Weighing Anchor

“It’s time to go!” Kathy commanded as she boarded Adventure. She had just returned from a morning dinghy ride with one of our buddy boats. I was inside, fully immersed in a death scroll on my phone.

Taken aback, I looked up, confused.

Kathy gave me a stern look.
“Do you want your cookies or not?”

Today was the day to head to Sullivan Bay. We’d been told there was a general store that might have vegetables—and, more importantly, cookies. It had been five weeks since we last provisioned, and I was out. I’d started rationing days ago—six cookies a night, down to just two. Two! And still, I ran out.

A kind lady had given me cookies at Lagoon Cove, but then, all of a sudden, Kathy decided we should start sharing. To make things worse, we were out of milk too. And what good are cookies without milk?

As I went to retrieve the anchor, I discovered the chain had wrapped around it. We had anchored three separate times the day before, and by the third attempt my brain was mush. We’d miscalculated on the first try and, on the second, found our starboard side exposed to the shallows. After we weighed anchor to try again, Kathy suddenly declared the entire nook unacceptable.

I had become familiar with that little spot and strongly disagreed with this bold proclamation.

I looked at Kathy sternly.
She stared back.
I squinted.
I was the captain. There was no way we were leaving.

Kathy, defiant, turned the wheel and throttled up.

Afraid of losing my authority, I quickly shouted,
“Let’s go to the next bay!”

Back at the bow, I grabbed the boat pole to lift and untangle the anchor. A light rain had started, and everything was slippery. Kathy’s voice buzzed through my headphones like a persistent narrator:

“Why is the anchor chain wrapped? Do you need me to come up there? We’re drifting toward shore. Do you want me to move? Be careful!”

I tried my best to ignore her.

As I lifted the anchor, the extension on the boat pole slipped and grew longer. I tightened it and tried again. But as the anchor broke free, I got the full force of its weight. The boat pole was yanked from my hands.

I watched in horror as it hit the water. It floated vertically, the yellow tip beckoning me to save it. There was hope.

But then—slowly—it began to sink.

It all unfolded in slow motion, and there was nothing I could do. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself on the bow with my loyal friend by my side. I remembered our battles against mooring balls, its special spot on the shelf—ever ready.

My eyes began to water. I looked away as it disappeared into the murky depths.

I secured the anchor and returned to the cockpit.

“What happened?” Kathy asked.
“I lost the boat pole.”
“How did you lose the boat pole?” she replied, clearly frustrated.

“It’s just a boat pole! Get over it!” I snapped defensively. I turned away so she wouldn’t see me wipe my eyes.

We arrived at Sullivan Bay without incident. Sensing my grief, Kathy returned from the store with cookies—and milk.

That evening, I ate an extra cookie as tribute to my good and faithful friend.