Between a rock and a sleepless place

It’s 2 am and one moment I am deeply sleeping, my body slightly rolling with the waves. The next moment I am at the helm, starting engines, blinking wildly to get the eyes to focus. The harsh rocky coastline of Fowl Cay was beautiful in the day when we anchored into the prevailing east winds, and tucked ourselves nicely up in her lee. 

At 2 am when the wind has swung against all predictions to the west, and the frantic sound of waves slamming against sharp defiant rock is now just a few feet from the back of the boat – not so beautiful. We have to move. Now.

As JW balances up front, his headlamp blinding me as he moves around lifting the anchor, I reflect on the bizarre reality we live in.

There are no 6 am alarm bells or morning traffic for us. A Sunday is the same as a Monday. There is a lot of laughter and freedom and of course rum punch. But there are nights like this. Sleep is not sacred on a boat. It’s the shut-eye you catch when the seas allow. In the very early days of my sailing career I would meet these interruptions to my nights with exasperation and fear. Being woken to an impending disaster that requires immediate action, is something you have to develop a taste for. Tonight I realise that I have. It’s exactly what has happened. Expect the unexpected. Deal with it as it comes.

I gun the engines into forward and leave the crashing slamming disaster looming all behind us. We are blind navigating and choose a spot just far enough away from the island and before the ocean floor dips further out. Apart from our buddy boat Alley Cat, we’re alone out here. It’s another one of those strange realities. We spend much time socializing, either on boats or partially submerged, treading water by countless beaches, a beer in hand. But only one sail away, we can be totally alone. And it’s an amazing feeling. Like camping deep in the woods. You hear all nature’s sounds. You see things that are invisible in a city. 

Tonight, the charcoal sky has been torn in one small spot and the moon peeks through. It’s only half exposed but it’s enough to make out our surroundings.  We drop the anchor, tug back the engines in reverse and wait for it to grip. We are set.

It’s all over and the excitement has died down but sleep is now a distant memory. In the morning we’ll be diving with the sharks who prowl the reefs just around the corner if all goes well.

For now I ponder the world we discovered earlier in the evening. Sundowners on the tiny beach, after the boat loads of happy rowdy tourists have made their way back to marinas and resorts and we had Fowl Cay to ourselves. The terrain is other worldly. Sharp towers of spiky rock poke out from the soft sand, making walking treacherous. We made our way to the little shelter built as a vista – or a bus stop where no bus will ever arrive?!

Tiny hermit crabs, who like us, take their little homes with them as they go, made their way along the sand. To destinations unknown, they made patterns between the huge science fiction style rocky mountains. I was fascinated. Filled with wonder. As if I’d shrunk and seen their world from their height. A new adventure. Another of natures amazing mysteries. I close my eyes now and smile. And sleep comes. 

The other-wordly landscape of Fowl Cay

Sundowners in the Fowl Cay shelter

Fierce winds and following seas

It’s 2:30am. Of course it is. Because I am up and there is something dramatic going on outside. Tonight it is gale force winds. As I stand in the relative protection of our cockpit, other boats in the bay come in and out of view. The wind and rain beat the boat and the water’s surface, and we are swinging wildly from side to side on our mooring ball. Thank heaven for the mooring ball.

Earlier we headed out of Mustique, intent on never looking back after two days and nights of a swell that came into the bay and hit us side long, with force. It had been like anchoring out in the middle of the ocean. Our guest gagged while JW and I puttered around with flashlights, holding on so as not to fall over, or off the boat completely. We checked the mooring ball and the lines (ropes) for chaffing. The squeaking sound of the ropes, fighting an uphill battle with the forces of nature were more than unnerving.

The decadent evening at Firefly earlier in the night, where we had snuck into the fold of well-to-do landlubbers, dining on rare beef and banana flambee, had dissolved into a haze of erratic motion and whipping winds. We could no longer imagine sipping after supper liquers and retreating to stable, large, soft, four poster beds.

 Instead, I steadied myself against cupboards, walls, poles and prayed for morning to come quickly.

