Stop, Stardust, Stop

We’ve all been in over our head more than once…

Image by Grant Durr

Circumnavigating the eastern United States at 7 knots can make for long days.  Many nights I go to bed tired.  Not the yawny, sleepy, kind of tired—the living and working outdoors kind.

Exhaustion usually provides for deep sleep.  But anchored off Beaver Island during a storm, the reptilean, survival part of my brain overruled my craving for comfort.  In the middle of the night I woke up because—as strange as it sounds—the boat felt funny in the water. I got up to look around and felt the rain and wind blowing harder.   

I thought my eyes had not adjusted to the dark because it looked like Star Dust was not in the same place where we had dropped anchor the day before.  Maybe the wind has us at a different angle. Then I saw how close the stern of Stardust was to shore. The anchor was dragging.    

“Glen, Glen, get up.” I went to down to shake him awake and turn on the starter batteries.  “We’re dragging to shore,” and ridiculously added, “Hurry!”     

Up on the flybridge Glen said, “The anchor alarm didn’t go off.”  It’s the kind of malfunction you don’t have time to troubleshoot with the sea grass and beach drawing closer. Just then the engines roared to life.

Outside on deck was worse than I imagined.  Wearing orange raingear over skivvies I stepped out of the protected enclosure holding a 2 inch tall flashlight in one hand, grabbing hold of the boat with the other. Rain slapped my back as I stooped over the anchor windlass; I saw the vibration of the anchor rode dragging along the bottom. As if Star Dust was being suicidally pushed to shore against her will.  

There was too much strain on the chain and windlass to raise anchor, so Glen bumped  the engines against the gusts, following the direction of my small beam of flashlight.  As the strain eased I brought up the chain, splaying the light toward the direction for Glen to motor. The danger here was over riding our chain and I turned to Glen, my flattened palm pointed down, telling him to go slower. With the rain and dark Glen is flying blind in the cockpit, using the chart plotter to navigate around the shoals.  Thankfully there is only one other boat in the anchorage and their anchor light looks far away.  I hope that’s true.   

Oblivious to the rain, I took in the chain and the links clanked over the windlass like a Gatlin gun firing in slow motion.  Clack clack clack clack.

Uh oh.  There’s a problem. The windlass was whining and straining.  The last thing I want to do is break the motor and have to pull it up hand over hand.

Leaning over the pulpit I see the problem through the narrow beam of flashlight.  Sea grass and mud are tangled and packed up 2-3 feet along the last of the chain, covering and weighing down the anchor.  Laying on deck I grabbed and tore away what I could but it wouldn’t break loose.   

Rolling away from the anchor I got up and ran below decks to get something to cut it off.  Glen yelled, “Are you okay?” But no time for explanation. Kneeling before the toolbox my mind did spilt second calculations and decided on a large screwdriver over a small knife. Then I ran up to the flybridge and handed the tool to Glen. “It’s wound thick around the chain.  Not sure I have the strength to hack it all away.” 

Glen went outside on the bow and I took the helm, nudging the engines to try and stay off the shoals.  Finally I heard the whirring of the windlass motor.  It was working again.  But now we had the same problem; getting the anchor to hold on the grassy bottom in those conditions. But there was no other choice.

Then, in the distance I saw a light waving, then two.  As Glen replaced me at the helm I pointed to what looked like two people waving us over, toward a pier.     

“It must be Salty. It looks like they are waving us over to a dock.  Hallelujah! Give me time to rig the lines.”

It would be tricky coming alongside in the wind and rain, but not as hard as a narrow dock slip with boats on each side.  Thank you Salty, trying to recall their first names.  We owe you big time.  We’d met the couple on the trawler Salty days before, in Mackinaw Straits, and run into them during a walk on Beaver Island that morning.  Why were they awake at that time of night? They are safe and secure in the marina. How did they know we needed help?

Strong gusts snatched the dock lines midair, and I felt like crying the second time they splashed in the water. Finally the lines made it into the hands of the captain of Salty who secured our bow. Half way there. Then I ran back to throw the stern line to his wife and lickety split we were secure for the night.  “You are our new best friends,” I said.  “We could never have come alongside in this wind without help.” 

The couple deflect our gushing gratitude, saying they had dragged before and knew the feeling.  “You will probably want to be gone before the fishing boats need to come alongside. I’m an early riser and can  untie your lines at dawn.”

Though secure at dock, I was too shaken to sleep.  Back and forth in my mind I kept wondering, What made me wake up before we grounded, and what made a couple we barely knew look out the window, see our plight and come to our aid? 

So often I feel insignificant.  Like a tiny dot in the vast universe.  But that night I realized that powerful unseen forces connect the dots when we need it most.   

Image by Dan Meyer

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