Another 3am wake up, but this time it’s not rain. I hear Richard’s voice saying my name with bass filled tones as the back of his hand hits my cabin door once, twice, three times. Nerves fire. “Anchor has slipped!”
My clothes nearly appear on my body as I lift my legs out from my bunk. I run out onto the deck and see we’ve drifted past anything we could have hit, but the boat might as well be pulling to Cuba. This is our fist night in Dominica. Richard has already started the engines. I remember suggesting he put on the anchor alarm. He throws me a flashlight and I point it’s beam off the bow. The anchor comes up with ease; it wasn’t touching the bottom. Now we begin to make our way back into the bay. The place whose high winds and currents rejected us. The moon shows no shine and the stars are hidden in the clouded skies. The next minutes seem long as we motor in trying to seek out silhouettes resting on the water. Many boats have left their anchor lights off making them ghosts. My eyes have not been given the time to adjust, but I strain them to some success. We find a new place to drop the anchor and lower both our first and second. This will become near ritual. I stumble back to my cabin cold and cover myself with weighty fabrics.