The allure of a calm anchorage after a long passage can be a siren song that leaves you high and dry in the wrong conditions.

We had left Ft. Lauderdale three days earlier, bound for San Salvador, one the Bahamas far out islands. Like Donald Trump, San Salvador is better known that it should be. Most historians agree that the flat, scrub covered island with a necklace of soft sand and fringing reefs was the very place where Christopher Columbus first waded ashore in the new world. The islanders have embraced the legend too, it’s their one meager cash crop, and there are four different monuments claiming to be the very spot where old Chris drove his flag into the beautiful white sand.

The fading afternoon glow was filtered by a handful of low streaky clouds, backlighting the harbor perfectly. The approach was as clear as a pilgrim’s conscience. A lack of visibility would not fly as an excuse later on, unfortunately. A large pile of sand, an obvious but ignored clue, marked the north side of the channel and a stand of casuarinas stood sentinel to the south. Yes, it was a frightfully narrow cut hewed through jagged limestone, and yes, the wind was honking, but the cut was on the lee side of the small island and besides, I had plenty of local knowledge having conned a variety of boats into the tiny man made harbor over the years. Running a pass like this isn’t for the faint of heart but at the same time, I didn’t consider it unduly risky either. It had been a short but tough passage, the wind was building, the anchorage was an iffy alternative and we were all ready for a night without rocking and rolling. I was confident that even if we kissed the bottom once or twice, we’d clear the turquoise bar and enter the deeper inner harbor without much difficulty.

From a sailing perspective, San Salvador is a challenging destination, at least when sailing from Florida. Invariably it is a beat against fresh easterlies, however you are usually rewarded with a sweet reach back home. A 700-mile dose of pain and pleasure seemed like a good recipe for one of my offshore training passages aboard Quetzal, my Kaufman 47. Five unsuspecting crew/victims agreed and signed aboard.

The Gulf Stream was in a foul mood when we finally set sail in the early afternoon and after an hour of crashing upwind in steep seas we decided to reach off for Miami and try again the next day. I took this decision as an encouraging sign--maybe you can teach an old dog like m new tricks--and to my surprise, I didn’t feel as guilty as I thought I would at taking the easy, a.k.a. the sensible, way out. Who knows, I just may turn into a real cruiser one day?

That evening at anchor was anything but restful. We worked on a bizarre electrical problem that left us in the dark and were kept awake by a raucous Latin dance band that played a bad combination of salsa and rap into the wee hours. When we got underway in the morning the wind had abated but the seas lingered producing miserable swell conditions. After a brief but noble attempt at purity we fired up the ice machine and powered across the stream. Later, a soft breeze emerged from the south and Quetzal slipped along reasonably in the light airs. The next morning the wind died again, only to return a few hours later, a frustrating pattern that would continue throughout the day. Finally, 150 miles from San Salvador, a stiff northeast breeze arrived with a mission: to challenge the crew of Quetzal. By the time we reached the lee of the island we were down to a double reefed main and staysail, the sailing was exhilarating and exhausting, it was the right moment for landfall--or was it?

Quetzal draws a healthy 7 feet, which of course is ridiculous for Bahamas navigation, but hey, lets face it, we take the cards or keels that we’re dealt, press on and always assume the water is a little deeper than charted. Also, I was uncertain about the state of tide. I knew it would be tough to clear the bar at low water and the tide tables I had aboard listed Nassau without a time difference for San Salvador, an oversight I should have noticed before shoving off. This is when it pays to have a well-equipped crew, or least one that understands the foibles of the skipper. Charlie Barnett, who has sailed with me a couple of times and knows that I have an unhealthy respect for serendipity, quickly produced his handheld chart plotter complete with tide tables for San Salvador. It was 1730, we were at half tide and most importantly, the tide was flooding.

As we closed the shoreline under power it became clear that small breakers were sweeping across the channel near the mouth. San Salvador which juts defiantly into the Atlantic, is a logical respite for boats heading to or from Florida and the Caribbean. I told the crew how I had massaged some pretty big boats through this pass before, including an Irwin 54 ketch and a Hylas 51 sloop with a similar 7-foot draft. I described how we had literally surfed the wide-bodied Irwin into the harbor and how it was necessary to bounce the Hylas over a high spot just outside the short breakwater. "We may touch the bottom once or twice, but once we clear that hump we’ll be home free." I was trying to bolster their confidence and my own.

