This latest in a series of spell-bounding Tadventure© renditions, recollecting my dangerous journeys on the high seas (well, the Chesapeake), relates Day Four of the Great Chesapeake Cruise. Others may disagree that it causes one to sit on the edge of one’s seat; I could not possibly comment.
Having at the close of Day Three realized that my laptop was a fully functional DVD player (see: “Malia,” Queen of Electronic Darkness), I stayed up too late watching P.G. Wodehouse’s (pronounced, “wood house”) Wooster and Jeeves and awoke, post sunrise, on Day Four. I had been contemplating a move to a new locale given two simple facts: I was approaching rapidly a near vegetative state (I promised “Ron” I would come home when I started talking to myself, out loud, and the murmuring had begun) from sitting around doing nothing for three days and I recalled from previous experience that the longer you keep an anchor dug into the same place, the harder it is to effect extrication. Unfortunately, the wind had already risen and I faced a bit of a quandary: given a relatively small area to traverse once the anchor had been, theoretically set free, the high winds and my lack of assistance, getting the anchor onboard without running aground was going to be a bitch. ‘No worries,’ I said aloud (scaring myself in the process).
I prepared all the necessary preparations: starting the engine, turning on the [functional] electronics, sucking down the last remnants of the day’s brew, filling a bucket of water, and made my way confidently to the foredeck to raise the anchor.
[A bit of background is in order here. Recently, I replaced my bowsprit, a pointy, projectile-looking device that emanates, phallically, from the forward end of my boat. Previously, the previous bowsprit had installed upon it a device known as a “windlass” that served a great many purposes related to anchoring. (I shan’t engage in discussion of the term, “wind lass” as it might cause “Ron” to attain a convulsive state and refuse, from this day forward, to venture forth to raise the anchor on “our” behalf.) I decided, after much Friday night, rigging shoppe discussion, to dispense with placing the old manual windlass on the new bowsprit anticipating, in times of reduced unemployment, that I might purchase a new and improved electric model to ease my transition into the geriatric state. Therefore, nothing was there for me to use…I had no mechanical advantage available to exhume the anchor from its watery grave.]
I noted before leaving the cockpit that the wind was blowing in the range of 12 to 15 knots but every time I ventured to the bow, it seemed to gust as if it saw me coming and knew I had not the necessary mechanics to facilitate the operation underway. I latched onto the anchor chain and pulled without success. I won’t belabor the point (as usual) other than to say I spent the next 20 minutes running to the cockpit, motoring slowly forward, and then racing to the bow to pull in about 10 feet of chain before the wind threw me back to the end of my steel tether. That is all well and good but at some point, a point of no return, the chain retrieval procedure proceeds to such an extent that there is a real danger of the anchor lifting free of its own volition since there is insufficient chain remaining on the bottom to provide the necessary catenary advantage and that could well be while I was skipping lively from bow to stern or vice versa.
Meanwhile, I was getting tired. I had laid out, following increased wind two days before, additional chain to hold me in place and I had about 100’ of this stuff to wrestle aboard without the aid of crew (Me: ‘Go forward and raise the anchor. I’ll stay here in the cockpit drinking coffee, shouting unintelligibly, and making strange hand gestures.’ Crew: ‘Why don’t you go?’ Me: ‘You probably don’t want to wear those clothes. That mud almost never washes out.’ Crew, heading to the bow: ‘[unintelligible]’ and some sort of hand gesture) and I was becoming increasingly worried about the anchor breaking out like a speed sensor, sending me careening into the soft mud that surrounded my snug anchorage location. Hudson Creek, while a pretty spot had, as avid readers will recall, no small measure of bad karma associated with it and I didn’t want to have another story to tell.
I was the last to leave (see: shift change) so I had no worries about hitting other boats but there were two or three watermen eying my repeated trips to and fro with no small measure of amusement. Sure enough, while scampering aft, I perceived a decided swinging motion and looked back in time to see the bow being swept sideways by the wind and pushing the boat nearer and neared to the shoreline. I had no choice but to “throttle up” and drag the remaining chain and anchor across the bottom toward deeper water giving me enough time to run back to the bow and drag it all to the deck before running back to the cockpit, yet again. This I did and all was well. [Look, every iffy situation can’t result in me being knocked out or being stuck in a wet suit or being stabbed repeatedly in the scrotum. I’m just trying to give you a sense of how incredibly dangerous it could be if something were to go awry.] Off I went, headed for Oxford.
