Two days before an expected strong northerly blow, we anticipated by finding a nice empty spot on the south side of Big Major Cay, free from inexperienced charterers who apparently believe it’s best to drop anchor as close as possible to any other boats, regardless of how open the anchorage happens to be. Despite any apparent madness, we certainly love it here, and people will be people, somehow living amongst each other.

Note: Cay is pronounced like key in the Bahamas. 

Having some time to kill, we parked KoryKory on the little protected dinghy beach, for a walk into town, and managed to get a few groceries before enjoying a refreshing swim. Of course, after putting groceries away and having that refreshing swim, we had to return for beers, enjoyed with conch “bits” and grouper “fingers” at Staniel Cay Yacht Club. What a lively place to meet a variety of visitors and residents!

As predicted later the next day, wind began to blow strong from the west, where nobody had protection, and then overnight clocked around to the north. Sure, it was rolly, offering lackluster sleep that first night, but we enjoyed relatively peaceful water as our warm sun arose and morning arrived. Until…

They started moving in. Late to the party. Big catamarans, trawlers, all leaving plenty of room for lengthy rode to swing. No need to crowd. However, a wholly incompetent fella aboard Endless Summer thought he’d just anchor a mere single boat length upwind of Fayaway, putting him almost above our anchor. Insisting he had enough room, we had a conversation focused on his relative proximity, me from bow, him from stern. We were so close, despite the 20 knot wind, that yelling wasn’t necessary. I told him that we had almost 90 feet of chain out, which an ordinary competent person would interpret as “you’re a bit too close, limiting my mobility, and that he’s likely floating above our anchor “. He didn’t understand, and replied that he put out 110 feet.

Anchoring Rule #2 (Explorer chart book):   
AVOID THE SNUGGLING SYNDROME. Try not to go into a group of anchored boats. Anchor outside and abeam of them.Avoid anchoring upwind of other boats. 

More expansive explanation follows but I think you get the point. (By the way, Rule #1, out of 7, is:
LOOK FOR A SPOT WITH GOOD HOLDING, which along with adequate depth, should be obvious, but…) 

Upon my further insistence, Mr. Endless Summer’s response was to state that the wind will continue to clock to the northeast, thereby allowing us to swing parallel, albeit still only a boat-length away. Ok, but that’s no going to happen until later tonight.

Before I could further consider what to do, he and his wife hopped into their dinghy for a ride to town. Feeling my options quickly fade, I flagged them on their way by, at least to discuss remaining concerns. But he remained oblivious and shared no concern. Before motoring away, his wife exclaimed that “Navionics (I’m assuming she meant AIS) says we’re 360 feet away from you.”

From then on I spent more time visually checking our boats’ relative proximity, and thinking of what to do if or when he drags, especially if he’s not on his boat. I envisioned jumping aboard and letting all his chain out, or just cutting it. But that wouldn’t be fair to the neighbors further downwind, passing our hazard onto them. We’ve been in many tight anchorages, and typically have no problem with closer boats. But when wind and tide create swinging hazards, one of us must move. Etiquette states that the second boat should be the one to move. At least that’s the courteous and responsible response.

Early the following morning, wind did clock to the ENE, so then we could relax a bit. At least now we could pull up anchor and go away. Patience was finally rewarded when by mid morning he shouted across, saying that his boat bumped bottom last night. I shrugged and pointed to the northwest, closer to shore, and said that according to our charts it should be somewhat deeper. So they decided to re-anchor to a more comfortable (for us) distance away. Thank you!

Fayaway’s depth sounder said we had 6 inches under the keel at low tide. Always skeptical of our instruments, I verified by physically diving down to see how close our keel actually floated above the white sand. At low tide we floated with a bit less than six inches. But our moon is waning toward newness, calling for lower than mean. So, yup, a couple nights later at around 0100, we too felt something go “bump, bump, bump”. No biggie. But with the lunar cycle still approaching, we decided it was a good time to move onward.

Fortunately, the weather window opened. So we motored into heavy wind just a bit further south, to Black Point, to wait out another evening in protected waters.

Like usual, we just plunked our anchor further out and away from the snugglers. (You know how some folks spend ten minutes driving up and down the supermarket parking lot aisles, looking for a closer space? Not us! We just park at the first available spot on the way in.)

However, within an hour we watched as nearby Canadian-flagged neighbors Rum Major were almost taken out by more anchoring chaos.

A pair of large-ish Oyster yachts (brand, not the shellfish), swiftly motored past us, too fast, deeper into the crowded field, without much looking around, and Oyster #1 dropped his anchor in a tight spot, not a boat’s length in front of our upwind neighbor’s more conservative vessel. And folks, there’s plenty of room for anchoring, so no need to snuggle.

Wind was still brisk, still blowing 20+ with the diurnal maxima, and the fifty something footer apparently couldn’t get his hook into the bottom. Due to not leaving a reasonable amount of clearance, his bow quickly fell off the wind, nearly becoming T-boned by our innocent and more conservative neighbors.

It’s scary to watch helpless innocent and responsible people being offended by arrogant idiots. Diesel smoke billowed as the clueless helmsman flogged his racing engine, in effort to pull away, while an offended woman nearly pees her pants, scurrying for fenders.

Rum Major narrowly escaped, and the big yacht moved a short distance away, this time abeam. Giant Oyster number two moved in to raft up with idiot Oyster number one. Not nearly far enough away. No apologies had been made. Shortly thereafter, Rum Major motored away to another anchorage.

And we conclude another few days in paradise. As mentioned in the opening paragraph, we love these surroundings, and all the various flavors of people to go with them.

We hope this finds you happy and healthy, staying warm.