The good night's sleep you dreamed of is gone. Around you the rhythmic breathing of your crew tells you that you are the only one concerned now. No one else is even awake. You crawl back out of the bunk and into the cockpit. Welcome to the worry watch! by Jo Bailey

It's been a gorgeous day on the water. You sail quietly into a calm and deserted cove that only your family has discovered. Giant evergreens stand guard over the deep, clear blue water. You drop the hook, set it, shut off the engine and relax. The quiet is complete.       Now's the time for a row to the beach and maybe a swim or a walk into the woods on a little trail you noticed just before anchoring.       Back to the boat for a dinner of fresh fish caught earlier; sit in the cockpit and watch the sun set over some distant mountains, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee drifting out over this tiny private paradise. The peace, quiet and beauty of the spot is incredible. Perhaps you could buy a little plot of land in this cove and live here forever.       Check the anchor line one last time, light the anchor lantern and so to bed. This is what cruising is all about. We call it gunkholing.       About midnight or thereabouts, you awake from a sound sleep with that sense that experienced sailors feel deep inside. Something is wrong. You lie still, scarcely daring to breathe, listening.       The wind is blowing--hard, howling through the rigging. The gently rocking motion you've come to love is no longer gentle. The boat is yawing back and forth and plunging into waves. The sound of surf breaking on the nearby shore reaches your ears. The pit of your stomach is churning. You grab a warm jacket and go into the chill on deck, eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the blackness.       Your once private paradise has turned into a turbulent hell. When you finally get oriented to your cove you discover the truth: your anchor has dragged and you're in imminent danger of going aground on nearby rocks.       That's when it's time to roust out the crew, start the engine, raise the anchor and prowl around in the dark until you can get the hook set again. Maybe it will stay where you put it this time, maybe it won't. The storm is unsettling your sleep and your confidence.       The anchor is down again and holding, you hope. The night of worry continues. Back in the bunk, you lie listening to the wind, afraid that every lurch of the boat means the anchor is dragging again. The good night's sleep you dreamed of is gone. Around you the rhythmic breathing of your crew tells you that you are the only one concerned now. No one else is even awake. You crawl back out of the bunk and into the cockpit       Welcome to the worry watch!       We discovered worry watches early-on in our family cruising days in the mid-1960s in our sloop Sea Witch. They became an inherent part of each summer vacation and I often seemed be on watch the most, mainly because I worried the most. Everyone else breathed rhythmically.       I had forgotten all about worry watches until I was sailing with daughter Robin and her kids in the late 1980s. She reminded me how we 'stood' those watches, always in the middle of some dark and stormy night in some unfamiliar cove. How could I have forgotten?       Of the three girls, Robin was most often on worry watch but Megan and Debi remember them well. Of the two boys, Bill was the youngest but John was the worrier.       My vivid memory of the first worry watch was the night we tied to the old float in Coupeville in the late 1960s. With all five kids and the dog (cat stayed on board) we trooped into town for a long walk to work off excess energy, and then back to the boat. It was a lovely spot, albeit just a trifle windy. A strong westerly blew in from the Strait of Juan de Fuca, across the narrow isthmus of Whidbey Island and right into Penn Cove where we were moored.       But no matter, we were securely tied to the float and well-fendered.       At sunset I began to shoehorn kids into their sleeping bags in their respective slots--Sea Witch was only 29 feet overall, and bedtime was an occasionally traumatic tight fit.       They were finally beginning to quiet down when the skipper checked the depth-sounder and announced it was shallow at the float: we had just 6 feet of water.       "So what?" I said. I was busy with my appointed chores. Besides, the boat drew 4-1/2 feet. Plenty of water, I thought. I was pretty new to boating.       "So the tide is going to drop another 6 feet by 2 in the morning. We're going to have to anchor out or we'll be lying on our side here at the dock," he said.       