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| For Want of a Shackle… or How to Anchor in the Middle of the Atlantic by Barbara Molin We are in the middle of the Atlantic between Bermuda and the Azores. Well, not exactly, only about 110 nm west of Flores Island, but still a long way from land. The depth of the ocean at this point is about 15,000 feet. It is July 18, 2004; the wind has been slowly increasing for the past two days and is now blowing about 20-25 knots from the NE (just where we want to go) with seas good 8-10 feet. We're motoring into the waves using the excuse of having to charge the batteries to make some slowly won miles. 
It's been a long voyage from George Town in the Exumas, Bahamas first to Bermuda and now heading for the Azores on the way to the Mediterranean. Long and slow with a relatively untried 32-foot East Orient, Eidos - my dream boat.
James is not happy. He didn't plan on this trip taking so long, he didn't even know about this trip until about two weeks before we left and we've been having problems right from the start. He is an ex, so that is a whole story in itself. But I digress…
First, the water we took on in George Town had floaties in it, so we had to filter it quart by quart, for the 10 days it took us to reach Bermuda. We had to hand steer then too, since the wind vane was meeting us in Bermuda for tax and duty reasons. Then, the drifter halyard chafed on the forestay, the sail fell into the ocean and had to be rescued before it wrapped itself around the keel. With the halyard up the mast and me unwilling to follow it there, this makes for even a slower trip with only a 130 jib as our next light air sail. The winds aren't co-operating and we are struggling to average about 3 knots. If we could walk on water, we'd get there faster! And now, finally the wind increases, but it's on the nose. Figures. And it is strong enough for us to start worrying about the untested (although relatively recently replaced) rigging. We try to heave-to and find that we are drifting west at almost a knot. That won't do. We try sailing under the main with a third reef in, partially rolled up jib and the staysail and we are going southeast. So we motor in the middle of the Atlantic. Not for long. Just to charge the batteries. With the engine, and only the main to stabilize the boat's motion we can manage approximately 106 magnetic - almost in the direction we want to go, although only at about 2.5-3 knots. Better than nothing, and perhaps when we finish charging the batteries the wind will ease and shift… Wishful thinking. It is rough. I am down below wedged in the quarter berth trying to get some rest while James is up top on watch scanning the shrunken horizon for traffic. Every half an hour, I put out a Securite call to all ships in the area with our position and a request for weather information. We never receive a reply, which relieves our anxiety a bit in one way since we're not likely to get run down, but on the other hand if we were in real trouble and needed help there is no one out here. Oh, did I tell you we don't have an SSB radio? Well, we don't. I just manage to almost drift off to sleep when I hear a loud grating noise that makes me jump out of my skin. "What was that!!?" I call out to James. He doesn't know, but puts the engine in neutral and asks me to check the shaft. He thinks it might be the transmission. Perhaps we had snagged something on the prop… The noise stops and since everything seems all right and the bilge water is at its usual level, he carefully puts it back into forward. All seems well. But is it? Now I can't sleep worrying about it. There has to be a reason for that horrible noise. What could have caused it? James comes down below and I take over. It is still a dark and stormy night and I'm not in the mood to check the fore deck. Could it be the anchor? Finally daylight arrives and I peer forward. It is difficult to see over the dinghy lashed to the fore deck, but if I stand up on the coaming and stretch up as high as I dare… It is the anchor. Or rather it isn't there any more. My best anchor, the 25 lb CQR and 85 feet of chain with about 200 feet of rode is no more. I feel sick to my stomach. In Bahamas, James suggested that I shackle the anchor to the bow roller. I only had a pin through the shaft attaching it to the roller and it just slipped my mind about the shackle… Now, what slipped my mind has caused the anchor to slip into the deep blue. 15,000 feet of deep blue. When James wakes up, I tell him the news and he politely reminds me that he told me this would happen back in the Bahamas. I clip my tether to the jack line and head forward. It's not as bad as I thought. The rode is still hanging over the short bowsprit. Straight down. I unsuccessfully duck a wave and it soaks me to the skin. But the news is good; the anchor is still attached to the boat. The anchor had obviously jumped the bow roller and the chain ripped up a plywood bulkhead dividing the two chain lockers on the way out, but there is hope. James doesn't think so. He warns me that with the waves pounding the bow up and down and the anchor and chain bouncing underneath us, we could have some damage. He thinks that there is a good chance the bowsprit will break and then the forestay will follow and so will the mast. Besides he has no intention of hauling 200 feet of rode, 85 feet of chain and 25 lb CQR from the depths. I have no windlass. He votes for cutting the rode and deep-sixing the whole thing. I refuse to give up. There has to be a way. Besides, that is my main anchor and what will I do when we get to the Azores and need to drop the hook? My secondary anchor has only 30 feet of light chain. I tie a clove hitch from a long line to the rode as low as I dare while hanging over the bow which I lead through the fairlead to the starboard bow cleat and then cut the rode to relieve the strain on the bow sprit, the fore stay and the mast. The other end of the new line I lead to the cockpit winch and start cranking. With a two-speed winch it lifts at about an inch every rotation of the handle. This is not going to work. James thinks it is my fault (which it is) and refuses to help. He is fed up with me, the boat and the whole trip. And for a good reason. I keep cranking. He finally realizes that it'll take me several months of hard work to haul the whole thing up, so he agrees to help. But to make things easier, I move the anchor aft, using the same system of relieving the pressure by tying a clove hitch on the rode and then freeing the rode from the bow cleat, so that at all times the rode is lashed to the boat since obviously there is no way I could hold the whole thing myself. Now the anchor rode is perpendicular to the cockpit winch with only one way to go - up instead of up at the bow and then along the side deck. I am determined and start cranking again. Not much better. I need a man or a block and tackle. But I think of the block and tackle or come to think of it, even just the main halyard a couple of weeks later when safely anchored in Portugal. So, James grumbling and swearing starts winching. I breathe a sigh of relief and tail with as much force as I can muster. The rode comes up very slowly, but it does come up. Meanwhile we are getting tossed by the waves. It is grey and dismal all around and who knows if there is anyone else out there; I haven't made a radio call for several hours now. When we get to the chain, I cringe as it chews up the coaming outboard of the winch as well as the winches' drums on both sides (we now are using both winches for safety), but at least the anchor is coming up. I notice that James is not straining as much, so there is progressively less weight to lift. Finally when I see the CQR clear the surface I holler happily. We are exhausted but we won. The rode, chain and anchor are piled in the cockpit. We are too tired to do anything about it and it's still too risky to be moving it back to the bow. It'll have to stay there for the reminder of the passage. The wind continues for another day but a couple of days later, as we near Flores Island we stow the rode and anchor in calm weather and with land in view in preparation for our arrival. Oh, and one more thing I forgot to mention. While we were hauling in the anchor, the boat was basically at the mercy of the wind and the waves. When we finally decided to turn the engine back on to get moving, it ground to a halt and we found out that our floating man-overboard line that we always trailed behind the boat in case one of us fell in, wrapped itself around the rudder and the prop. I guess the waves caused the stern to lift out of the water at some point when we were busy hauling the anchor. When we found out about this little inconvenience, I laughed. Well, what else can you do at that point but laugh, right? |