After one last visit to the civilized strip of shops on Mustique, chocolate croissant crumbs at the edge of our lips, we had to face the reality of getting out.

Once out of the bay, waves piled up behind us, pushing us along in huge navy mountains of water. We put up a reefed mainsail and cut the engines. The wind, directly behind us at 20 knots, rendered our autopilot useless for the first time, and we manned the helm in turns.

As my arms tensed against the force on the steering and the waves gathered and grew to walls, coming up behind us in 3 to 4 meter swells, I peered around for any sign of other boats. But no one had been silly enough to head out in these winds, these waves.

The overwhelming feeling that we had no control over our boat and our surroundings kept me in a mild state of unchecked panic. JW, my calm and able captain took it all in stride and kept up small talk with our guest. All I wanted was to reach the other side, have a few straight shots of rum and climb down into a deep non-rolling sleep.

Just then, between waves, appeared another Lagoon cat, coming diagonal to us, beating directly against wind and waves. Each undulation of wave sent one hull completely up and out of the water altogether. It was at once beautiful and frightening. And as they came closer, the 4 crew came into view and we waved madly, a sense of crazy camaraderie overtaking us all. And then they were gone. Disappeared in the distance, behind the mass of waves.

And eventually we came into the lee of Canouan and the huge Charlestown bay.

But my dreams of leaving behind the wind and tucking in to the safety of land disappeared as the gusts continually hit 22 to 25 knots, deep in the bay.

We followed the small crowd of boats, tucked in as close to land as possible, to avoid the swells. Dropped anchor and let out a lot of chain. But the strength of the wind didn’t allow us to switch off engines and relax. I donned my snorkel gear and jumped in to assess our holding.

The surface of the ocean, slapped by wind, slapped me in turn and with my snorkel continually full of salt water, I could only see that our anchor was dragging slowly, puffs of sandy dust billowing up below me. JW tried again and once again until the local guys from the charter company in their little speed boat came to warn of more serious winds in the night and offered us a mooring ball, if we agreed to put our anchor down as well. Double protection.

If only all the ‘protection’ against dragging meant a peaceful night’s sleep.

If only the wind, determined and powerful wouldn’t target our anchorage, and when I peer out my cabin porthole I didn’t see a huge Lagoon charter boat, dragged or lost it’s mooring, trying desperately against the storm to re-anchor.

If only this life in paradise didn’t come with the unpredictable chaos of weather.

But then, with only turquoise seas and rum punches to look forward to, we might get bored.

A little bump and grind with a single captain

As we sat on the warm sand, squinting against the setting sun, a perfect day coming to a peaceful close, the last catamaran before sunset was arriving in the reef protected Tobago Cays.

View from the beach in the channel - Tobago Cays

 We watched with amusement and a few sharp gasps, as the captain pulled the charter boat in quite close to the beach and rocky underwater reefs, and glided by the few anchored boats.

The Dutch speedo clad elderly guy on a small old monohull was not amused by the cowboy moves, and his gestures didn’t leave any doubt. Well, this catamaran, by now identified by it’s French flag, was not about to anchor right there. So, he pulled forward, and edged closer and closer to Shiloh.

My amusement dissolved into anger and worry pretty quickly and I turned to my captain to complain.

“He can’t stay there?! Is he dropping anchor?! No way! He’s like RIGHT beside us!”

We both remember our earlier experience in this very anchorage a few months back, where we awoke in the night to find our boat caught in a strange current pool, spinning in unnerving circles. I reminded JW of this, and how it would be more than slightly unnerving, should it happen with another 15 ton catamaran within arm’s reach of us.

As usual, my captain calmed my ragged nerves. Meanwhile, our perfect guest sat grinning, mounding a belly out of sand and patting the Buddha shaped hill. She by now, knows all about our banter.

Moments later, the passengers of the offending cat, pile into an ill-equipt little dinghy in their matching ‘60^th Birthday’ t-shirts, and the tiny, wiry little captain hops aboard, only to discover the dinghy motor dead. Luckily they were anchored a few feet from the beach, as they eventually had to row across, all manual style.

They beached, and lumbered out, one by one. The little captain heaved his dinghy onto the sand and headed directly for us.

