From Anchor Stuck to Sitting Duck

Illustration by John Williams

After watching the last rays of a setting summer sun, I grabbed my tackle and headed toward the river bank. The thought of what I might encounter on the way, with my hands full and only moonlight as a guide, motivated me to move faster than usual.

Over the years, I had met several creatures along this narrow path that led down a hill, past the entrance to a cave, and across some railroad tracks. All of these critters weren't what I'd call friendly, especially those that slithered among the rocks and through the grass.

However, on that night about 38 years ago, I didn't meet any creeping, crawling things. But I did have an experience that I'll never forget. The recollection is as vivid as the lightning that flashed across the sky later the same night--despite a weather forecast of perfect conditions.

Once I had placed all my gear where I wanted it in a rented aluminum boat and attached the trolling motor, I headed upstream. My quarry this night wasn't the crop of feisty smallmouth bass that inhabit the Shenandoah River, but rather, the hardy catfish that lurk therein.

My favorite spot for these whiskered prey was a riffle located a couple miles from the dock. Getting there was an adventure because I had to fight a strong current, and giant submerged boulders were everywhere. For this reason, I always carried an extra prop or two for my trolling motor.

When I arrived at my favorite riffle, I first dropped the stern anchor and waited for it to settle among the boulders. Then I used the trolling motor to turn the boat nearly perpendicular to the two banks. When I thought the moment was right, I heaved the bow anchor overboard and hoped it would settle quickly enough to maintain the perpendicular position. Although this task wasn't always easy, it worked on the first try this particular night.

I hurriedly rigged my Coleman lantern, baited my hooks, and threw out my lines. A few hours later, I already was culling smaller catfish from a full stringer. Unfortunately, the furious activity had kept me from noticing what was happening around me. The stars had disappeared, the usually noisy night creatures had hushed, and the ever-so-slight breeze had vanished.

Realizing that a storm was approaching, I rushed to take in my lines and prepare for the trip back downriver. I yanked the stern anchor free of the boulders and dropped it in the boat. While the boat was swinging around the bow anchor, I turned on the trolling motor and started moving toward the spot where the bow anchor had wedged. Once there, I jerked hard with one hand, but the anchor wouldn't budge. I tried using both hands, and still the anchor held tight.

For those of you saying, "Hey, dummy, why not just cut the anchor rope?" let me set the record straight. The anchor wasn't fastened to a rope. Instead, it dangled from the end of a chain that someone had welded to the boat.

My efforts turned frantic when the first bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by a deafening rumble of thunder. "What a predicament!" I thought. "On the river with an aluminum boat in the middle of a storm and an anchor that's stuck. How unlucky can one person be?" I soon had my answer to that question. When the first drops of rain hit me, I remembered leaving my rainsuit in the car because I had swallowed the weather forecast--hook, line and sinker.

At its peak, the rain fell so hard that everything around me became a blur. The lightning was so fierce I was betting I'd get fried any moment. "All the old-timers will find left of me is my charred remains," I mused.

After what seemed like an eternity, though, the rain subsided. I returned to my efforts to free the bow anchor, but it stayed stuck. "What would those old-timers do in this situation?" I wondered. Before an answer came to me, I again felt raindrops pelting my head. It didn't take me long to figure out what had happened. Like other storms I had witnessed in the area, this one had done an about-face. I was in for a second dousing.

I can't begin to explain how helpless, miserable and, yes, scared I felt at that moment. All I could do, though, was huddle in the boat, with my head down and rain running down my shirt collar, all the way to my Fruit of the Loom. I remember being amused at one point by watching my tackleboxes floating around the water in the boat.

At long last, the return rain passed, the clouds parted, and I welcomed the dawning of a new day. I bailed water until there was enough light to see how to free the anchor. On the trip downriver, I saw a family getting ready for a day's fishing from the bank. Because I wasn't in the mood to skin any catfish, I beached the boat near the people and asked them if they would like to have my catch. They gladly accepted. To save time and to avoid answering any questions about the way I looked, I handed them the fish on the stringer. "Keep everything, with my compliments," I said, as I pulled away from the shore.

Moments later, I arrived at the dock, where the perch-jerkin' old-timers sat, spinning their yarns. They looked at me a little strangely but were friendly as usual, which gave me a false sense of comfort. "Don't guess they're going to razz me," I remember thinking as I started unloading the boat.

Just then, though, one of the old-timers quipped, "By the way, sonny, didn't anyone ever teach you to come in out of the rain?"

Under different circumstances, I would have responded in kind to his jibe. This time, however, I forced a smile, picked up the rest of my gear, and headed up the hill toward my car. I vowed the next time I went fishing, I would carry my rainsuit, as well as a weather radio, a hacksaw, and--just in case the fish got lockjaw--some dynamite.

Epilog: I was the editor of Fathom magazine, published by the Naval Safety Center, when I originally wrote this article in 1994 for Safetyline magazine, another former Safety Center publication.