Lying to bow and stern anchors at Frenchy's Cove on the east side of Anacapa, wind from NNE (no shelter there unless wind is W), dragging into the little cove pushed by 3' swells.
As the sun is going down the afternoon breeze is still strong, and I notice the kedge rode is going slack: sure enough, we're dragging, so it's obvious we have to move on from this untenable lie. I have three green crew, so it's kind of a fire drill to fall back on the kedge, retrieve that, then motor up on the bow anchor, with a crewman riding the bucking bronco at the bow and a second crewman relaying shouted instructions from the cabin side at the shroud.
With all the commotion, I didn't notice that the genoa sheets were in the water. After retrieving the kedge, I shifted into Forward and made about two feet before the engine stalled. It would start up in neutral just fine, but stalled each time I shifted into Forward. That's when I saw the taut genoa sheet leading over the rail.
Well, we're dragging, and I figure we have about 20 minutes until my keel is smashing shells, and there's a lee shore so close I can almost spit on dry sand. The boat is going to be a loss unless we get that shaft unwrapped.
I announce this to the crew, along with my intentions to go over the side, when my best friend, a surfer, says, "I'll do it." I fly down the companion and come back with a diving mask and a nice hunting knife I packed for emergencies.
He's over the side and gone in an instant, and I'm worried he won't be able to do much with the hull rising an falling almost 3 feet over each swell and coming down on his head each time. 30 long seconds later he comes up, grabs onto the bottom rung of the stern ladder, and says, "I got some of it: it's pretty bad. Shift into neutral." He goes down again; I look at the approaching beach.
The next two times he surfaces, no one says anything: only the sound of two big breaths before he disappears again. I wonder if they'll get my name spelled right in the newspaper.
He pops up after the fourth trip to the shaft. "Got it!"
One crewman hauls in the sheet while the other helps my friend climb up the pitching stern ladder. I make sure the other genoa sheet in secured, and that the kedge rode is completely brought aboard, then start the engine, shift to Forward, push the Speed Control level forward, and feel the reassurance of thrust as the boat moves forward under power. I send the two dry crew to the bow: one to haul the rode, and one to keep it all on deck and put it to bed as we come up on the anchor. I'm relieved that I don't hear the cutless bearing growling or feel any vibration from a bent shaft.
The breeze has been freshening, so once the anchor releases, it takes 1/3 throttle just to hold station and keep the bow into the wind. It's a tight little cove, and there are submerged and exposed rocks as big as Volkswagens in several places. Dusk is done and it's full dark now as I open up the throttle to 3/4 and the 21 hp. Kubota converts diesel fuel into sea room.
As we move out into the Channel and heart rates subside, we throw on navigation & steaming lights, raise sail, secure gear, and consider the hand of Providence. No one wants another anchoring episode, and I don't want to head back north an hour and a half to Santa Cruz Island and try to poke into a strange anchorage in the dark with high winds and shot nerves, so we decide it's safer now to just sail through the night. I turn the bow south toward Long Beach and home.
I inspected the genoa sheet after sunrise, and though the sheath is chewed up moderately the core is barely touched, the damage is near the end and it never gets on the working side of the winch, so I decided to let it be, as a memento of the experience and of my learning curve as a new skipper.
I'll go into Frenchy's Cove again, but only when it's well-sheltered behind a W wind.