In the glaring sun,we made out his small features, a match for his little frame, as he spoke; in broken English he told us he was a paid charter captain, he had come from Martinique, he lived like a monk in his little cabin and might be looking for a little action. In the night. We could only laugh.

JW asked him what the Dutch guy had said to him as he slid past and he only shrugged,

“I don’t know, he was somehow angry”.

Then he excused himself to meet Romeo, a local on the beach to organise supper for the guests, who were gathered by now, downing champagne from the bottle.

We got back to the boat, my anger waning after meeting the strange little captain, but went to sleep with one eye open. From our cabin porthole, his boat loomed too close, the hull blocking our view of the beach. And we slept.

The last photo at dusk, of our too close neighbor

 At 12 JW leaned over me to look out and within seconds he had leapt over me and was up the stairs. In that instant I knew this was going to be ‘one of those nights’.

Up on deck we stood in that alternate universe, moonlit, bright grey light, boats swirling, sailing back and forth across the channel on their anchor chains.

Our neighbor was up, all lights on, engines revving up. He’d realised he was practically on the beach and still moving in unpredictable directions.

He was so close to us, not fully in control, and the proximity of these two huge fiberglass beasts had me hopping.

“Hols, bring the torch” (flashlight for us North Americans) I hopped, dashed, adrenaline pulsing.

“What now? What is he going to do? What is he doing? Is he on the reef? Is he lifting anchor?!” These came out of my mouth in frantic stream. No answers came and that was fine. I just needed to express my concern and mounting panic.

We could only watch and stand ready. Ready for what?

Seconds later, with full engines, he plowed through the water directly toward Shiloh. My eyes, like saucers, trying to will him away by their very size. OMG!

“What is he doing?!!!!”

“Holdsworth, calm down. Get the fenders.”

I knew that command was not a good sign.

The French cat swung just past us into the channel, but his anchor chain was still in the water. JW headed to the front of the boat to watch him closely, while I scratched around in the front hatch for the fenders.

I looked up once, only to see his lights and that ominous white hull, moving not away but toward us. JW called out to him to reverse. Nothing. Something was wrong or he hadn’t heard.

As I struggled on my knees with the pile of junk that held our fenders captive below, my butt high in the air, I felt the crack thud.

Oh my God! He hit us!!!!!!!

My mind swam with visions of Shiloh’s front cabin filling with gushing seawater, as the ugly crack groaned against the force.

I finally got a fender free and threw it at JW who was trying to push away the other boat and wedge the fender between us. I was simply incredulous. Full of fear and rage. How could he have anchored right there?! Why didn’t we stop him earlier?

Finally, with captain and a couple of the male passengers on deck, they managed to maneuver away. Still, the boat hovered, and Shiloh moved around as well, with these strange currents.

JW peered over our side with the flashlight. No damage!

But then the captain called over, so calmly, politely:

“Excuse me, my friend, I’m sorry, but can you lift your anchor? It seems ours is caught in your chain”.

WHAT?! He cannot be serious. This sent my mind into another tyrade of hideous possible outcomes. Tangled chains means boats getting even closer and bumping inevitable. Disaster.

I ran down into the perfect guest’s cabin where our anchor windlass trip is, and found her awake, peering out at the action of the night. Not the type of action our captain had expected.

I quickly explained our dilemma and she followed me up to witness the fun and games.

For an eternity thereafter (or most likely 15 minutes), we stood with fenders in hand, engines on and ready, pacing back and forth on deck, watching this boat move in snaking circles around us, trying to get his tangled anchor chain up. I held my breath for more than half of those adrenaline soaked minutes.

And as the chain grinded and jerked, the noise finally came, followed by his visible anchor. He was free, and he had not been caught on Shiloh. For that instant I was filled with joy. I actually jumped up and pumped my hands in the air, giving him a victory symbol across the water. He nodded, pleased with himself, and headed out of the channel, to safer waters – where he should have anchored in the first place.

