Anchors (way) Away! A Windlass Snaps

Just when you think everything is perfect on a sailboat, a new “adventure” comes out of nowhere like an unexpected rogue wave. This story begins in Brevikstranda, a secluded bay so protected its surface sometimes flattens to dark glass. Tucked away inside an underwater mountain range of granite, Brevikstranda’s heritage includes tales of trolls and magic.

Peering at the landscape and seeing no trolls, I did notice, however, that the anchor release switch on our windlass was sticking. When you set anchor, you want to ease out the anchor slowly so it can grip the earth as the wind pulls your boat away, laying the chain in a straight line on the seabed. The chain provides a heavy drag on the seabed, stabilizing the anchor, preventing the boat from slipping out to sea or onto land! But the chain can’t do its job all piled up in one place.

Anyhoo, the windlass growled out the chain without stopping, stacking up into a little mountain. A little mountain of chain is totally useless for holding our 11-ton beauty Star Mist. Bang! I punched the toggle switch harder. The chain kept pouring out like a waterfall. So I stomped on the “up” switch, and the anchor chain finally stopped. The “up” switch should only be used to bring up the anchor. But letting the entire chain out unstoppably could be a disaster too. We didn’t notice any further problem. Despite the cycling wind overnight, spinning from south, to northwest, to southeast, our steady-eddy anchor and chain held us.

Enjoying tucked-away Brevikstranda, we walked to a sand beach, and another day, to the grocery store called “Joker.” Why call a grocery “Joker?” Well, “Kiwi” and “Rema 1000” are already taken in Norway. Go figure. After three days and two nights of blissful nature and the company of birds and fish just under the glassy surface, our lithium service batteries were drained to 50%, and our bow thrust/anchor AGM was drained to 84% (it should stay above 50%), so we fired up our Volvo Penta 40 and set our compass for the famous island of Jumfruland. When we lifted the anchor to sail onward, the windlass purred normally. But as the engine chugged us out of Brevikstranda, we smelled a plastic smell. It wasn’t a bad smell, but noticeable and strange. Then, it appeared that the service batteries were charging very little, and the bow thrust/anchor battery not at all. We turned to our onboard “expert” Gemini, who gave us an instant warning. STOP THE ENGINE IMMEDIATELY!! Gemini declared that the smell indicated a potential fire on board.

But, but, but. Wait! We needed to run the engine to charge the batteries! At this time of year, every marina in Norway is packed to the gills. With temps in the 80s, it seems that every one of this nation’s six million inhabitants is surfing the waves on a boat, sunning on deck inside a marina — or prowling up and down in the marina fairway, trying to find a berth. We dutifully shut down the engine, unfurled our genoa, and called ahead to Jomfruland marina. At 3 kts we were sailing slowly, but safely. The harbormaster delivered blunt reality when we called to explain our situation. “Well, you better come now. The marina is almost full.” We were still two hours away. Anchoring outside would be difficult because of our windlass problem and because of our NEW problem — the uncharged batteries and, according to Gemini, the life-threatening possibility of a fire on board! What to do. Where to turn?

In real trouble, there is no better expert than Lukas Botteck at Sirius. Lukas is a mastermind of all things electronic. He led the team that installed our new lithium batteries last year (with the extensive rewiring and alternator changes necessary). Lukas is in demand and probably would be too busy to help us, we reckoned. But amazingly, he called us back immediately. Gero took the helm as I crawled into the engine room. Like a physician, Lukas calmly and patiently asked for all the “vital signs” — voltage levels of the individual batteries. He inquired about the smell. “Hmmmmm,” he said, as though he might be scratching his beard and smoking a sweet-smelling pipe like Sherlock Holmes.

My eyes darted to each of the electronic gauges. “Our service bank isn’t reaching 13.4 volts!” I cried out. Lukas asked for the amperage the engine was creating. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s normal.” He explained that our lithium battery bank is so large at 400 Ahs, that it requires time to charge. Until its voltage of the lithium bank reaches 13.6, no charge will reach the starter and bow thrust batteries. So despite the plastic smell, Lucas reassured us that we weren’t in danger of a fire breaking out, and perhaps it was just that our batteries were quite drained after anchoring for a few days. The anchor alarm in the instruments plus our anchor light had kept us safe through the Norwegian nights in the bay.

Lukas reassuringly asked us to keep him posted, even overnight. Our heart rates dropped down from panic to preparation as we approached Jomfruland National Park, a must-see island of boulder beaches and oak forests, as well as more than 60 species of birds, Norwegians told us. As the marina came into view, it looked like a beehive, boats buzzing around. The harbor master’s prediction was correct — we were locked out.

What should we do? Not wanting to miss the experience of visiting renowned Jomfruland, we sidled over to a chain of sailboats lined up at anchor in a narrow ridge of 3-6 meter depth beyond the swimming beach. Our main anchor dropped as normal, but because of the shifting winds and the narrow ridge of anchoring depth, we had to raise and reset it. The second time wasn’t a charm. The anchor release switch stopped working, delivering a “click” when we engaged it, but no movement. We could manually pull the anchor back in, but we could not manually let it out. Gero suggested we substitute our spare anchor, a “fluke” type, lightweight anchor on a chain and rope line that we normally use as a second anchor to support the first. The fluke or “Danforth” has a sticker on it that says “The World‘s Best Anchor.” Have you heard, “world’s greatest,” “greatest of all time!” before? These days, those claims raise our eyebrows. But we didn’t have other options.

Gero jumped into action and expertly crafted a bridal at our bow, manually dropping the Danforth to the seabed in light winds. We waited. We watched the shoreline. Were we moving? Or just swinging along a fixed arc? Hard to tell. But as a tiny red house on the shore shrank away, the verdict was clear. The World’s Best Anchor wasn’t holding. We tried again, setting our anchor alarms. Again, the Danforth slipped. We tried a third time, and waited. The clock said 4 o’clock. If you’re unsure that your anchor is going to stay put, you can’t realistically leave your boat. So we broke out our backgammon set and set the anchor alarms. The wind slowed to a feather-like breeze. As we dozed into a light sleep, we felt safe as the boat traffic quieted.

But just after midnight, our anchor alarms started to screech. The light winds had shifted 180°, perhaps confusing the anchor alarm, or worse, pulling the fluke out of the seabed’s sand. We tried setting the manual anchor a few more times and then realized the wind was so shifty that the anchor just couldn’t be trusted to hold. Watching the early morning sun already high in the sky, we decided to take a spin past the marina before giving up on our plan to see Jomfruland.

Eureka! The late night revelers had scooted out and left couple of spots open in the marina. So we hastily set our fenders and docking lines and with the help of some friendly Swedish and Norwegian sailors who grabbed our lines, easily slipped into a box and tied in. A man on the dock piloting a Marex heard about our windlass problems. “Ohhh, that’s serious,” he said. “You can’t sail without an anchor here. Every marina in Norway is full.” So we paid for a night in Jomfruland and climbed up the hill to sip a delicious coffee, nibbling on a Kanelbolle (cinnamon bun) while we mulled our options. Sometimes at sea, you discover a new appreciation for land!