There is a saying among sailors that there is no shame in running aground because it happens to every one of us eventually. And so it was Sunday afternoon, when, after an exuberant solo outing on Gardiner’s Bay, Cerberus and I drifted up onto a sandbar while I was tying up the sails.
It had been a terrific day for a number of reasons. For the first time, I tried a headsail smaller and flatter than the big genoa. The balance between it and the mainsail was much better suited to the Cape Dory design, and the boat plowed along in a straight line toward Plum Island with only a short length of line to hold the tiller and only occasional corrections by hand.
A few other sailboats were out, their crews enjoying late-summer T-shirt weather and about a 12-knot breeze. It seemed to me that we all were going no place in particular, just running here and there to soak it all in. I ate some French bread and hummus that I had brought, bounding along, feeling smugly proud of myself. But not every voyage has a happy ending.
Getting stuck on the falling tide was entirely my own fault. I had been far too casual, not dropping the anchor first before fiddling with the sails. I did not notice anything odd at first, but when I fired up the diesel engine to go find a place to anchor, Cerberus did not budge, and it all became clear.
Feeling like a dope, I raised the sails in the hope that the boat would heel over enough to get loose of the bottom. No good. I tried kedging, that is, rowing an anchor out as far as the line would allow, then returning to the boat to try to winch off the sand. No good. We were stuck solidly.
I checked the tide table. It would not be high until after 10 that night. I had a dog at home that needed to be let out — and had eaten all the baguette — so I made everything fast and rowed to shore.
The following morning, I could see from the dock that the boat had moved and looked more upright. It wasn’t until I rowed back out there that I knew for sure it was in the clear. Lesson learned. I hope.