I looked around as we were propelled back and forth in the channel, now free to move, and noticed the lights were on in all our neighbors’ boats. No one slept as they watched powerless how mother nature toyed and played with them. By morning the channel was calm, we floated in a regular wind pattern, anchor in tact. Ready for another day in paradise.

A few days later, over one of Black Boy’s famous rum punches at Salt Water Bay’s gorgeous beach, a local captain explained that the tides do this for three days before and after every full moon. Over the years he had seen many boats smash and tangle in that very channel during those few days.

It had been a coincidence that we’d been there once before, and it had been sheer luck that we didn’t have more than a harmless bump with our neighboring clueless captain.

Family Vacation - part 2

I’m ravenously downloading movies using the high speed Internet at Secret Harbour marina. I’ve got a cappuccino in hand and an afternoon of relaxation ahead, after the busy weeks we’ve had.

We might currently be stranded here, in this bay, while Shiloh sits on anchor around the corner at Hog island. Our dinghy motor is not behaving, stopped spitting water and instead gasped out a lot of smoke as we arrived here a while ago. Not sure she’ll make it back as it seems we have a clogged filter/impeller. But that is another story, for another day. I’m confident it will pan out into a blog post in the next few days.

For now, I’m looking back on the week that was, with our enthusiastic guests onboard, and lots of fun and games with mother nature out at sea.

We arrived in Tobago Cays through a washing machine of waves and were finally able to make good on our promise to JW’s neice, that she would swim with turtles. She devoured every minute of what the aqua wonderland had to offer and we barely saw her little face without a snorkel suctioned to it. She collected shells, marveled at the iguanas and played with starfish.

Swimming with the turtles

 As for her big brother, he named himself dinghy captain from day one, and if he was not pranking us with mayday calls on the two way radio, he was buzzing around on the rubber speed machine, or taxiing us around. Dad, the avid fisherman tried his best and caught a few small ones but the big dorados and albacore tunas evaded us. 

 Luckily there was local rum to soothe the disappointment. Mom took some well deserved moments of quiet reading time and joined in for some great snorkeling as well. Basically a fun time was had by all.

On the other hand, captain JW and I faced some weather phenomenon that led to at least a couple of sleepless nights. On the first, I awoke in our normally protected anchorage in the Cays, to find Shiloh facing away from the anchor and getting dangerously close to the beach. I woke JW and we observed the swirling pool we found the boat in. The current was pushing us toward the wind and the result was a spinning boat. We upped the anchor and let it settle just outside the strange area, but alas we were almost touching the stony reef behind us and at midnight we tried anchoring again. This time we moved a bit further into the channel and fought the current for a while until we gave up and went back down to bed.

When we left the Cays and checked out of St. Vincent and the Grenadines at Union Island, we decided to skip checking in at Carriacou and find a desolate bay for the night, before heading straight back to Grenada. We rounded the southern tip of Carriacou and found White Island, a gorgeous sand bank lined with palm trees, but as we came closer, it became obvious that the waves were far to rough to anchor. Just behind, there was a small island called Saline, with a slightly more protected bay, and we decided to check it out before heading further south to Isle de Ronde. A French catamaran was out there in the waves with us, and they headed in right in front of us. There was room for a boat and a half in the tiny bay, but it was calmer. As we decided whether to move on or stay the night, our fisherman realised his eager line had caught something big alright – our propeller! So, we had to hold still in the swell, now realising how close we were to the reefs, while he dived down to get it all untangled. The boat moved further out into the waves and he struggled, coming up looking like a punk rocker with our blue anti-fouling paint all over his head. He had also gotten a few scrapes from the increasing barnacle population under the boat, and we decided we should get back into the relative protection of the bay and anchor so he could work at it properly.

So, with one engine we motored toward the French Cat and dropped anchor in the clear shallow water, falling back in crystal blue water, mindful of the coral, and rocks that lined the beach and the edge of the island behind us.

A view of Shiloh from the Saline Island beach, dinghy captain in the foreground, French Cat further ahead

 The fishing line was removed and we all agreed the island was too quaint to leave. We explored the water, finding a wealth of bright coloured fish below the surface. And along the beach, an old fort, an abandoned wooden cottage, the marked grave of Patrick John who died in 1959, surrounded by conch shells, and a tipped over sign saying NO TRESPASSING.

