Full Bore

by Ed Varano

It was the last evening of a twoweek, 670-mile trip from Beaufort, SC, to Oxford, MD, when my vessel and I were given no choice but to gird up our loins and fight for life with all of our primordial gusto. I was single-handing my sturdy sloop, a 1970 Douglas 31, to her new permanent berth, a little closer to my home in Pennsylvania. As we steamed into the last refuge of the journey, a humongous thunderstorm hit us head-on. Were it not for invisible forces and shear engine power, Penny Royal would have been defeated, laying on her side and beached, only a half-day from her final destination. The captain, having exhausted the budget and time for a trip that was already viewed as questionable by his life coaches, would have been busted.

The day started beautifully with a coffee and a hello from the local trotline crabber. After pulling up the hook, I took a quick stop in one of the many gunk hole marinas that is tucked into the Chesapeake Bay coastline. Ingram Bay Marina was about a 1/2 mile away from the anchorage. With my eyes glued to the GPS navigation app on my phone, we tip-toed to the inlet on a winding path that was flanked by hidden tufts of ground just feet under the surface.

Drifting so quietly into a perfect setting of serenity, I threw a line on an old dock and stepped off the boat. I filled up with diesel and ice and had a charming conversation with the owner/ dockhand. It was quite tempting to accept her offer of a night’s stay, which included a much-needed shower and a filet of the daily catch, but I knew there was another harbor waiting for us about 40 miles up the Bay.

After threading the narrow inlet and weaving through the crab pots, we set out into a balmy August day with high temperatures in the 90s. I had a bimini rigged to the boom and tied to the lifelines for cockpit shade. The problem with this configuration is it’s only a few inches above my head when I’m standing and it traps the heat like a sauna. The best way I found to endure this oven was to dowse myself with buckets of the Bay’s salty brine, and then hold a portable 12-volt trucker fan blowing directly on my head until it dried, and then repeat non-stop. I was also glad to have filled up on ice when I did; cold drinking water on this day was a necessary luxury.

The first weather warning on the VHF came in around 1 pm. It was that demanding crescendo of beeps followed by, “This is NOAA Weather Radio. There’s some tree-toppling, severely violent, every-type-o’watercraft sinking, big shit coming into your area this evening, and you may die if you’re not in an underground bunker…” These weather alerts are not rare, but this one seemed much graver since they were mentioning 50kt wind gusts and tornadoes, which happened to be the remnants of Tropical Storm Fred. The radio was blasting away every few minutes and that beeping is annoying, so I decided to turn it off, enjoy the ride, and hope for the best. There was a massive lone anvil cloud in the opposite direction far to the east, but other than that, it was clear all around.

The ETA for Solomon’s Island was 7:30pm. There was a small anchorage about four hours sooner for ducking in to avoid the forecasted storms, but the inlet was shallow and not well marked, so I decided against it. The breeze was a shifty 10 knots and with the main sail and jib struggling to fill, I increased the engine throttle to regular cruising RPMs. I had been coddling the Beta 16hp at a cool 1800 RPM for the last few days since the water pump started leaking out the weep hole. I knew that if I kept the stress low on the pump, there was a chance I could finish the trip and avoid the hassle and expense of breaking down.

As evening rolled in, I anxiously approached the outlying buoy to the Patuxent River. I was still at least an hour from the preferred anchorage, which of the three options, was the furthest up the river. About a halfhour into the long and wide river inlet, the first anchorage was to the left. It was protected by scant shrubbery on one side, and a submerged sandbar on the other. Supposedly, the resident US Navy personnel will use the spotlight

and loudspeaker on you in the middle of the night when your boat swings a little too close to shore. The next option was about 45 minutes to the right side of the river. It was a wedge of water between the channel into the town of Solomon and a row of residential docks. The image of getting blown into someone’s backyard, no doubt an exciting spectacle for the townspeople to behold, was not very appealing to me, so I decided to aim for the best anchorage. This spot was on the left side of the river, 12 feet deep, and well sheltered by land. It was located at the far end of the two-mile-wide Lower Patuxent Sanctuary, which was mostly 30 feet deep everywhere, and surrounded by US Naval Air Station property. The lee shore was undeveloped and sandy, so I figured if I were to get beached, this would be an agreeable landing pad.

