My wife and I decided that we wanted to live aboard a sailboat, in preparation for long–term cruising. It took us about a year, but we finally purchased a 1978 Morgan ketch. The boat, at 45 feet, was significantly bigger than anything we had ever operated, but we felt we would learn a lot on the trip from Oriental, NC, home to Richmond, VA. We did, too. We learned about about the quality (or lack thereof) of both the house battery banks and the diesel alternator charging systems, and about the parts missing from the air conditioning system – no small issue when traveling the ICW in August.

But perhaps the most important lesson: we learned exactly how deep five and a half feet was.

FRANK MUMMERTRockhopper tucked into her slip at Richmond Yacht Basin after an eventful trip to her new home.

We spent the first night on the anchor, the second and third in marinas. We were determined to get to our regular slip by the fourth night.

On the morning of the fourth day, we were headed up the James River from Hampton. It was late August and the only breeze moved up the river at 6 knots, which was exactly the speed at which we were cruising.

HOT, HOT, HOT 

On board the boat, the trip turned from uncomfortable to miserable to a living hell. By 2 p.m. we had stripped down from shirt and shorts to bathing suits and were quickly considering becoming nudists. The only place that was more miserable than the cockpit was down below, so we were trapped together in a five–foot by five–foot square. Tempers got short.

In time we came around a bend and saw the Benjamin Harrison Bridge, near Hopewell, VA. This was the only part of the river that we had ever boated on before and I was very happy to see it, since it meant we were only about three hours from the marina, or so I thought. As we got closer, I paid very strict attention to the channel markers, because the river was wide, but very shallow outside of the dredged channel.

Because we were taller than the bridge with our new mast in the down position, I called the bridge tender on the radio and arranged for a lift.

Having been on the bridge when a boat or tug went through, I knew how irritating it was to be sitting there, especially during the evening commute home, so I figured I would make the lift as fast as possible. I pushed the throttle all the way forward and the engine screamed. The readout on the GPS climbed from 6 knots to 7, then 8. I watched carefully as the mast slid under the raised bridge, still not completely convinced that I had read the chart correctly, that we wouldn't lose everything in a horrible crash.

We cleared the bridge and slid out the other side, calling the bridge tender as we did to thank her for the lift. I slid the throttle back down to 2,000 rpm and looked back up the river. I could see the nearest channel markers about 200 feet ahead and the next set a mile or so away, about the spacing we had been seeing all day.

PILOT ERROR

In truth, I should have foreseen what happened next. I had a chart book open, next to me, turned to the correct page. It was a clear day, the sun overhead and not in my eyes. So I can only blame the calamity on"¦.my wife. Obviously, if she hadn't distracted me, I never would have made the error. Of course, I can't say how she distracted me, since she wasn't in the cockpit at the time. She had gone below to get fresh sodas, but it must have been her fault.

The channel, at this point, does not go straight. It takes a very sharp bend to the left and passes close to the piers in Hopewell, well to the left of some small islands. It then bends back to the right and comes back into line with the bridge. Of course, I knew that. Of course, the chart showed it. Of course, following the channel markers would have taken me right along that path.

Of course, I missed it.FRANK MUMMERTThe Henrico County Marine Patrol stands by to render assistance, towing stranded vessels.

I continued merrily on a straight path, through the two nearby channel markers and towards the further markers. I slid blissfully along, enjoying a slight breeze as the wind shifted slightly. I felt the first tug of the keel in mud about three minutes later.

I recognized that feeling. It had happened several times on parts of the ICW and I immediately started looking for the channel markers that would indicate where the deeper part of the channel was. I had almost gotten stuck a couple of times and only by rapidly turning the boat towards the center of the channel had I gotten out of trouble. I looked frantically for the markers and soon found them. Both of them – half a mile to my left.

I was well out of the channel.

The keel started tugging more insistently now. I could feel the speed starting to grind down, even as the engine rose in pitch. I spun the boat to the left and tried to power up, with the hope of popping off the mud bank underneath me. The keel stuck tighter. I tried to go back the way I came, but the boat came to a slow stop after less than a quarter of the turn. Backing down caused mud to billow under the boat, but she moved not an inch.