Patrick John's tombstone

 We retreated to the boat, but JW kept looking back at that reef, so close. He rigged up a system to mark the danger point in the water, something involving a lifejacket, a waterproof light and a rope with a big rock attached. The whole thing was eventually abandoned and we had a relaxed drink and supper and headed to bed early. The plan was that the two men would get up early and we’d start back toward Grenada at 5 am.

But as it goes, the wind picked up considerably about 11pm, and JW was up, monitoring. Our anchor drag alarm is not a precise tool, and it would warn us we had moved about the time we would be upon the reef. And so it was that JW stayed up the whole night, as the wind beat us harshly.

The anchor did hold though, and luckily it was the same for the French Cat in front of us, or we’d have had them upon us in seconds as well.

I guess JW was tired of watching and upped anchor at 4am. We then faced a mean current and slamming side-on waves for a good 2.5 hours. I lie awake in the cabin below, wasting my chance to sleep in, with the violent slapping Shiloh was enduring.

I emerged at 7am as we were reaching the top tip of Grenada and one sight of my captain pulled at my heartstrings. He was beyond exhausted.

He asked me to take over at the helm (now that we were in calm seas, protected in the lee of the island), and stumbled by me to get an hour or two of sleep.

A little while later his sis came up from her cabin with a dry mouth full of toothpaste and managed to explain that there was no water. But we had done so well with water conservation?! Everyone had barely showered?! But we checked a few taps and indeed it was dry.

Turns out the shower pipe at the back of the boat had burst and we’d lost over 300 litres of water, directly into our bilges. So, Shiloh made the final leg of the trip waterlogged, and with a crew of morning breath.

And somewhere around 10am we woke our captain and made a smooth entry to Port Louis marina, pulled up alongside, desperate for hot showers, a swim in the pool and some cool cocktails.

And by the next morning our guests had gone, and we made loose plans to do this again. Then we set to the task of cleaning. Luckily the mountains of salty towels and sheets were laundered by the marina and we pumped out all the water.

By 5pm we’d done everything and collapsed into the pool.

Are we ready for chartering? I decided if we ever did it, we’d only offer one week a month, the other three would be for turn over and recooperation!

Laundry in paradise

I’m sitting at Tanty Lizzy’s Seaside Fountain. Only there’s no fountain. There is a Tanty Lizzy though, and she’s not someone to mess with.

Yesterday while waiting for our laundry at the friendly Laundromat on the main strip (only street) of Tyrell Bay, sipping beers and playing Scrabble at a cute red picnic table under some cool shade, Tanty herself came trundling out of a dark establishment across the road and rained on our parade, big time. She explained in a few not-so-friendly words, that we were on her property and we had better buy our drinks from her or get the *bleep* out.

We had no idea of course, that the bus shelter/game centre belonged to any bar or restaurant, and apologised profusely, in fear of a beating or worse. By the end of the afternoon, a few beers later (bought from Tanty Lizzy of course), and a couple questionable plates of lambi (conch) stew later, we were all friends. Hence I’m back, but this time I’m blogging.

Blogging at Tanty Lizzy's while waiting for laundry

 What a sight I must be – in a tropical paradise, my little Macbook, camera and iPhone on display, plugging away at the keys, while local fishermen, school children and fellow yachties in their well worn crocs saunter by, going about their day.

I feel the days slipping by, undocumented, one turquoise, salty, sun-soaked day melting into the next. It’s deliciously warm and relaxing and even the exciting moments anchoring, running aground on sand, finding eels in the waves and sailing in ‘perfect conditions’ with our mainsail up in 20knts wind, are all just part of the life.

We've now taken the journey from Grenada up through the southern Grenadines and we are heading very slowly back.

Tonight will be a potluck on the beach with some new and known friends. Last night’s miniature rum squall involved a gang of us on the beach, rum and beer of course, and some snacks that soon became sandy when a little wind gust threw our blanket up and over the fresh guacamole and my second attempt at corn bread. These were the casualties of the night.

