Running from the Devil: A Battle with Nature – June 8, 2025, Somewhere on the ICW, USA

Sailing is a game of trade-offs. You make decisions with limited information and hope your gut is right. Sometimes there’s no “right” choice—just a better gamble. And this time, we were gambling against a storm.

We were sailing with a line of squalls forming to the north west. Our best shot? Reach a nearby anchorage within 30 minutes—get the hook down and ride it out from a safe spot. Easy in theory. Fifteen minutes later, nature flipped the script. The storm shifted south—fast—and came right at us.

We pulled into the anchorage as the sky broke open. Wind screamed in at 50 mph the moment we dropped anchor. Sally dumped every foot of chain we had. The boat spun violently, circling like a toy caught in a whirlpool. But the anchor dug deep into the clay—and held. For now.

As the squall passed, the wind settled, but something felt off.

A low grinding sound echoed through the hull. Not normal, but with shifting tides and strong currents, I figured it could wait until morning.

It didn’t.

At 2 a.m., I snapped awake with a gut-punch realization: what if the anchor chain had wrapped around our rudders or keels during the storm’s chaos?

Visibility? Zero. Water? Mud brown. Wildlife? Full of alligators. Diving in to investigate was not a pleasant option.

So, I tested the rudders from the helm. Port—no issue. Starboard—jammed halfway.

Houston, we have a problem.

If the chain wrapped the propellers, we were in serious trouble. I started one engine, then the other, slipping each into gear with my breath held. Miraculously, both ran fine. Huge relief. The chain hadn’t tangled in the props—just the rudder.

That meant one thing: we had a shot at solving this without going for a swim.

In pitch black and dead silence, I began raising the anchor—slowly, nervously. Foot by foot, the chain came in, and the boat began to turn with it, swinging like the hand of a clock. We were unwinding ourselves. It was working.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the anchor broke the surface.

We were free.

But suddenly, another problem—we were drifting in the dark. No anchor, no direction, and no margin for error. Without hesitation, I dropped it again, securing us to the clay bottom just a few hundred feet from where we started.

We were safe. Again.

And I was grateful Plan A had worked—

Because Plan B? That involved me, a dive light, and way too many alligators.