Worried that I would suck up too much grit and muck, I shut the engine down. The deafening quiet was broken by my wife's worried question. "What happened?"

Well, it was obvious what happened! We had gotten stuck and it certainly wasn't my fault that the channel was – well, exactly where it was supposed to be, just not where we were.

GROUNDED

So what do you do for a grounding? The first step is to figure out the state of the tide. We called the Benjamin Harrison bridge tender, who let us know that it was were two or three hours before low tide. She asked if we wanted her to call for assistance. When we agreed, she called the local marina and a friendly boater was soon on his way to help us out.

Unfortunately, the friendly boater was in an eighteen foot bow rider with a 65 horsepower motor and, when he got close, he realized that he had almost no hope of getting us out. He pulled up alongside, apologized for getting our hopes up and headed off.

At this point, I decided to take matters into my own hands, literally. I would take out a kedge anchor and we could winch the boat out. All I needed was the dinghy, the dinghy motor and the kedge anchor.

The dinghy had been hanging in its davits the entire trip, the motor below in the aft cabin. Step one was obviously to manhandle the motor up on deck. Careful consideration to the choice of cursing vocabulary was important here – since I didn't want to use up all my good curses too early in the project. The engine was soon up top and I tossed it into the dinghy, figuring I could put it in place after I lowered the boat.

My wife, concerned about the possibility that I would drown and leave her to figure this out by herself, insisted that I put on a PFD. It was still hot and working with a PFD on was not improving my mood. I started to lower the dinghy and then had to go back down below to get some dry lubricant to free up the sheaves on the lifting tackle. Eventually, with more cursing, I got the dinghy lowered in to the water and swung the bow alongside so that I could step in from the swim ladder. As I stepped, the boat went sideways and I slipped onto the engine, which had grown teeth and fangs while waiting for me. I swore, bled and glared, but the engine didn't move.

I tossed the painter up to my wife and she held it as I released the davit lines. I then muscled the engine into place and connected the gas tank. The gas in the tank, by the way, came with the boat. I had not considered getting new gas a priority.

I tugged on the starter rope. The engine spun, sputtered and stopped. I tugged again with similar results. After the third tug, I got decidedly different results. The engine quit sputtering. It just spun and stopped. Over and over again.

I was insane. I pulled the cord a dozen, two dozen, three dozen times. Finally, I dropped into the dinghy, sweating, panting, worried that my live–aboard career was about to end badly.

NO WHERE TO RUN FRANK MUMMERTSuzanne and Frank Mummert, Rockhopper's crew.

I glared at my wife again and demanded that she bring me the dinghy oars. If I couldn't motor the anchor out, by golly, I'd row it out. She started to point out that this was a bad idea, but by now, I was a man on a mission. I threatened to come up and get the oars myself (not much of a threat, I know, but I was hot and tired and not thinking clearly).

She got them out of the lazarette and handed them down. I slipped them into the dinghy's oarlocks and pulled mightily. They popped back out of the oarlocks and hit me, one in the chest and the other in the mouth. Cursing again, I slammed them back down into place and tried again. They leaped back up and bit me. I tried a third time with exactly the same result.

I stormed back out of the dinghy and on to the boat. I wheezed and panted and glared as my wife handed me a cold soda. I glared at the dinghy, at the kedge anchor and at the channel markers, so close, but so far away. I kept glaring as the sun slowly drifted down, the tide slowly drifted out and my wife slowly proposed that we contact the bridge tender again. I refused to consider it, which, of course, infuriated her enough to make her call anyway.

The bridge tender let us know that she was contacting the county marine patrol and that they would be happy to come give us a tow. At this point, I realized an important piece of information. We were stuck on the bottom.

Of course, we were stuck on the bottom. That meant that the bottom had to be less than six feet away, probably more like five or even four feet. I, on the other hand, am six foot, three inches tall. Therefore, if I wanted to put out a kedge anchor into deeper water, all I had to do was...walk it out. When the water got over my head, by definition, I would be in water deep enough.