I thought I should turn the radio back on and see what the latest is: “This is the United States Coast Guard, there’s some tree-toppling…blah de blah da…and if you’re on the water right now, you’re dead meat.” Even though it was looking very serious up ahead, this definitely got my attention. In my decades of boating experience, I don’t ever recall hearing a weather warning coming directly from the USCG on Ch. 16. Hmmm…let me check the weather radar on my phone. An image that is seared into my mind — Penny and I, represented by a little blue dot on the right side of the screen, soon to be deleted by a hellishly red, pulsating brush stroke, that covered the entire screen from top to bottom.

Ok, now I was startled and thinking about what to do. I kicked up the throttle, and with the jib still pulling, I stretched in vain for any distance closer to safety. Soon after passing the first anchorage, the temperature became colder and the wind changed direction to head-on, so I quickly jumped up on deck and dropped the jib. I clawed ahead for another 10 minutes before an eerie contrast of white caps and dark clouds, supported by 20kt gusts, compelled me to drop the hook. Since I had just made it past Fishing Point and into the sanctuary part of the river, I was only about 1200 feet from the lee shore.

A 35 lb. CQR and 200’ of chain all went overboard in a few seconds’ time. I was able to catch and secure the rode around the bollard as it flew out the hawsehole, but when the anchor grabbed the bottom and I saw how that chain tightened like a savagely hooked fishing line, I myself didn’t feel very secure.

On the way back to the cockpit, I was able to get the answer to one of the many trivial questions that was circling through my mind for the last two weeks — How long would it take to cut the six lines holding the bimini in place should we get hit with a squall?! It took about 3.5 seconds including the javelin throw of it into the cabin.

I followed down and set the current position on the anchor alarm app. Turned the radio up. Nothing but sirens. Frighteningly peaked out the cabin hatch. Huge darkness. Howling freight train gusts with full sheets of downpours, hail, and spume. Boat lurches broadside. Bow high up in the air and anchor breaks free. Anchor alarm from my phone now harmonizing with radio sirens. Percussion provided by cracks

of thunder and objects flying about the cabin. Panic and paralysis set in. Ten seconds and hundreds of feet closer to shore. Vertical four-foot-high waves steamrolling. The anchor grabs hold again. Five more seconds, still frozen in place. Just watching, no thoughts. Raging fury upon us. Anchor gives up easily. Weightlessness and no sound as we hurry towards the beach. My mind goes into a place of submission--in a daze, pondering thoughts like…”We will be shipwrecked in 5 seconds…The Navy security team I see driving down through the field to meet me on shore will have me in custody shortly…and I’ll get a warm cup of coffee…and a cigarette and…”

Then, in a flash of awakening, my body sprung out through the cabin hatch, grabbed the tiller, and slammed the throttle down full bore. Foundering about 10 feet from shore, the boat was bouncing off the bottom sideways and the depth gauge read 2.8 feet. Green water from the waves was filling the cockpit. But with each disastrous wave came a little bit of lift. A little bit of hope and relief. Like a dolphin squiggles and nudges to get back in the water after beaching some prey, so did Penny. She swam with all her might, I couldn’t believe we were given a second chance.

For the next 45 minutes, I kept the throttle fully pinned down. I was confined to the cockpit sole, and other than pulling a lifejacket out of the seat locker, all I could do was steer the boat and hold fast. We were still connected to the anchor and whatever allowed the chain to never snag the prop was fine with me. Having been restrained to within a couple of hundred feet of shore, it was a cycle of getting blasted broadside and going backward, and then during the brief mercies, we would pound into the oncoming waves for any headway. Chaotically intense and panoramic, the lightning, thunder, and darkness was a scene unmatched by the wildest imagination. I occasionally screamed out in exhilarating bursts of excitement and wondered if the Navy security, watching from their trucks with high beams on, was enjoying this as much as I was.

When things started to simmer down around 8:30 pm, darkness gave way to dusk. I was able to get up on deck and start cranking in the anchor. After scraping the bottom of Fishing Point for the last hour, the chain was full of fishing line. The task of cutting off big clumps along the length was not a pleasant reward for having just survived the storm, but I was not complaining.

The ride to the anchorage was a humble triumph. The words “wow” and “oh my God” and “thank you so much” took turns trembling out of my mouth. Even though we were drenched and disheveled everywhere, Penny and I laid down for a very relaxing rest that evening. As my mind raced between the “what if’s” and the soon-to-be success of a great trip, all I could do was smile, close my eyes, and dream about the next challenge of the sea.