Day 42

From Peter Ver Ploeg:

Pete and I gave ourselves a day off today. Leaving Strolla at anchor, we rowed ashore in our limp little dinghy and set up camp in the nearby coffee shop. We spent the whole day there being gloriously unproductive and lethargic, leaving only to eat lunch and strike out in little exploratory forays around town. It was wonderfully warm, sixty degrees according to the bank, and the baristas were very understanding. They let us monopolize the couch, leave behind our things when we went on our walks, and watch whatever we wanted on the TV. When we left they even gave us a container of cookies and a loaf of bread to go with our dinner.

We headed over to Clyde's Seafood Market down the street. Clyde was there again and gladly discussed the relative merits of the four types of fish he had available, on display, and on ice in wax cardboard boxes. We chose a big trout, Clyde congratulated us on our choice, and while his assistant filleted it for us, took us through his wall of photos, pointing out his two fishing boats and recounting for us stories of hurricanes past.

Back aboard Strolla, we happily and hungrily set about frying up our trout in olive oil with rice and broccoli. Outside darkness had fallen and the howling wind was bringing in another cold front. But, inside was bright and cozy and filled with the delicious, steamy smells of dinner cooking. Pete manned the fry pan while I prepped the broccoli.

In a moment of silence I could hear that it had started to rain. This was of no real concern. The weather couldn't reach us in our little cocoon of safety. With good natured reluctance, I opened the hatch to bring in some socks we'd left drying on the tiller. Peering through the stormy gloom, I discerned the dull, white hull of Clyde's shrimp boat a scant hundred feet off our port quarter. This was not as it should be.

I was fully alert now. The wind and rain were barely an afterthought. I now noticed that Strolla was no longer bobbing and rocking in the waves as she had been and still should be. No time to put on a coat. I raced forward to the bow. Dropping to my knees, I reached through the pulpit railing to feel the anchor line. Slack. A careful survey of visible landmarks revealed that we were not moving. In a flash, I knew what had happened. Between the conflicting forces of wind and current, Strolla had been swinging crazily around on her anchor and had finally pulled it loose. Floating free, she had then been pushed aground on the edge of a shoal.

Seeing as we weren't moving, and dinner was ready, I figured we might as well eat first. I went back inside. It was a somewhat tense meal, but still delicious. Then, with bellies full of trout and hearts full of foreboding, we suited up in our foul weather gear and stepped out to face the night.

It turned out to not be so bad. We hadn't actually run aground but rather were being held up against the edge of the shoal by the wind. Pete pulled in the anchor and I was able to motor us off without much trouble. We headed back to the middle of the channel, changed from our Danforth (which had failed) to our plough anchor, dropped it, backed down with the motor to set it, and retired inside to bed. The whole thing only took about half an hour.