Anchoring and alterations of state

Some cruisers say it took them a year to get street life out of their systems before they could truly relax into the cruising lifestyle. I must agree with them. At least, they might be correct. If not, it is because a year is too short. Perhaps two years would be closer to the truth.

I write this sitting in the cockpit of our 42 foot catamaran Not All There. (The name of our dingy is “definitely”. Note the non-caps “d”.) We left our dock in Florida at the end of February, and have been living aboard dNAT ever since. Other than for about 10 nights dNAT spent in a marina, we have been at anchor all the others. (For 3 of those nights we were in a hotel in the Dominican Republic, having flown from the Turks & Caicos for a business meeting). 

We much prefer the anchoring way of life. There is more nature, weather and privacy. It’s also free, usually. For full-time cruisers the cost of marinas can add up quickly. Of course, there is no shore power or water. No laundry facilities. No garbage collection. But, we feel blessed. dNAT boasts a big array of solar panels, a generator, a desalinator, even a washing machine. Of course, we have to be cautious - our water maker is slow, and we cannot dry clothes in the washing machine, that would use way too much power. Most folks find that there is so little breeze in a marina that they have to run their air conditioners while they are there. They cannot run them at anchor without also running their generator, so they tend to stay in marinas by preference. At anchor, there is usually a breeze, so we do not even have an air conditioner (other than the redneck window unit we used at the dock in Florida, but it remains deep inside a locker). And then, we  have the luxury of diving off our back step into crystal clear water.

One afternoon found us on the coast of one of the Berry Islands. We had been caught by weather, the anchorage we had selected was quite unsuitable for the wind. We sailed further along the coast, looking for a place to spend the night. We found a spot that looked promising, but there were many rocks, and the area had not been extensively surveyed on our charts, a sure indicator that not many anchored here. But, the alternative was to stand to sea for the night, and we didn’t feel like that at all. 

So we inched in cautiously, me at the helm, Lizzy standing on one of the bows. We arrived at a spot that could be ok, but I was worried about some submerged rocks to the one side. If the wind shifted, we might end up over them. Was there enough room for our 4’2” draft? I swung toward the rocks. Lizzy bent over the railing, silently peering into the water. 

“What does it look like?” I yelled over the wind. 

“I don’t know, but it looks shallow,” she yelled back after peering down for what felt like an hour.

The engines were at idle, but something in the way she said it made me put the props into neutral. We were coasting in very slowly when we hit the rock. A definite grating knock. Damn!! I immediately put the props into reverse. We got out, but not before two further, smaller bumps.

I felt nauseous. What was I thinking? I could have dropped the anchor and swum over, or taken the dingy. We carefully retraced our track (GPS tracking is wonderful in situations like this) to a spot further from the coast, and dropped anchor. The water was deep, way deeper than we had anchored in before, but well within our scope. 

Once we had tested the anchor and shut down the engines, I donned my swimming trunks, mask, snorkel and fins, and jumped overboard to inspect the damage. Although we had hit quite lightly, dNAT is, ahem, shall we say, a lady of substantial dimensions. 16 tons moving, even slowly, can do a lot of damage. I made my way slowly around her bulk, heading for the port bow first. That was where the worst damage would be. We had been lucky. There was a small area on the bow where the antifouling had been scraped off, but no dents or gouges. I found another hit on the starboard hull, much smaller, also only paint damage. I checked out the rudders, they are well protected behind the keels, but you never know. No damage.

“A sense of transcendental awe overcame me.”

It was then that I saw it. 

Imagine a canvas of blue. Big, as wide and tall as the eye can see. At the top, a deep azure, fading to darker below. Dropping down from above, the two black shapes of the hulls of the catamaran. Between the hulls, the chain forms a perfect catenary, fading into the haze forward of the boat.

But, this was not a canvas! I looked down. Below me, my legs and fins swung gently over crystal clear water that became darker until it was a deep, almost purple nothingness. It felt as if I was hanging in space.

A sense of transcendental awe overcame me. I clambered up the swim ladder where Lizzy waited. She’d already been given the report of the damage.

“Get your fins on. Please.” She looked at me quizzically. “I know, I know, just do it.”

Lizzy has not snorkeled much, and finds swimming in the open ocean daunting, despite having been a swimming instructor in a previous life. But she appeared suitably attired, and sat down on the sugar scoop, her fins in the water.

“Everything is fine, but I want you to know, you may find this a little freaky, ok?” I grabbed her by the hand. “All you need to do is get in, hold onto the swim ladder and look forward and down.”

We spent the next several minutes hanging from the stern, coming up for air, and diving down again. We said nothing to each other.

When we were done, showering on the back step, we still had not said anything. We looked at each other.

“Oh. My. God. You’re right, it was a little scary but …. thanks for making me get in.”

How does one convey such an experience?

I wish I knew. 

Afterward, I thought to get the camera and take some shots, but by then it was dark. Besides, it felt sacrilegious, an affront to even attempt to capture this moment in an image.

A marina has some advantages, but altered-state-inducing vistas is not one of them.