I fight off the guilt and panic.

"Alright, do something," I order myself, "do something, do something," I jump back into the fo'cile bed and up through the hatch, naked, to the deck, grab the anchor in the wind and heave it over board. I jump back down below and start the engines, which is what I always said I would do. But I should have done both these things in the opposite order. The engines, twin diesels, thankfully start. I see the chain stretched out ahead of me-it anchor has caught-a big clanking noise shudders through the hull to me-I ease the throttles forward. I look behind to see the Por Favor has caught dangerously close to the surf zone, maybe 70 feet to shore. The engines shimmy and whine to a high pitch almost singing along, and I look expectantly forward thinking I can approach the played out anchor, pass over it, and then drag it at least someway out into the harbor.

But I travel no where. The more I ease the throttle forward, the more the boat seems to push around to face the shore-not where I want to go.

I play with the controls fifteen minutes more, first one, then the other, thinking I am controlling the boat and possibly inching forward.
I only need to go 100 feet or more. But looking at the buoys to my side, I see I have gone no where. The broken mooring chain has wrapped around and dragged another mooring along with it to settle straight below me and act like a second anchor. Or the second chain has wrapped around the prop. Or both. I am going no where.

The waves are coming in bigger and the wind is mounting. I push the throttles all the way forward in an attempt to drive out of the whole mess. Diesel smoke piles up over the engines at the stern higher than the roof timbers. But I am going nowhere. It is time to get off, I announce to the throttles. I ease them back, pull the shut-off valves to the diesels, and prepare to leave.

Grabbing up my novel and a few clothes, I hurry out back onto the deck to throw these things into the canoe. I fumble with the knot on the swim-step of the boat. The Por Favor is buffeting over the incoming waves and the swim step submerges with a slap and rises streaming water, submerges and rises streaming. I heave back on the stern gunwale and finish fumbling with the knot, timing my move with the dips of the stern, and launch out wobbly into the canoe and the night.