one tablespoon
of beer has been spilled (though onto my shoes of course). It is a calm
morning under a warm sky, we sit in the cockpit with our coffee, we go
slowly underway. X marks the spot, the cursed promontory, and as we pull
away, free at last, free at last, I wave and give it the finger. Back out
in the main channel a guy in a small motorboat slows down as he passes us –
“you know your ladder is still down - !” Andrew nods and calls out a thanks
and we look at each other and laugh. “You don’t know the half of it,” he
says. We have to shake our heads - now this calm morning makes no sense.
It feels like we dreamt the whole thing. Meanwhile I won the bet. And good
thing too.
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