An idyllic anchorage one morning becomes a hectic test of seamanship by afternoon.

Grenada is typically considered to be south of the Caribbean hurricane belt and since we began our cruise six months earlier in Sint Maarten, Curt and I had reveled in the fact that the only item in our appointment book for the rest of our lives was to make it to there before a hurricane made it to us.

From the first afternoon we anchored in Prickly Bay--a deep and sheltered south facing anchorage--among fifty or more other boats, the air had been densely still. The nights were heavy with heat, the stillness of the glassy water, and the chime of tree frogs serenading us to sleep. We had tucked our sailboat Force Five into a corner near shore in 8' of water. We cautiously studied a trimaran on a mooring behind us to consider each change in the direction of the wind and how our position was affected. After sufficient due diligence, we felt we'd chosen our spot well and slept soundly for the next two weeks.

The morning of our tale started out hazy and warm, but as the morning passed, the haze and the weather worsened quickly and we were thankful to be onboard when the first squall arrived. The wind hit ferociously and without warning. A deluge of rain pelted our decks like marbles being dumped from an enormous toy box. We huddled in our corner of the anchorage and watched gusts of wind pull sea into the sky and send boats flying in all directions. The wind brought swells with it, and masts were lurching from side to side as boats pitched about. Force Five's anchor held fast, but the gusts and swells grew stronger.

Our VHF began shouting anonymous warnings to everyone in ear shot. "Manely, Manely - you're dragging!" "Head's up in Prickly Bay - a boat with a red hull is dragging towards the northern end of the anchorage!" Someone would reply "We can't get the engine started," or, "Thanks, we're working on it!" Other times, we heard nothing. All around us, clumps of boats were forming as the gusts pushed and dragged them together. With the ever growing swell, the boats rolled about in clusters looking as if they were banging into each other.

Squalls in the Caribbean are a dime a dozen and usually have more bark than bite. This wasn't one of those cases.

When the squall passed, the panicked shouts in the VHF traffic unfolded into layers of chatter. The squall had hit without warning. Cruisers checked in with each other whether they knew one another or not, and shared recorded wind speeds (55 knots). The swells continued after the winds had passed and for the first time at anchor, I felt sea sick from the rolling. Curt donned his snorkel and swam down to have a look at our anchor after the squall. Just as it seemed from above the surface, we were still well dug in well.

With the intensity of the morning over, the winds subsiding, and a smug perspective on our anchoring skills, we rowed the dinghy to the harbor side bar for a cheeseburger before getting on with our day. Just as we locked the dinghy to the dock, the drizzle turned to rain and we scrambled to the patio for cover. We chose a spot where we could see Force Five before ordering. Before our drinks even arrived, the wind kicked back up and we noticed the palms along the waterfront were no longer standing vertically, but craning sideways. Once again the sea was blurred with the air as we watched Force Five swing with the slap of each gust. Her bow pitched over the growing swells. The squall worsened fast and we exchanged just one look before Curt headed back to the boat until this passed.

My stomach turned over as my gaze followed Curt walking quickly, and then running to the dinghy through the deluge of rain. I stood to get a better look and saw that something didn't look right. My heart pounded in my chest. And all I could think was what do I do? What was I seeing? Our boat wasn't in the same position we left it. My mind was racing faster than I could process what was happening. I grabbed my backpack to run after Curt and it hit me: I had the boat keys! He couldn't get in to start the engine. I ran to the edge of the water with the keys, and saw he had already rowed half way to the boat. It was too late for him to come back. I ran back to the bar and searched frantically for a VHF. I tried to sound calm as I hailed our friend John on True Blue; aware that our friends in the anchorage would be following our radio traffic. "I'm at the bar, I have the boat keys. Force Five's dragging. John - can you come take me to the boat?" When I ran back to the edge of the water, I could see John getting into his dinghy while it was being thrashed about. In what seemed like the hours it took for him to reach me, dinghies were hopping out of the water and onto the dock around my feet. I launched myself into John's tender before he made it all the way to the dock, and we raced to where Force Five was now bashing against the moored trimarin. Curt had wedged our inflatable between the two boats and was in the water hanging onto our anchor chain while our bow pitched up and down in the waves.

