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.