A reminder from the Universe

 

“Shit,” I heard her say through the open hatch. She wasn’t talking to me but I could hear her from my bunk, gusts of wind blowing cool mountain air and the captain’s mutterings into my cabin. I thought maybe her sarong blew off the helm station where she’d tied the gossamer pink fabric or she’d forgotten to write something on her never-ending To-Do list. It was 11pm in Prince Rupert Bay, Dominica. We’d dropped anchor earlier that day after an overnight sail from the Grenadines 175 miles to the south. Well, actually, we dropped it, dragged, pulled it up, dropped it, dragged, pulled it up, dropped it- HELD!- on the rocky bottom.

She knocked rapidly on my door and said, “Jenny?”
I immediately knew something was wrong.
“There’s a boat REALLY close to the bow.”
I rolled up my pajama pants and climbed up on deck. Betelgeuse and Sirius blinked through the rainclouds scurrying across the sky. Fierce gusts of wind rattled the halyards and whipped strands of salty hair into my squinting eyes. “Shit,” I said as I charged up to the bow. The cruising boat that had been two boat lengths away earlier that night was now within arms reach. I yelled into their dark companionway. Someone must be on board: their dinghy is up, their hatches are open, the anchor light is on. Were they the boat that came in at sunset? We had anchored relatively far leeward of the other boats in the anchorage. Now we had a 40 foot, 20 ton hunk of fiberglass and metal inches from our bow. And then on our bow as the wind swung to the north. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“HELLO?! WAKE UP!! YOU'RE DRAGGING!”
A man appears through the companionway accompanied by a young girl. They are both in their underwear. They are both staring at us, then at our anchor chain, then at their hoisted dinghy and solar panel and wind generator now colliding with our bow, then back at us.

Their boat is now on our anchor chain. I can feel it rumbling at my feet. We need to let it out. They need to pull up on their dragging anchor, winch themselves as best they can off of us. With all the pressure of two boats, our anchor will certainly drag and we will be a tangled mess of masts and chains and people hurtling towards the cruise ship dock behind us.
“Take up on your chain,” the captain yells to them. The man is still staring at us. Shit. They’re French. I don’t speak French. At least not middle of the night dragging boat technical French. Sure I can ask for a baguette and figure out the numbers, but I have no idea how to say Chain. I start yelling Prochaine but then realize that means Next and I am probably confusing the hell out of them by my horrible language skills. Now their anchor is totally dragging and the bow of their boat is careening towards the side of our boat while their stern is still trapped on our anchor chain. We are an unintentional aquatic centipede.

“Fend off!” I tell our guests who are now on deck, barely awake, perhaps still a little drunk, and definitely confused. They look around, grab big rubber fenders, and just stare at the boat as it swings towards us. OK, nevermind delegation. Fuck the paint job, its shot anyway, I need to deal with this chain that is now stuck under their rudder. The guy on the other boat wants to use their engine but can’t with the chain at their prop. We slide back when I let chain out, they slide with us as the wind sandwiches us together.  Not good.

We fend. We wonder how this will end.
A lull. The wind calms for a moment and we let out more chain. Their rudder is free but now the stern and all the shit clinging to it (dinghy, solar panel, wind generator) is about to scrape down the side of our boat. We fend off with rubber and flesh. The man is telling the Captain to mind her “tete” and I can just imagine dodging the fate of dragging with this boat only to have the English captain be decapitated by the blades of a Frenchman’s spinning wind generator.  Centuries old feuds realized in the West Indies.

The stern is clear of us! There is still a chance of them swinging back into us as they pick up their fouled anchor on this dark night, but it looks like we might be in the clear. My heart is racing and for a second I think, “This is insane! This boating thing. Night watches, anchors dragging. I mean, people on land don’t need to worry about other peoples houses crashing down on theirs in the middle of the night.” Well, unless there’s a tornado. But that is a natural event whereas anchor dragging is preventable and you are essentially trusting others to know how to do it for your own personal safety. It would be like if houses floated in the air like balloons and everyone had to tie down their house and if you don’t know the special knots or you just kind of toss a line over a branch without really pulling on it to make sure its secure your house could float away or bump into other houses when the wind gets crazy.
Of course, we all drag anchor at some point in our boating lives. Its like riding a motorcycle: if you do it long enough its not a matter of IF you will crash but WHEN.

An hour later, after the Captain and I sat in the cockpit anxiously laughing about middle of the night issues, then watching the Navigation screen to make sure we weren’t dragging ourselves, we were in our bunks when the anchor drag alarm went off (yay technology). I crane my head to look up at the screen. The alarm had been going off all day as we swung in the wind, but now it was clear we had lurched back over 100 feet. Right towards where the dragging boat had reanchored. Great.
Now we’re going to drag onto his bow. I leap into the cockpit and fumble to start the engine. The Captain takes the helm and I run up to the anchor. We’re holding again, but we let out more chain to better secure us.

We swing, we stretch the chain in the gusts, we seem to hold. The drag alarm is set at 100 feet so it goes off about every 20 minutes for hours as we swing. I cannot sleep, ready to jump into the cockpit again.

This is boating.
It sometimes involves no sleep on windy nights in crowded anchorages. Or out a sea. But out at sea feels safer. There is room to maneuver and you don’t have all this Stuff (anchored boats, land, docks) to hit.
I sleep and dream of farming.

The previous night when I was staring up at Orion, scanning the horizon for traffic, eyes drifting up to Siruis, I didn’t want to adjust the sails. I wanted everything to stay constant. I didn’t want to take responsibility for doing something not quite right. Making the sails luff and shake. Making the boat heel too much. I wanted someone else to make the call. I didn't trust myself to feel what the boat needed even though I knew that I knew what to do. I know- this is a deeper issue. With sailing it is simply amplified. But I was alone on deck, only the loom of St. Lucia and the peaks of the Pitons to keep me company. As my watch wore on, the wind shifted. I had to take action because it was an hour before the next person on watch. I adjusted the sails, lines screaming against stainless winches with the tension. After 20 minutes of glorious close reach sailing, the wind died. Furl the jib, turn on the engine. I can do this. I am doing this. I have done this before. Remember when I was competent and confident on Wyntje? Remember when Walter would say, “That’s our girl!” as I scurried up the mast or docked the 64 foot boat without a word of assistance? Remember? Where did that confidence go? Sure things aren’t as second nature now, but I still know my shit. I don’t have to be perfect. And all this adjusting is kind of fun. The main may luff a little, the jib may be a touch too tight, but we are getting there. And I am capable. What's my fear? If something goes wrong, say if the wind gusts to 35 as it screams down the mountains, what will I do? Will I make the boat sink because I freeze up? No, I'll take action. Then take action again. Just like in "real life."

So I believe the Universe decided to give me a little challenge. I knew that it would. As much as I dreaded it, I asked for it. Bring it on, I whispered into the dark water. So when that boat was on our bow and I stepped up and took charge (working with the Captain), it reminded me that in emergency situations, I actually keep pretty calm. I take in the scene and delegate (or attempt to) and I am actually pretty effective.

I can handle this. Meaning, I can handle a boat dragging onto us. I can handle our own boat dragging. I can handle sailing the boat on my own. I can handle 35 knot winds (and more). I can handle this life I lead. I can’t necessarily control it- the circumstances or the outcomes, but I can trust the process and know that as long as I stay grounded (or moored) in my gut, I will know what to do.

(and hey Universe, I got the lesson so no need for any more boats on the bow, OK?)