Ganges: Not so quiet, really

I wasn't going to mention any of this, and perhaps I still shouldn't, since it may just be tempting fate. But reading Mandy's assertions about the relative quiet of Ganges Harbour in light of the events of the last twenty-four hours, I'm having trouble keeping it to myself. And no, it's not about the seaplanes that take off right next to us twelve hours a day (quiet? maybe if you have fancy noise-canceling headphones!).

I wasn't going to post about it because I make plenty of mistakes myself and don't like to point out those made by others; they are generally honest mistakes, and it's not always clear who is making them depending on conditions, experience, and a multitude of other factors.

Nonetheless, we seem to have some sort of magnetic attraction that compels people to anchor uncomfortably close to us even in absolutely empty anchorages. A couple years ago in Laura Cove, we were entirely by ourselves, anchored out with scads of open space around us, when in the late afternoon some guy chugs in and calmly parallel parks right next to us, like it's Manhattan and he has just squeaked into the last space within twenty blocks. There were probably fifty other prime spots around the cove he might have picked, but no, the place he had to be was right there, where I was going to have trouble sleeping thinking about our respective swinging radii.

One thing to understand about the anchorage in Ganges is that it's huge... probably half a mile wide, nearly two miles long, around 5 fathoms deep throughout over a sticky mud bottom. There is hardly anywhere in here you couldn't pitch the hook over the side and have a safe, secure evening of rest. And this time of year, the place is practically empty... there may be twenty boats here in the main part of the harbour, half those on permanent moorings. There is a good bit of space left over, even quite close to town.

So it came as some surprise a couple days ago when a forty-something foot Catalina came and anchored within about two boat lengths to windward of us. The owner seemed to know that he was a bit closer than he needed to be... I happened to be on deck at the time, and he struck up a conversation, and mentioned that since he was on chain, and I was using rope, I would stretch well out away from him and there shouldn't be a problem. Now, to my understanding, that's actually a bad thing, because a lighter boat on a rope rode will swing around faster than a heavier one on chain, and cause problems where two boats with similar anchoring setups might not, but this guy looked like the Ancient Mariner and I figured, hey, what do I know? Even though using the same logic, if the wind shifted, wouldn't we be more likely to collide? Anyway, he was old, and I decided not to ask him to haul up and move... something I do very rarely, even though my anchoring comfort zone is much larger than many people's.

Anyway, to make a long story shore, Mandy got up to use the head last night around midnight, and heard a funny noise coming from the lifelines. That was his anchor roller tangling up in them. It was pretty calm out, so there was no loud smacking or anything, we had just drifted together after a light breeze shifted us around a bit. I got up, rapped on the hull, and woke everyone up. His wife was very apologetic, but I had trouble understanding the resolution they chose... instead of letting out more rode and drifting further astern (out of our swinging radius), they started the engine up and backed away. That got us all clear for the moment, but I couldn't see how it was going to prevent the problem from recurring. Still, the devil you know and all, so I again didn't specifically ask them to re-anchor further off, preferring they come to that conclusion themselves, which happened finally around three hours later. So, not much sleep for me. They pulled out this morning with no further drama.

Fast forward to dinner time. I'd been laying around, still very tired, on a settee reading a bit, and Mandy told me to get cracking and whip her up some ham and potatoes. I get up to do just that... and am amazed to see out the companionway another sailboat, this one on the other side of us, with our dinghy gently brushing up against his anchor chain. I hadn't even heard him come in.

So I bound up on deck, it's raining now, and check, and we're not even stretched all the way out on our rode. Any little breeze coming up from the south and we're definitely going to smack him. So I hail him and he comes up scratching his head... he had anchored when the wind was coming from the other direction, just as the guy in the Catalina had, only it had shifted sooner this time. He had imagined he was well away from us, but again, he was on all-chain and we, with our mostly rope rode, had shifted back much more quickly. He asked how much I had out, and I told him ninety feet... a respectable three-to-one, our typical ratio in the crowded anchorages up here, and about the minimum I feel comfortable with, considering how light rope is. I am sometimes embarrassed to have to reveal that I have four or five to one out when it is windy, feeling a bit selfish and over-protective considering the community norms up here.

So I asked how much chain he had out. One hundred and twenty five feet. Better than four to one, of chain. Suddenly I didn't feel so selfish with my wimpy lightweight rope and a measly three to one. He volunteered to haul some in and shorten his scope, which I agreed was perhaps a good first step. Considering my own predilections, shortening scope is not something I am comfortable openly encouraging among others; after all, if they start dragging, they may present a much more drastic problem for me than if we are just rubbing. Still... I think he's probably safe, considering the forecast for the next week doesn't call for anything stronger than fifteen knots.

Like the fellow last night, I didn't directly ask him to re-anchor, but let him come to the conclusion himself that we would all get a better evening's rest (which god knows I need at this point) if he picked up and dropped back over where he thought he was in the first place. Eventually, he did.

So, that's how quiet it is here right now, which doesn't seem all that quiet, considering this is the first time we've bumped with anyone at anchor this season (I did, actually, ask a fellow in False Creek with a fifty-foot tug to re-anchor after he dropped too close; it was way too big, and obviously way too close, and we certainly would have hit given the wind and current patterns there, but after some grumbling he did move along), and it's happened twice in less than twenty-four hours, in an otherwise mostly empty anchorage.