At I poked my nose out of the Little Choptank River on my way to the Choptank River proper, I heard the United States Coast Guard make some announcement over the radio about buoys in the Choptank. I called the Coast Guard to enquire about the message since I’d only caught snippets of their initial broadcast. They said they’d be tending a buoy in the river and warned all boating traffic to stay the hell away (they say it nicer). I then recalled that my eldest boy had a former girlfriend assigned to a buoy tender on the Bay and I “rang them up” thusly:
Me: “Coast Guard, Coast Guard, Marieusz, one six.”
Coast Guard: “Vessel calling Coast Guard, this is the cutter Griffin.”
[This was a laugh. Cutter my ass. It was a buoy tender, for Pete’s sake. Cutters have guns and special teams called boarding parties, replete with side arms and truncheons to deal with liberal yachters, simply refusing to acquiesce to governmental intrusion.]
Me: “Do you have a bosun mate named [since the lad and this lass are no longer an item, I’m not going to use her real name…even in quotes….let’s just call her, “K7”] on board?
Coast Guard: “Sir, please switch and answer channel two-two-alpha.”
Me: “Roger, two-two-alpha.”
Me: “Coast Guard, Marieusz, two-two-alpha.”
Coast Guard: “How can we help you, Captain?”
Me: “I’m wondering if you have a bosun mate named “K7” on board. I just wanted to say, ‘Hi.’”
[At this point I was losing enthusiasm for this entire idea sensing the United State Coast Guard shared my view.]
Coast Guard: “I’m sorry, sir, but we can not confirm or deny the presence of personnel on board.”
[This seemed like a sensible precaution plus, having not really thought through the entire dialog, I was in a quandary about what to say in the unlikely event that the young lady came to the “phone” due in part to the “parting of the ways” she and my son had undergone. “Howdy, it’s “Mike’s” Dad!” just didn’t seem to be the thing to elicit enthusiasm from the female. I decided upon a different strategy.]
Me: “Roger. Out.”
I continued on my course.
The cruising guide specifically stated, “[The Strand] is a cool anchorage that seems to catch whatever breeze might drift into the Tred Avon on a summer day, but it is open and would be rough during a thunderstorm or a nor’easter.” Since the skies were darkening and there was a brisk northeasterly breeze, I headed directly to the anchorage known as, “The Strand” and set the anchor. [It would have been very helpful to read the cruising guide before I anchored but there you are.]
Nothing noteworthy happened for hours until, well into my fourth beverage or so, a very nice sailing vessel approached just as the sun was setting. There was only one boat other than my own in the anchorage so I was confident that the new arrival would have no problem finding a secure spot, endangering neither myself nor my neighbor. I watched with interest when the “newbie” drove directly in front of my boat, there to drop their anchor in close proximity to the anchor I had placed there earlier and in real danger of “falling back” onto my boat when they paid out their anchor rode.
[A word about this anchoring business is in order. When you drop an anchor, it sets not directly under the boat; its holding power is greatly increased when you move away from it, leaving a length of anchor line or chain in your wake. Theoretically, the more “rode” you pay out, the more secure the anchor becomes as the “catenary” (the curve formed by the anchor rode from your bow to the anchor shaft) increases. The goal is to have the pointy bits of the anchor dug into the bottom and the anchor shaft being pulled in a horizontal direction thereby encouraging it (the anchor) and you (the boat) to remain in situ. Common practice dictates specific ratios of anchor rode length to water depth (i.e., with an all chain rode, you strive to achieve 4 or 5 feet of rode for each foot of water depth; with a nylon rode, this ratio is often 7:1). The point is, the anchor is NOT underneath the boat (unless it’s dead calm and there is no current and even then it is highly unlikely to be absolutely below); it lies somewhere you aren’t.]
The “newbie” began to exhibit all the tell-tale signs of a boater preparing to “let ‘er go” while floating just about directly where I guessed my anchor to be. I leapt to my feet, made my way to the bow, and assumed the time honored posture known globally as, “The Anchor Stance.”