The life of a cruiser has in it, all the normal things like laundry, cooking, cleaning (mostly getting rid of sand, salt and mold from the boat). In fact, it has some added frustrations, like EVERYTHING turns to mold if left unattended for longer than a week. JW's last remnant of his 'corporate self', his leather belt was dug out this morning and looked like this:

 But there is the benefit of the constant journey, discovery, conquest. It involves facing your insignificance out there at sea, as a tiny floating blip. The adrenaline flow as you play with the formidable forces of the wind and the massive ocean. 

The arrival at each new bay, like discoverers, I stand up on the bow while JW leads us valiantly in, dodging rocks, fishing lines, mooring balls and other boats, finding our ‘spot’ for the night or week.

It’s all exciting, invigorating, inspiring.

And you get to do your chores in places like this:

The evolution of a sailor

As I sit sipping my coffee, looking out into the bay, my little tube of lip balm rolls back and forth in a steady rhythm on the table beside me.

It’s 7am. It is a rolly anchorage and we had a bit of a bumpy night. But I slept well.

I’m realising two things – that gone are the nights of lying awake, terrified of the strange noises and constantly worrying about our anchor dragging, sending us out to sea, or into the boat behind us. Secondly, the rise and fall of a swell in the bay doesn’t affect me any longer. I’ve become used to my house pitching up and down, with the horizon peaking through my windows and disappearing just as fast, over and over.

It proves how adaptable the human brain is. There was a day when this movement would have had my tummy gripped in nausea.

Yesterday as we made our way from Union Island to Mayreau, with 21 kn winds on our nose and huge swells rocking Shiloh quite hard, both JW and I realised we’ve overcome seasickness. This journey a month ago would have warranted Gravol or Dramamine or Stugeron.

So many things have changed while they’ve stayed the same. There’s been a paradigm shift within me.

When we made all our plans to leave work, home, land life, I suffered from a deep seated fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what could go wrong, and of my complete inability to face whatever that might be.

But the longer we’ve been at sea, the more great experiences and things that have gone wrong, have made this life all that more believable, manageable, loveable.

A ‘boat boy’ has just motored up to Shiloh. I peek out and a blond blue-eyed rasta man is grinning at me. His big red wooden boat is called ‘Yellow’. He offers me fresh baked baguette. I tell him we’re fine, but thanks and he’s off. I love those moments.

I loved the moment a lot less a few days ago, when we found ourselves motoring forward in a crowded bay, only to hear the one engine fail completely. 

 As we started to drift dangerously back toward an old anchored boat, I flew down the stairs, to the port aft cabin, woke our friend and crew member from her nap, and threw all the bedding out into the hallway so JW could get into the engine compartment underneath and find out what was going on.

Meanwhile we called the friends on our ‘fleet’ (the boats we’ve been traveling with), to let them know what was happening. 

 We enlisted two dinghys to act as the port engine and JW motored forward on the starboard engine while I dropped anchor and we all crossed our fingers, hoping it would set. Once we were securely in place, the team dived down to have a look at our port propeller.

Turns out we had motored right over a dark grey, unmarked fishing rope. It had become completely entangled in the prop as it spun, bringing it to a halt. Hence the engine failing. It had even begun to melt into itself with the heat of the action.

As diving and holding my breath for long periods under water while prying melted rope from a propeller are not yet on my list of skills, I stood above, while members of our fleet spent the couple hours up and down, coming up with chunks of the offending rope.

 This experience was not pleasant. But it was not wracked with the horror it would have been, had we been alone or had we been a month younger at sea. But these things happen.

I’m realising that, just like the rest of life, sailing has it’s ups and downs. Things work out. Things work out much better without the fear and panic.

I now know why boats come so slowly into bays, with crew right on the front tip of the boat, surveying and scrutinizing the water below. I will follow suit.

It’s a learning curve. But now it’s a fun one. Some things will change the more I know, some will stay the same.