Tide, current, and daylight should all be factored into any final approach.

Zeroing in on the channel, we steered the course of 075 magnetic listed in Steve Pavlidis’ excellent Bahamas guidebook. We tried to reach the Riding Rock Marina on the VHF but there was no reply. The depth sounder held steady in the mid twenties, before suddenly displaying 15’- 14’ - 13’ 12’ 11’ 10’ 9’, I didn’t the Gallup Poll to tell me this was a disturbing trend A few hundred yards off the beach, I considered aborting the approach. The breakers in the channel were steeper than I had first thought and I felt an ugly pit in my gut. Then the depth popped back to 14 feet and my doubts quickly disappeared. I kept on.

Although some of the waves cresting in the channel were probably 3 or 4 feet, Quetzal was steady in the water, a result of her deep keel, low freeboard and, lets be honest, her 82 hp engine. Suddenly we lurched to port,--we were aground, but then just as suddenly, we were underway again, we were free. I was greatly relieved, we had grounded right where I thought we might, and now that we were beyond that spot I was certain we’d coast into the harbor. The bottom was sand, all we had done was scrape a bit of paint off the bottom of the keel, my good luck was holding. Just as we prepared to enter the narrow cut, and when opposite the short breakwater, we grounded again, and this time we didn’t come free, we were stuck. The bow had pushed into the pass, protected from the surging waves, but the stern was occasionally rocked by breakers. So much for luck, I felt like a fool.

Looking to my left I noticed the sand, huge piles of sand, clearly the channel was in constant need of dredging, I didn’t remember the sand from my previous visit a few years before. Before long the crews of the other two sailboats in the harbor turned up to lend a hand. Standing along side the pass there was nothing they could do but offer sobering advice about just how shallow the pass was and how the locals had given up trying to keep the channel dredged. One sailor noted how he’d come in at high tide and still grounded with his 6-foot draft. Then another sailor recognized me, "Hey are you John Kretschmer?" I was sorely tempted to lie, but unfortunately he went on to say how he’d recently attended one of my lectures. Stranded on a sandbar with a game but inexperienced training crew, I wondered what pearls of wisdom and seamanship tips I had extolled in that particular lecture? It was Plato who said, "be wary of the experts."

An hour passed and I did all the things sailors do instead of waiting patiently for the tide to come in. I gunned the engine in forward and reverse, pushing and prodding, twisting and turning, wildly spinning the wheel, trying to inch forward by pushing my gut up against the wheel. Quetzal didn’t budge. With the engine was on the verge of overheating I finally abandoned these ridiculous attempts to clear the bar. We tossed lines ashore and our new friends pulled with all their hearts, but they were not going to dislodge 32,000 lbs of boat.

There was nothing to do but swallow my considerable pride and wait. Minute by long minute, another hour passed. Near high tide a wave lifted Quetzal’s stern and we staggered forward. I started the engine, put it in gear and the next wave pushed us over the bar. I throttled up and we surged into the inner harbor.

Hind sight is always 20/20, but when the conditions are conspiring against you, sometimes it’s time to bite the bullet and head back out to sea.

That night the crew went ashore to celebrate their arrival and survival. I stayed aboard, ostensibly to clean up the boat but really to contemplate how I had made such a poor decision. Scrubbing the cabin sole, I replayed the grounding over and over again in my mind. I had relied heavily on past experiences, but clearly I should have been more cautious. Entering San Salvador’s small basin under favorable conditions is tricky, in blustery weather it is downright foolhardy. Was I trying to show off to my crew? I thought about this but concluded that I wasn’t. I did however commit the classic mistake of risking my boat for the prospect of a night in harbor. It really was that simple. Many more boats are lost for what amounts to impatience than are ever lost in gales.

The prudent decision would have been to anchor off, and if that became untenable, head back out to sea. We had plenty of provisions and hands to man the helm. No matter how I tried to defend my actions, it was a poor decision, just the kind of decision I often wail against. Hopefully my crew will have learned from their skipper’s mistake.