The Anchor Stance is recognizable by four specific mannerisms: the feet are spread apart (to provide unwavering balance), the hands are placed on hips (a classic indication of disapproval), a deeply furrowed brow (oft blocked by a hat but necessary nonetheless), and a steely, unblinking gaze (sunglasses are best left off for this to achieve any modicum of success). The effect is one of great displeasure; the intent is to render, telepathically if necessary, the other yacht’s captain and crew defenseless against this four-pronged onslaught as you try to dissuade them from whatever action they are engaged in at the time; like dropping an anchor on top of your own. [There is another version of the Anchor Stance, quite useful in times you wish to dissuade a yacht, laden with young offspring, from anchoring nearby and piercing your serene existence with the cacophony normally accompanying such creatures: The Naked Woman on the Bow. This technique, employed often in the Caribbean where the presence of a nude woman is considered de rigeur, often has the desired effect of convincing the issue’s maternal unit to instruct the issue’s paternal unit to find a spot “elsewhere” (despite the paternal unit’s normal reaction: “Let’s stop HERE!”). Since on this occasion I had neither on board a naked woman nor, in stark contrast to the strongly held beliefs of many of my acquaintances, a reasonable facsimile thereof, and there appeared to be on board the other boat inhabitants of voting age, I never gave this option a second thought.]
[Again, some anchoring basics: If another boat drops their anchor on top of your anchor (or your chain), there is the real possibility that their anchor could snag yours and pull it out thus leaving you to the mercy of the winds and the currents, not to mention the real possibility of careening through the anchorage in a pinball-like fashion, meeting physically several dissatisfied patrons along the way, all of which will be by then lined up like marionettes at an Anchor Stance training exercise.]
This time, the Anchor Stance failed as a crucial element therein is the “other” crew’s attention to the demonstrative demonstration being demonstrated by you (me, in this case). Desperate times call for desperate measures and I proceeded to the second phase of the anchoring dissuasion process: Verbal Assault.
Me: [Not quite shouting but in a voice guaranteed to carry] “Good afternoon, Captain. Nice boat.”
[I find it best to be both respectful (“Captain”) and complimentary (“Nice boat”) during the initial salvo.]
Captain: “Oh, hello.” (as if just realizing there was a 40’ boat lying in frightful proximity)
Me: “Just wanted to let you know that it appears my anchor lies immediately beneath you.”
Captain: “Really?”
[Based on his cavalier reply, I was not convinced that the “skipper” understood fully the nuanced meaning of my initial report. I endeavored to thwart a confrontational situation and sallied forth with something I deemed both instructive and helpful.]
Me: “You’ll find plenty of water and swinging room if you drop your hook just astern of that blue boat over there.” (I pointed to the only blue boat within shouting distance, a mere 30 yards to the “newbie’s” starboard side.)
Captain: “Oh.”
He then proceeded to retrieve what anchor chain he had already deposited upon the sea floor and headed over behind the blue boat. I remained at full attention, ramrod straight (save the feet spread for stability and the hands on hips for effect) while he maneuvered his vessel to the spot I had indicated. He began to make circles, much like a dog preparing for a nap and just when I thought he would release his anchor, he throttled up and headed back to his original choice, right in front of me. The time for chivalry and a desire to avoid an unfortunate contretemps had passed.
Me: “Um, Captain, I would very much appreciate if you would refrain from anchoring there. You see, you’re right on top of my anchor and in the unlikely event that you would be unsuccessful in pulling it from the bottom, when you let out sufficient rode to anchor safely yourself, your boat will be close enough to allow us to ‘pass the salt.’”
I think, at this point, he “got” it and instructed the bow person to “raise the anchor.” Having done so, they throttled up again, in search of, one assumed, a spot with more friendly neighbors. As they shimmered past my bow I valiantly proffered a final bon mot in an attempt to remain on amicable terms.
Me: “Nice boat.” (Repetitious, granted, but one must make an effort at times like these.)
Captain: “Thanks. But it’s not mine, it’s a charter.”
Me: “Really…”
[The following poem, written by my dear friend and fellow Caribbean sailor, Mrs. Stephanie Aston-Jones, was published to great acclaim during our visit to those nether reaches. I reproduce it here as a Tadventure© bonus, without her permission. It is, however, subject to copyright, hers, and should be handled with care.]
I Can Almost Spit on Your Boat©
I can almost spit on your boat.
Do you think that you’re anchored too close?
I can read the brand of your underwear
Hanging on your lifeline there,
But you dropped that hook without a care.
I can almost spit on your boat.
I can hear every word that you say
Cause you’re anchored just three feet away.
Your intimacies when the lights go out
Are your own affair without a doubt
But I must say your wife really knows how to shout
I can almost spit on your boat.
So I guess we’ll be neighbors for now.
I’ll just hang my hat on your bow.
I’ll say “God bless you” when you sneeze
And we’ll exchange daily pleasantries
Like “Pass the toilet paper, please”
I can almost spit on your boat.
