IF YOU’RE GOING TO DRAG YOUR ANCHOR, DO IT PROPERLY

David Lomax with a cautionary tale

The art of anchor dragging was an early lesson in our cruising. Perhaps not realising how amateurish we were, a kind friend lent us his ten ton 1886 Gaff-rigged cutter Helen for a long weekend in Torbay with a couple who had never sailed before. He demonstrated all the tackle, lines and cleats and how to start the boat’s neurotic engine then left us to get on with things. ‘There’s a good forecast; you won’t have any problems,’ he said. Helen’s bowsprit always pointed at the most expensive craft on entering port so, understandably, whenever we managed to fetch up somewhere without having hit anything, it was a relief to let go the anchor. How much chain to pay out did not seem important.

One evening in Dartmouth we got back to the boat from the pub and turned in happily. Conditions could hardly have been quieter. We were settled north of a beautiful wooden boat and heard nothing until at dawn there was one of those scrunches that make you turn out in seconds. At 5am our neighbour in spotless whites was on deck fending us off his varnish and enquiring whether we were having a spot of bother. We had obviously floated out to sea and back again with the tide.

After that I started letting out three times the depth at high water and a bit more for luck which generally did the trick, although not always. There was that occasion at Beaulieu when we dragged across the river in a gale, missing our neighbours by a miracle, and another in Canna when the anchor was repeatedly fouled by balls of kelp and we had to make several attempts before it held, hard astern with the engine until we were absolutely convinced after staring at marks ashore for 15 mins that we were indeed at rest. The only consolation was that everyone else seemed to be doing the same. But none of these experiences could have prepared us for the real mother of all anchor drags – last summer in Shieldaig harbour on the west coast of Scotland.

As we swirled up the Sound of Sleat the day before we knew from the long range forecast that a blow was expected. So we decided to sit things out in the apparent snug security of Sheildaig with its looming mountains and row of white cottages along the shore. After anchoring in the recommended patch we dinghied ashore for a welcome bath and meal. That night the wind blew 30 kts. I let out more chain and we slept soundly. At breakfast however I was sipping tea in the cockpit, with the dinghy and outboard streamed astern for a final trip ashore, when I noticed that the wind had started to increase. From 30 kts it went up to 35, then 40, 45 and 50 kts. It seemed to be mainly from the south but with occasional extra whooshes down the mountains. At this point I realised that all was not well. We had started to drag, very slowly at first but there was no doubt. Judy started the engine and I went forward. Even without a windlass pulling the chain in by hand had always been possible before, but now, because of huge gusts, the boat was shearing about and the pressure was too much. We were steadily making for the harbour mouth, stern first, and there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. I tried to rescue the dinghy but the wind had already flipped it over; the paddles and seat were missing and the outboard submerged.

For the next couple of hours we watched as the S9 took us out into Loch Torridon and towards the open sea. We used the engine to steer round lobster dans – I didn’t fancy the extra complication of snagging the anchor on something from we might never be able to escape - and having seen no other suitable bolt hole on the charts thought the wisest course was to keep heading for open water. We had no option anyway and kept telling ourselves that we were safe as long as Cloud Walker kept a slow pace under bare poles and with two huge sea anchors from either end.

In the mouth of the Loch the seas were frothing white all around and we were heading at 2 kts in the general direction of the Outer Hebrides. The VHF came to life. ‘Any vessel in Loch Torridon, this is Stornoway Coastguard’ said a voice. I looked around, could see no one else so replied. ‘Are you in need of assistance?’ said the coastguard, ‘we are contemplating launching the Portree lifeboat’. Obviously someone ashore had reported us as being in difficulties. I explained that although we had problems were not in need of assistance and were not in danger. I had to repeat this twice more before the coastguard seemed reassured. ‘Can you confirm that you have something orange on your stern?’, the attentive voice asked. ‘Yes’, I said, ‘that’s our dinghy. Its upside down’. The Coastguard seemed satisfied with this and promised to check back at regular intervals.

For the rest of the day we jilled along under the unwanted rig through huge seas and horizontal rain. Gradually however the wind began to drop and by nightfall we were even able to heat up soup and almost enjoy the experience. At dawn the storm had disappeared and the sea had quietened enough for me to crawl forward and put a line on the end of the 100ft of chain which was still hanging over the bows. Judy took the line aft and bit by bit we were able to claw the chain inboard using the jib winch. It was now a simple matter to right the dinghy and motor into Stornoway harbour as if nothing had happened. The outboard appeared to have suffered no permanent ill effects and after being swilled with a fresh water hose, was taken to a Hebridean outboard mechanic who cleaned the carburettor and fuel lines and had us back to normal within a day. The paddles were replaced at the fishermen’s co-operative and we were once more in business.

Looking back its difficult to see what else we could have done which might have avoided an involuntary anchor drag for 40 miles across the Minch. Kelp was obviously the cause – apart from extreme Scottish wind strength – and, according to locals who have experienced its slippery grasp before, the answer is to get the anchor down through the stuff as fast as possible. If we had had an anchor windlass, it would have been possible to have re-anchored without the embarrassment of being sucked out to sea. Next time we’ll make sure that we’ve got a way of getting the chain inboard even when the wind is gusting 50 kts and a macho heave by hand doesn’t quite do the trick. Perhaps one thing we could have done was to have anchored in water that was not too deep to see the bottom and where we could have seen a suitable patch of sand and avoided all that green vegetable matter that stops you from having a good night’s sleep. A new windlass is on our shopping list for the next refit.