I explained this to my wife who, by this time, was perfectly happy to let me walk out into water deeper than my head carrying an anchor. In fact, she probably would have happily pushed me into water over my head and was regretting the suggestion that I put on a PFD.

Pleased with my brilliance, I slipped over the side and found that I could, indeed, stand in the water, my foot slipping gently into the warm, slimy mud underneath. I grabbed the painter for the dinghy, since it still held the kedge anchor and headed for the channel markers. Once the bottom dropped away and I was floating in the PFD, I lunged over the side of the dinghy, caught the kedge anchor and dropped into the mud, feeling for it with my toes to make sure it was on the bottom and ready to dig in.

I pushed and swam back to the boat, dragging the dinghy behind me. When I got close, I tossed the painter to my wife again and she pulled the two of us up alongside. I climbed back on board and, taking the free end of the kedge's rode, I twisted it around one of the massive jib winches and started to crank.

The line tightened and then started to creak. Water ran out of it where it had rested in the river. The boat leaned slightly to port, but the line was getting tighter faster. My wife began to suggest that perhaps the line wasn't quite big enough to pull us out and I began to prepare my explanation of why the line was perfectly acceptable for what we were doing, when a distant roar caught our attention. We stopped to listen as it got closer. It turned out to be the county marine patrol, there to save us from both the grounding and from saying something that might have resulted in a broken marriage, if not a broken body (mine).

TO THE RESCUEFRANK MUMMERTAlthough the James River looks wide at this point, the channel is only about one hundred feet across and it winds both to port and starboard.

They slid up alongside us and throttled the two 150 HP outboards down. The older and more experienced looking captain looked up at me and asked if we needed some help. Before I could open my mouth, my wife had explained the situation and let them know that we either needed the boat moved or she needed to be taken ashore. If they hadn't been able to help, I am not sure that her next request would not have to borrow a hand gun and ask if they would kindly look the other way for a minute.

They surveyed the situation and decided the first step would be to retrieve the kedge anchor, since that wasn't doing any good and would only interfere with them getting us out. They took the end of the anchor rode and sped over to where the kedge lay buried. After a few minutes, they returned, minus the anchor.

The captain explained that the kedge was now buried so deeply that they couldn't get it out. They had buoyed the line with a fender and promised to come back and try to get it out after we were free. Otherwise, they would bring us the line.

They swung around us and determined where the nearest deep water was. Basically, it was nowhere. I had succeeded in getting us wedged in good and tight and it was at least a hundred feet to the nearest drop off. They decided that brute force was better than finesse and tossed us a tow line, which we tied off to the anchor windlass. We retreated to the cockpit, they retreated to the cabin on their boat and the twin outboards roared into life.

They pull the bow around in the mud and she started to move, slowly at first, then more quickly. Eventually, the bow was pointed at the channel and we were grinding across the mud flat at a respectable speed. As the boat started to come free, the captain slowed his engines down, just in case we came free in a hurry. We didn't, he had to drag us all the way out into the channel and it was only when we were free and the tow line started to slack that he was able to drop his speed and swing around again.

As we drifted, I fired up the diesel again and thankfully the engine came to life. I dropped into gear and headed for the center of the channel. The tow boat sped away, back to the kedge anchor and in a couple of minutes was back, with the anchor muddy and dripping, but free. They came alongside and handed the anchor over to my wife, who, bless her soul, took it and thanked them. They asked where we were headed and she told them.

They gave her some advice about where to stay close to the shore and where to stay close to the center of the channel, and then sped off in to the gathering gloom.

My wife looked at me quietly, and then asked if we should try to anchor for the night. No way, I said, we're almost home.

Frank Mummert spent 15 years in the Navy where he taught nuclear engineering. He is a licensed captain. Currently he teaches sailing, and for the last two years has served as an instructor for sailors trying to obtain their captain's licenses through the Mariner's School, which is headquartered in Princeton, NJ.