"It's not Anchor's Away!"
Yeah, I know, not really an excellent opening line to impress some young thing, is it? Well, circumstances, as they say, make cases. This circumstance was just too spectacularly over the top to pass up, but I'd better go back a ways so that this has some outside chance of coming together in a manner that might prove to outflank the dim rules of probability.
I was out enjoying what was supposed to be a peaceful week of solitude on my boat,
Refuge
, not looking for company, not even the company of a couple of young women. In fact, anything in the way of females of my species was something I had been studiously avoiding for quite some time. It was going to be just Pasco and me, laid back and virtually without agenda or obligation for the next week. We'd left our slip on the end of B dock at Northern Harbour on a sparkling, sun-drenched Sunday afternoon and slowly cruised south into Lake of the Woods. The advantage of a Sunday departure was that so many weekenders would be on their way back to harbour, leaving a lot of great anchorages empty for days on end during the week. Solitude, our goal and the primary ingredient for a great week on the lake.
In case you need to flesh out a picture of us on the lake, I am Thomas Green, age forty-seven, about six feet and 185 lbs, sandy brown hair that is getting a bit grey but not too thin yet. I'm no cover of GQ Nordic god, but I still get a few looks. On board I serve as captain, entertainment director, navigator, and chef of
Refuge
, my forty foot twin diesel Meridian motor yacht. My fellow crewman, Pasco, is about two feet tall, weighs in at 46 lbs, when he's dry, and is considered a 'Portuguese Water Dog'. Only not by Pasco, he considers himself a psychologist, a dietician, and a personal trainer. In truth he's actually pretty good at all three, but don't, for heaven sake, tell him that. He's too full of himself as it is.
The boat, up until a year ago, was actually named
Our Refuge
. My wife Pat decided that she was not coming out on the boat at all last summer. Truthfully it had always been more my thing than hers and I had all summer off to enjoy the lake, while she didn't. Pasco and I got in the habit of spending three or four days a week on the boat, then returning to Winnipeg for the weekend to spend it with Pat. It was two months into the summer when Pat informed me that I didn't need to come back home from the boat after a particular four day jaunt on the lake with Pasco. It seemed that while I was away she had been spending those mid-week nights shacked up with a co-worker, and things had gotten to the point that they wanted to make it permanent. Pasco and I decided to just simplify things and paint out the "
Our"
on the stern.
The divorce was civilized, I guess, as these things go. I wasn't actually shocked or blindsided, at least not totally. There had been signs for a while that Pat wasn't happy with our marriage. Even when I was home she went out with friends periodically to events where I wasn't invited. "Work related" dinners and late client meetings had become more frequent in that last year or so. As a University professor, I had my share of faculty meetings, and I was pretty sure some of her client meetings were just an excuse to get out. Pat is an accountant, not a sales person, and most accounting business meetings are strictly daytime events. The truth was, by that time it was just easier to go along with the breakup and have the peace and quiet of seeing her leave without any recriminations. No kids, thank God. Sold the house really quickly to good friends of ours who had always admired it. She kept her savings and pension, I kept mine. In an exercise of generosity Pat told me to keep the boat, after all, I had paid for it with my inheritance when my dad passed away. She never liked the boat anyway, and she felt guilty for cheating on me, so I think it salved her conscience. I wasn't going to argue. It may have been a civilized dissolution of the marriage, but that didn't mean I wasn't hurt and angry. She could have told me she wanted out before using our house and bed to fuck her boss all summer.
I found a nice condo close to the University that had a safe area to walk Pasco, and we settled in to a pattern of existence that suited us both. Pat fussed about me taking Pasco at first, but her boss, lover, and now future husband, had no interest in a fifty pound hair ball occupying his upscale riverfront home. Besides, I learned that Pasco had peed in his shoe on some occasion when Ben (the asshole) was visiting Pat and I wasn't around. I do love that dog.
So, background established, Pasco and I were cruising south on the lake, towing our eighteen foot rigid inflatable dinghy behind us, a kayak lashed down on the bow, as we headed for our favourite anchorage some twenty miles south of Kenora, just off Sunset Channel. It was a nice little channel, very well sheltered from almost any wind, hidden behind a long point from the west, and guarded by two islands on the north and east. Over the years we had handily survived a couple of pretty nasty storms hunkered down in that little bay, and the fishing was pretty good, too. Not only that, the channel was a bit out of the way, so we often saw only the odd fishing boat over the course of a week at anchor.