Apparently seasoned sailors get their dinghy painters (ropes) caught in their props, and even those who have crossed oceans have been known on occasion, when the winds are high or gusty, to spend sleepless nights, worried about dragging anchor…

Boats do float

As I sat on Shiloh’s back step this morning, looking out at the unbelievably turquoise water on the sand patches in the reef nearby, my face buried in a bright orange mango, juice poured down to my elbows and onto the bright white gel coat surface. I actually smiled while contemplating our anchoring experiences.

After being released from the mosquito infested boat-hammock-on-the-hard on Tuesday night, we decided to try to find a less rolly spot out in Prickly Bay to anchor, which meant finding somewhere tucked in, close to shore.

So we found a spot where some monohulls were nestled in behind, swung Shiloh around and dropped the anchor. Only the depth metre started reading freakishly low numbers. It claimed we were in less than a foot of water!

We played around a bit – letting out more chain and watching the boats behind us, but wondering how they had managed to get in there with their deep keels.

Finally we had moved behind the most shallow section and were in a few feet of water.

I was at the back of the boat taking a GPS reading so we could determine whether we were stuck in on the anchor when JW shouted from the front,

“If anyone’s going to run aground, it’s this guy!”

And just as soon as he’d said it, I ran up to the front to see a monohull, motoring at full speed, right in front of us, heading into shore on the wrong side of the concrete bouy marking the channel.

Seconds later as we locked eyes with the couple on board, their boat went from speed to stationary with a tremendous jolt. The boat and it’s occupants were shocked and the couple nearly lost their footing, sunglasses flying, hair blown forward from the swift reversal of movement.

“Oh my God!” I shouted.

“I can’t believe they did that!” I probably spoke loud enough for them to hear me, as I’m known for that, but they didn’t seem to notice as they had a boat keel smashed into a shoal and were busy hitting reverse gear with gusto.

The water churned wildly below them as they sped backward, dangerously close to some moored boats.

JW calmly motioned for them to go around the concrete marker in the safe channel.

They waved and seemingly unphased, they went past and headed toward the slip we had been hoisted in the night before.

It taught me a few things right away.

1.     We are not the only ones who find ourselves in dangerous and embarrassing situations on the water.

2.     We were definitely anchored on or near a really shallow something. Was it a sand bank or coral or a wreck?

3.     Boats are much stronger than I imagined – having watched that boat hit at such speed and managed to get away unscathed.

We left the boat and headed to town. Later that night, after a great night and winning the trivia challenge with our cruiser team over at the Tiki Bar, we dinghied back to Shiloh and turned in. Only as I lay in bed with my book I kept hearing what sounded like bubble wrap being popped. It was subtle yet constant. I altered JW who was just about to dive into a deep and well deserved sleep.

We moved around the boat listening until we isolated it’s source. Under the floor boards, the sound was quite loud. We were definitely sitting on something and the popping noise was very unsettling.

We turned on the depth metre and discovered we were in less than 1ft of water. Judging by the noises, we were in no feet of water!

We were both exhausted and didn’t relish the idea of heading out into the rough bay in the dark, but in the end that’s just what we did. Luckily we moved easily from our shallow patch and headed way out into the channel. JW was determined that I relax about the depth, so he wanted to find somewhere with at least 20 ft depth.

It was really dark and our super flashlight barely helped. The wind was whipping and mooring bouys plus fishing nets lurked around us like a mine field.

I ran around the front of the boat, bouncing over the trampoline from corner to corner, on the look out.

We found an empty spot and dropped the anchor. We swung back and found a spot with exactly 20ft depth!

So after 30 minutes of GPS readings and eyeballing our position, we retired to bed. Rolling and bouncing, the rains came all night and I never fell into a deep sleep.

But by morning we were in the same position and no barnacles or wrecks were damaging our under side.

There are many trade offs with sailing and I’m learning it  applies to the whole anchoring experience as well.

 Last night after a rough trip through 8ft waves and sea spray over us, we were back in our favourite spot at Hog island. We had trouble getting the anchor to hold and motored forward raising it and dropping again until we held. And the depth metre read about 1 ft of water! But there was no crackling noise and there were no rolly waves throwing us around. And I decided to relax, and accept the payoff.