No, not my boat. We are besties.
Now, on the Catamaran we chartered in Belize, I had an out-of-body experience. We had anchored in an inlet between the mangroves and the beach to an abandoned island resort. The buildings were there. The iguanas had taken up residence. When the ladies went ashore, they met two groundskeepers who said they only visit the property during the day.
We enjoyed a pleasant evening, feeling secure in our anchorage. Around midnight, the wind began to blow. A check of the anchor alarm showed we were holding in the same spot. I went back to sleep. Suddenly, a scraggly old sailor appeared in an oil-stained, torn white tee shirt leaning over me. I awoke, getting up in my bunk, ready to fight off this stranger. Nothing but darkness in the cabin and the sound of the mangroves scraping the side of the boat. Then, the anchor alarm started to blare. I jumped up and headed up to the salon. Les came up from the other side of the salon. "I think we are dragging!" On deck, the wind, waves, lightning, and rain are crashing about us. Les heads to the helm to start the engine. I find my way to the foredeck, trying to understand how the mangroves are on the wrong side of the boat.
Slowly, it makes sense. We have been spun around on the anchor. The rode is on the stern. "DON'T START THE PROP. THE PROP IS FOULED!"
We push off the mangroves and drag the rode back to the bow. Once we have the rode untangled, Les moves us back into the center of the bay, and we reset the anchor. Once back inside, we dry off and sip a shot of scotch. The anchor is holding, and all seems to be settled.
The eerie feeling that the old sailor is still there sticks with me. Was he on the boat? Was he lost in the island waters or once a resort resident? Whatever it is, he woke me when we needed his help. I am conflicted. I am thankful for his appearance, yet I wonder if he is still about.