Wednesday
Rise up this mornin’, smile with the risin’ sun, three little birds, pitch by my door step….
Welcome Swallows live up to their name
There is unique condition associated with cruising that can be positively debilitating. Sweaty palms, nausea, an uncontrollable urge to pace, an inability to face the world…I am not talking seasickness caused by the constant movement or claustrophobia from the tight quarters. This malady, known as “anchoxiety,” strikes one member of the crew, the one in charge of the anchor..
While night watches tend not to figure in cruising world, anchor watches do: those hour or so periods between dropping an anchor and leaving the boat. It involves a careful assessment of tide, wind and boat movement, the makeup of the sea floor, and the likelihood that the anchor will hold.
With any luck, after an hour or so you hear “Now that’s an anchorage!”
and the day can continue.
But occasionally this normal, careful attitude can slide into obsessiveness, and then anchoxiety sets in.
Stage 1: assessing any potential movement from down below: measuring, debating, checking depth levels and charts.
Stage 2: getting in the dingy to see another angle.
Stage 3: diving down in a mask to double-check the anchor itself.
Stage 4: pulling up and re-anchoring, often including foul language, terse orders, and raised voices.
Stage 5: pretending all is fine and agreeing to leave the boat for the proposed outing, only to find any possible shortcut or excuse to get back to the boat.
It is with great sadness that I report my Best Beloved fell victim to anchoxiety today, all the way to Stage 5 (luckily he avoided the foul language and raised voice, seeing as I would be the only recipient, and it would fall on deaf ears).
By the time we began our planned 5.5 mile hike around Urupukapuka Island, he had spent hours checking charts and depths, wind speed, future wind direction, driven Joker around, twice dived down to check the anchor, and re-anchored. Two hours after our planned departure time, we made it to shore.
Views from Urupukapuka
The largest in the group, Urupukapuka is part of the Bay of Islands Maritime Park. Camping is permitted, and I didn’t see any No Dogs signs. Beautifully maintained hiking trails meander all over, through the tea tee tunnels and grassy meadows, past vertical cliff faces and expansive beaches. There is even some farming, as we climbed a steep hill filled with freshly shorn sheep. I heard a tui, the native New Zealand honey eater, but I apologize to my birding friends, I still cannot identify any of the other myriad songs.
And the entire time, David was looking for shortcuts, charging ahead and tapping his foot as I paused to admire the views or take a pic or catch my breath. Anchoxiety still gripped him. 4 miles and a two hours later we emerged on the grassy slope above the Waewaetorea Passage to find Leona exactly where we had left her: peacefully bobbing on the still, blue-green water. The winds we felt up high dissipated as we dropped down to the beach, blocked by the hills of Waewaetorea Island on the far side.
I saw his shoulders relax and his eyes brighten as we neared his beloved blue beauty.
“Now that’s an anchorage!”
