Fuck.
Normally I could steer by alternating usage of the two main engines. But not in these seas. We’re getting tossed about as I throw the gears around trying to control our sideways jaunt out of the pass. This is arguably worse than dragging anchor towards a leeward shoal.
“Tell the girls to secure everything inside,” I tell Dom. He rushes off.
Shit is banging and falling everywhere as the eight-foot waves toss us sideways. If I had steering I could keep them right on our stern and you could play marbles on the deck. Right now you can’t even stand up.
Dom comes back. “We have to drop anchor,” I tell him. “Got to get our bow into these waves before we break the ship apart. Just until we can repair the steering.” He slides on a dripping jacket and heads back out. The nuisance from earlier is about to be redeployed. Let’s just hope it holds this time.
Already I’m making a tool and parts list to take down into the bilges with me. I know for sure we don’t have any fittings or tubing for that steering system, so we’ll be cobbling something together from the bits we do have, or pulling something from another system.
While the chain is clanking over the windlass I realize why I loved the original Star Wars trilogy so much. It was Han and Chewie, keeping that bucket of bolts together and always getting in trouble. Shit was always breaking down, and they never had the right tools for the job, but they always got the job done anyway. They had no reason to love that ship so much…. but they did. And that’s what was missing from the prequels, the reason I couldn’t connect with them. No Millennium Falcon.
Dom is saying something over the VHF about the anchor, but with the wind and the squelch, it sounds more like a Wookie complaining. I grin like a smuggler and think to myself, “This better work”.
The anchor is spooling off the chain with the rattle of a hundred Gatlin guns firing in perfect unison. CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK Each shot fires another link about 4 inches long. I feel like I should be counting them, adding them up, stringing that anchor rode out in my mind. The longer it is—the greater chance of a bite—the lower the angle of attack for the anchor. I tell Dom to put out 600 feet. I think we are at least 700 from the reef behind us.
Weird how you make split decisions like this. A complex calculation of risk analysis and probability. In an instant, you do what would take a calculus whiz and an insurance adjuster an entire day. Like when a lifeguard rushes out to save someone down the beach. They know just how far down the beach to run (because that’s faster) before they dive in. But they don’t run all the way to the person. They find this angle of attack that’s close to perfectly efficient.
It’s a skill we learn from our experiences. The bad ones.
There’s nothing I can do to help the anchor now. I’ve slowed our descent as much as I can, but we’re going sideways and rolling lazily from side to side. Every now and then the waves time it perfectly to send something crashing down inside the boat.
The decision has been made. I join Dom at the bow to see if it was the right one.
As we see the second red mark on the anchor run over the side of the yacht, I nod to Dom through the rain and wind. The chain grinds to a halt and I lock the break down. Now we wait as the feet stretch to their limit. As the wind and waves push us towards the reef.
100 feet to grab. I’d like it to happen in 50.
I’m laughing at Dom who is trying to light a cigarette in this soup.
Good luck.
###
An anchor grabbing sand and holding and an anchor being drug at the end of 600 feet of chain look almost just alike. It was easy to “feel” the difference asleep in my bunk, but here on the bow, looking down into a frenzied froth of angry sea, being pelted by a billion raining bullets, with a small flashlight’s cone of vision, I just can’t tell at first.
Dragging Anchor - A True Story
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