Cruising down through French Narrows on our way south we met several old friends in two motor yachts heading back to harbour and spent a few pleasant minutes on the marine band radio exchanging greetings. By late afternoon we had our anchor set, our dinghy tied alongside, and the kayak in the water. Pasco was anxious to get into the kayak and go exploring. Quartz Island was just a short paddle away and he was longing for a good run before supper. I knew the exercise would do me good, but I was thinking about a good cigar and a glass of scotch. Pasco 1 -- Tom 0, as we clambered aboard the kayak and made for shore.
We were on our way back about an hour later, brought about only because I reminded my resident dietician that there were steaks waiting on board if he was satisfied with the workout he'd gotten dragging me through the underbrush. As we approached our anchored floating cabin I heard the sound of a big outboard approaching from the east end of the channel. Darting across over the shallow reef that lay just a hundred yards to the north of our anchorage, we had just tied up to
Refuge
when the other boat came in sight. It was one of those flashy, new looking, runabouts with a big outboard hung off the stern. I guessed it at about twenty feet as they came up pretty quickly toward where we were anchored. Climbing out of the kayak and standing on the swim platform we watched them approach, wondering if they knew the bay and the reef directly in front of them. I waved to warn them of the rocks that lay between us.
It seemed at first that they understood, for they slowed down as they got near the submerged rocks in their path. The driver waved back at me somewhat urgently, I thought. It looked like two women in the boat, which is a bit unusual out in that part of the lake, where I mostly see fishermen, but there were cottages about seven or eight miles from our location, so it wasn't unheard of. As they neared the reef one of the gals suddenly stood up and scampered to the bow, where she proceeded to pick up an anchor and throw it out directly ahead of them, more or less onto the reef, which looked a little strange. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, dark hair cut short and a full figure that couldn't be hidden even under a tee shirt and blue jeans. The other gal, driving the boat, looked to be about the same age but more willowy with coppery hair pulled back in a ponytail.
"Anchor's away!" The gal in the bow called out as she stood proudly watching her handiwork. She obviously didn't understand that the term is actually "anchor's a' weigh" meaning the anchor is up and down, ready for hauling in, not casting out! In her enthusiasm, she somehow forgot to check that the bitter end of the anchor rope was attached to something. At the last moment she reached out to grab it as it went over the bow, but all she succeeded in doing was scraping her arms and knees as she fell forward.
As I stood transfixed the comedy of errors continued unabated. The other woman, still at the helm, hoping to save a bad situation, put the boat in gear opening up the throttle quickly, which lurched the boat forward as she attempted to salvage the anchor rope before it disappeared beneath the waves. The gal in the bow just barely got her balance back before there was a rather loud crunching sound and then dead silence as the motor stalled after coming into contact with the rocky reef.
The second lurch of the boat coming to a rather abrupt stop, propelled the gal in the bow, still somewhat off balance, onto the bow rail and then over it into the water, landing flat on her back. While the whole episode took only a few short minutes, and was at the outset somewhat comical, I could see it becoming potentially tragic and by the time the woman from the bow was flipping over on her side in the water I had our dinghy untied and Pasco was already in it waiting for me.
By the time we carefully navigated across the reef the gal in the water was clinging to the side of their boat, head above water, and seemingly in command of her faculties. We moved in close beside her, warning her and her companion of our approach. At first she seemed stunned by our presence, but when our actions became clearer she grabbed onto the side of the dinghy and I helped her work her way to the stern where she could climb our swim ladder as I helped her aboard.
All this while the other woman was sitting in her chair, her head in her hands, not moving at all.
"June, June are you all right?" The lady in my dinghy called across to her companion.
Slowly June raised her head, looking across at us somewhat vaguely. "Cindy? What did I do? Are you ok?"
There was a bright cut across June's forehead and I could see the swelling starting from my position in the dinghy.
"I think your friend has hit her head on the windshield when the boat struck the reef. She is going to need help. Are you ok?" I asked.
I took my first good look at my passenger, noting several things simultaneously. The first was that, soaking wet there was no hiding a really nice figure with nice plump breasts outlined beneath the clinging wet tee shirt. The second was that the gal I assumed was Cindy was white as a sheet and seemed to be hyperventilating. Ok, one woman in possible shock, the other with what could be a concussion. This wasn't good. Their boat wasn't going anywhere, and getting the big Meridian up and running was going to take some time at best. First order of business was to get these two women into safer conditions and then deal with their boat.
