On our first visit to Elvis’ bar on Anguilla, amidst the Parrothead excitement a call came on the VHF that a boat had drug anchor in the anchorage and was smashing into another one that had a green staysail up. Well, we were the only boat in the crowded anchorage flying a sail and though ours is a turquoise mizzen, Bruce knew it had to be us.

Our fast walking turned into a full run by the time we hopped over the dock and got to our dinghy. We could see the situation clearly and it wasn’t pretty. Bruce pulled hard on the oars and started spelling out a plan. “You unlock the boat and start the engine, I’ll let out more chain.” As we neared Woody, first one cruiser’s inflatable dinghy appeared, then two, three, four. They’d been looking for us for an hour to alert us to the potentially disastrous situation.

A 38-foot French steel boat, Amzer-Zo, had been anchored in front of us the night before; they left in the afternoon and when they returned near dark, they picked up a government mooring buoy. The mooring rope had parted and their boat, empty of crew, had turned itself sideways and come straight down on Woodwind. Somehow our flying jib boom, a 13-foot pole that looks like a bow sprit extension, had skewered the steel boat right at their mast. Together, we made a perfect “T.” Their boat was being held in place because our jib boom was threaded through their stainless-steel mast pulpit, past the front of the mast, almost touching the other side. Our anchor was holding us both, luckily, because behind us sat a beautiful, newly launched wooden classic.

Boring Alice, the tender to the yacht Aurora, acted as a mini-tug on the bow of the French boat, while another tender pushed hard on the stern. They slowly moved the boat upwind to extricate it from our rig. The boats were apart but the job wasn’t done. Bruce dove in to check our anchor and make sure it was set well to continue holding both boats. The other cruisers had gone aboard the steel boat and dropped an anchor. It was lying worthlessly over our chain, so Bruce dove again, attached a line to it and had the guys in one of the hovering dinghies haul it aboard. They drove it out in front of the steel boat and dropped it. Bruce swam over and down to set it.

The damage we both sustained was minor compared to the potential. We thanked the kind people who had come to help, then watched the dock, looking for the French people returning to their wandering vessel. They arrived just before dark, with shocked, confused expressions. They knew very little English and we know even less French, so Bruce drew a picture to show them what happened. They apologized profusely but we assured them it was no problem and our damage was small and repairable. They untied from us and re-anchored before returning in their dinghy with a lovely bottle of French wine, telling us to think of their Amzer-Zo when we drank it. Then they thanked us again, and again, and again.

After they left, we remembered the last dragging-boat event that came our way. During the weeks we spent in San Diego last October, we procured a permit to anchor off the San Diego Yacht Club … the high-rent zone of the bay. There was a house close by with a beautiful private dock and two amazing yachts. One was a 61-foot Azimuth we figured was valued at an easy two mill. One Sunday we saw the owner, his wife and small child get on the boat as we were rowing to shore to phone home. When we got back to Woodwind, we noticed they were anchored in front of us, hardly half a block from their dock.

Just past noon, the wind picked up until it was blowing a solid 20 knots; the big impressive boat was dragging anchor, heading straight toward us. I was down below when I heard Bruce call, “Janny!” Sure enough, they were on us, their starboard side pressing hard on our bowsprit. We were hooked together like a giant “T” (sound familiar?). Bruce knew the only way to save us both from irreparable damage was to get his boat alongside ours. This was no easy fix, however, because of the strong wind, the force of his boat pushing on our bow and the two anchors, which were beginning to tangle. He did it, though, and we escaped basically unscathed … again. We’re starting to wonder if someone put a sign on Woodwind that says, “hit me!”

Jan