I was telling the last of the kids to settle down when the enormity of what my husband said sunk in.       "You mean move the boat and anchor out now?" I asked in disbelief.       He didn't even hear me. He had already started the engine and was casting off mooring lines.       I remember how the chart looked: fairly shallow along this south shore of Penn Cove, and no little bays to duck into out of the wind. I also remembered seeing the symbol for a shipwreck between a buoy and Snatelum Point. I didn't like this game.       We powered out a ways, dropped the hook and set it, with lots of scope. The westerly grew stronger. The Witch tugged at her anchor. I knew that if we dragged anchor we'd run into Lovejoy Point, or if we missed that we'd hit Long Point, and if we were lucky enough to avoid that hazard, we'd end up with the shipwreck off the long spit off Snatelum Point. The crew finally quieted down for the night. Whenever there was a momentary lull in the wind I could hear the rhythmic breathing. I lay wide awake in my bunk, fully clothed. At every gust I tensed, expecting with each surge to feel the inevitable bump as we grounded.       How dare they all sleep, leaving me to do all the worrying, I silently stormed. This was totally unfair. I got up a dozen times that night, checking our position against the shoreline, waiting to rouse everyone when we inevitably dragged anchor or ran aground.       I dozed fitfully that night. Finally about six in the morning I got up for good, vastly relieved to see at sunrise that we hadn't moved at all.       "Hi, mom," said bright-eyed, 11-year-old son John, surprising me by his early rising. "It was a pretty awful night, wasn't it? I didn't sleep a wink I was so worried."       "Neither did I," I said, giving him a grateful hug.       "Well, you know we should have taken turns staying awake and worrying so that we would each have gotten some sleep," he said. Out of the mouths of babes.       The "worry watch" was born.       We did drag anchor at other times,of course, in those early years with the Sea Witch: at Echo Bay on Sucia, at Open Bay on Henry Island, in the west cove of James Island, all in the San Juans; in Talbot Cove in Teakerne Arm in Desolation Sound (watching the stars travel across the night sky), and several other places--even in Vaughn Bay in South Sound. Whenever there was possibility of dragging, someone was usually on watch.       Over the years we learned to stand watches--or rather sit them--in those times of seeming crisis. And it almost became fun. We'd wrap up in warm blankets and snuggle in the cockpit. After our eyes were used to the dark we'd line up trees or cliffs to use as reference point. We'd haul out the star book so those on watch might learn about them. We traced their paths as they moved overhead throughout the night sky. We watched gorgeous sunrises and moonsets. We huddled in rainstorms. And if the wind wasn't too noisy we identified wild bird and animal sounds we heard at night.       Carl and I have had our worry watches on Scheherazade, although they don't seem as dramatic as those early ones, perhaps because we've gotten more used to it or perhaps we just don't worry quite as much any more.       Although we do remember a very unsettling time in Penn Cove when we inadvertently anchored in a cable crossing on a dark and stormy winter night, but we didn't drag. Another time we took turns on night watch in Port Susan, clad in our heavy, warm floatation suits--again, we didn't drag. Carl stayed up all night in a crowded anchorage at Eagle Harbor at Cypress Island, watching boats dragging past us during a sudden middle-of-the-night williwaw.       Worry watches pay off. We all became more adept at anchoring after awhile, became aware that even the most experienced sailor could still drag anchor under some circumstances, and we became comfortable even on cold dark nights in the cockpit, trusting each other's judgment about nighttime boat movements.       We still have worry watches occasionally, although I much prefer that the boat stay put at night so I can stay warm and snug in my bunk. Jo Bailey & Carl Nyberg are authors of Gunkholing in the San Juan Islands, a Comprehensive Cruising Guide Encompassing Deception Pass to the Canadian Boundary, and Gunkholing in South Puget Sound, a Comprehensive Cruising Guide from Kingston/Edmonds South to Olympia. Both books are available by calling 48° North 206.789.7350, as well as at bookstores and chandleries. Jo & Carl can be reached at gunkholing@earthlink.net, or at 206-323-1315 for slide show presentations of cruising in NW waters. ...back to 48° North title page