John dropped me at the stern and zipped forward to help Curt. I felt like I was moving in molasses as I tossed down my backpack, found the key, opened the lock, slid back the doors, grabbed the engine key, opened the engine seacock and tried to start the engine. It was hard to hear if it had started over the wind, but it had. I looked around and flipped on the VHF to get our bearings. We seemed to be staying in one place now. In the background, the VHF was clamoring with shouts to boats who were dragging, or from others calling for help.

You can almost feel the blast of cold air that precedes driving wind, rain, and Mother Nature about to throw a tantrum.

John had Curt out of the water and they were working to keep us off the other boat. From the cockpit, I navigated us as far away as I could without pulling our anchor any further. The swells now pushed us dangerously close to a 48-foot catamaran on our starboard side. To port, two boats were bashing into each other and I could hear the crunch of fiberglass.

Curt and John set a second anchor while I took a moment to look around. I could hear someone calling "Mayday, Mayday! This is sailboat Prism. We've dragged ashore in Prickly Bay." I turned around, and behind us I saw that a boat had in fact washed up on the beach behind us. She was on her side with her keel facing the surf and waves were exploding over her hull. Immediately, our predicament felt small and my chest grew tight watching this boat helpless on her side. The force of the waves pushed her further onto the beach with each swell and I could hear the woman on the radio still calling, trying to hail the Coast Guard.

I forced my attention back to our own mess. Forward, Curt and John were being drowned with rain and wind. I finally noticed a waterfall pouring off the brim of my ball cap and onto my face. The gusts were starting to subside and now Curt was on the deck assessing what to do next. With a second anchor deployed and Force Five holding her ground, John shot off to help Prism. By now, fifteen or more other cruisers had gone to help as well. The woman aboard sounded so calm on the VHF as she tried to explain to the Coast Guard where Prickly Bay was (shouldn't they know?). "I'm in Prickly Bay, directly around the headland from your office! If you would just send a boat around the corner, you would see our tan hull washed up on the beach! We can't be more than half a mile from your docks!"

Curt and I stood on the rolling bow to assess what to do next. As we were discussing our options, John had returned and our friends on a boat called Avillion came over to help. With their two dinghies, they pulled up our first anchor and reset it by hand while I navigated us away from hitting other boats. They then pulled the second anchor. From the helm, I backed our engine down on the now reset first anchor. We held fast.

We sat in the cockpit watching the flurry of dinghies gathering to help Prism off the beach. From the VHF we heard loud and clear as everyone tried to put a plan together to help. Two deep sea fishing boats had arrived to lead the effort. One of these took a halyard line from Prism's mast, and the other took a line from her stern. The woman, still on board, gave directions via radio for boats to gun their engines, lay-off, go right, go left, and lay-off again. It was like watching a play-by-play championship basketball game in double overtime as two rival teams battle it out, both on the verge of winning, but neither quite conquering. The two fishing boats were pouring black smoke out of their exhausts, and the engines whined with the strain.

Force Five at anchor in high winds and driving rain. The camaraderie of the cruising community is one that keeps friends and neighbors looking out for each other.

It took nearly an hour for them to flip Prism over so her keel was facing the beach and they could then drag her off. Just as she'd be leaning upwards and about to flip, another wave would crash over her hull and send the fishing boats careening backwards as the boat fell back into the sand.

It grew darker while the weather settled and the sun would be gone in less than an hour. If they couldn't get her in the water before sundown, Prism would spend the night aground with the waves washing over her hull. Just when we'd nearly given up they were able to drag her back towards the water. She slid into the ocean and popped upright with water back under her keel. The anchorage went nuts with screams and applause. We stood in our cockpit crying, applauding and hugging, and thanking the powers that be for ourselves and for Prism. The VHF was clamoring with fond wishes, congratulations, and thanks to the fishing boats and cruisers that helped.

Most of us didn't know that boat or her crew personally, but we knew it could have been any one of us. We knew Prism was their home, and that in her hull, as in ours, there would be pictures of children and grandchildren, mementos from the travels she'd taken her crew on, dishes that had served birthday cakes and holiday dinners; a berth that sheltered the crew while Prism kept them safe from harm.

In the end, we knew our experience with dragging isn't uncommon; it happens to most cruising boats at one time or another. As Prickly Bay grew quiet again that night, the remarkable thing was that we felt a tremendous sense of gratitude, and affinity with our fellow cruisers. We felt thankful for the friends that helped us and the camaraderie with people we had never met.