Mommucked: to be beaten up, worked to a frazzle, vexed, smashed to smithereens, banged around.
As my husband, Scott, and I departed Charleston, South Carolina, with the outgoing current, a crisp November sunrise marked our first month as full-time liveaboards. We’d worked down the East Coast from New York City on our 1983 Contest 36 and left Charleston with no destination in mind, wanting only to make progress south before jumping to Cumberland Island, Georgia.
With the bow pointed southwest, we sailed upwind in 10 steady knots on a composed close reach while lounging in the cockpit, reading, and fishing. It was the first time we experienced a feeling we would later come to relish: the lightness of setting to sea, a feeling almost like going on vacation, but better. Once we got comfortable with landmasses falling away, heavy with their burdens, we started to crave the clarity of unobstructed horizons, the simplicity of harnessing the wind, the essential abundance of bringing only what we needed and nothing more. But, as we were about to learn, a ship needed a vetted plan, and that was the one thing we didn’t bring with us as we set off into the Atlantic.
After enjoying a refreshing coastal daysail, we decided to find somewhere to anchor for the night. We scanned the charts for nearby anchorages with easy access from sea and located one with decent reviews, basing our decision on the starred rating and the fact it was only three miles from the ocean. Easy in, easy out, no further consideration needed.
Photo by Elizabeth Grewe
We turned in at Edisto Beach and tucked into Big Bay Creek. Dolphins parted the water and herons swooped as we entered the swaying salt marsh, rendered golden in the low November sun. Houses lined the creek, and the marsh opened into scenic, undeveloped low country.
We arrived at high slack tide with no noticeable rush of water along the hull to remind us that, indeed, we’d chosen a tidal creek right off the ocean in which to secure our home for the night, blissfully unaware of any consequences that could arise from that decision.
Scott prepared to drop the Rocna anchor with manual windlass in a wide, marshy bend. Earlier, he rigged up a trip line for the first time, wanting to get the hang of deploying it. The seemingly calm anchorage offered itself as the opportune place to practice a new skill. Yet despite his careful calculations, when he dropped the anchor with the trip line attached, the buoy that should have remained afloat on the water’s surface for easy retrieval sank like a rock into the murk. The line securing the buoy to the anchor chain was not long enough to allow it to float on the surface. The current began to pick up as the tide began to ebb.
With a sense of dread, we realized there was now a submerged line lurking in the opaque water, a hazard waiting to foul our prop and/or rudder if we swung over it, a likely outcome in the swiftening current. A swim under the boat to unwrap the line would fix either problem, but neither of us looked forward to the prospect of getting in the chilly, brown water. It was late and we were tired. The anchor was well set, so we decided to leave the trip line where it was because we felt the chance of anything bad happening was slim (later, we’d call this negligence disguised as optimism). Twilight was a faint blue whisper on the edge of the darkening sky as we went below for dinner.
Photo by Elizabeth Grewe
In the cabin, we grew aware of the intensifying rush of water over fiberglass when suddenly the rigging screamed, announcing a squall that wanted to tear open the sky. The onshore storm descended rapidly with winds gusting to 30 knots. We checked weather apps; conditions were not forecasted to be this strong. The boat swung as our dinner plates slid across the table. Scott went on deck and reported the current was running over 2 knots and it was not yet peak.
Suddenly, the boat lurched toward the creek’s bank, then, eerily, stopped moving completely. We were aground. The keel was sinking into the mud as the hull leaned grotesquely to one side. Did we drag? Did we have out too much chain, or not enough swing room? Did the trip line lift the anchor and set us loose? Since this was the first time we’d found the bottom on our sailboat, we were as confused as we were stressed. We discussed what to do and decided to stay put; the tide would lift us off with the next flood.
But while marsh grasses grew progressively taller over the lifelines as the boat’s deep fin keel sank into mud and the pummeling conditions worsened, Scott became determined to float. On deck in foul weather gear, we brought the anchor snubber back to a winch to kedge off. Suddenly, Scott let out a whoop—we were floating! I fired up the engine in preparation to keep us off the bank, but the sunken trip line still lurked.
There was no time to think as the boat, now off the bank and tenuously anchored, turned into the wind. Driving rain spat in our faces. We needed to reset the anchor, fast. Scott raced to the bow to start pulling in chain hand over fist, but the current pushed us over the anchor, contorting the chain at an unnatural angle. I had to engage the motor, but getting fouled on the submerged trip line would mean catastrophe.
Desperately, I used a searchlight to illuminate the rough surface. I shouted to make my voice louder than the wind—I saw the white buoy! But alas, I was merely deceived by tiny whitecaps. After minutes that stretched like millennia, Scott spotted the buoy in front of the boat and I safely motored to a position where he could haul in the chain. When he pulled up the cursed trip line he threw it hard on deck, vexed.
Fully adrift now, there was no time to think, again. The boat rolled in the powerful current flowing against the wind amid small standing waves. We were about to have our first initiation with the dark sorcery that is wind opposing current while attempting to set ground tackle, that strange dimension where sailors must forfeit all logic and reason and accept that nothing—not the boat, the anchor, or the anchor chain—will end up where it should. We attempted to reset to no avail, nearly grounding once more, swinging in the swirling gusts. This was not working.
Drenched and fatigued, Scott hauled in the chain once more as I maneuvered to stay pointed into the wind and off the banks. He marched back to the helm to state his plan: We would find a dock to tie up to. As captain, his priority was to secure our vessel as safely as possible. I knew his intentions were good, but I felt this plan had its own risks. I said I did not want to commandeer an unfamiliar dock at night in these conditions. I felt we needed to deal with this situation self-sufficiently, only risking damage to our vessel, not someone else’s property. He said I cared too much what other people think.
And so the bickering began, as bitter as the creek’s murky water on that starless night. As we argued, we motored away from the anchorage toward the houses with docks. Scott had taken the helm and first attempted to hijack an open dock going with the rushing current—an abject and risky miss that could’ve ripped cleats off even if we’d been able to get a line on. For the next attempt, he tried going against the current (the only way we’d do this now), but it was the wind’s turn to push us away.
I saw the silhouettes of people standing in their darkened windows watching our plight. Everything seemed to jeer at our lack of experience. Even though docking in strong current and cross-breeze is a challenge for seasoned sailors, it felt as if everything about the cloaked night ridiculed the foolish situation we’d gotten ourselves into. After more failed attempts we had nowhere to go and headed back to the anchorage, both fuming in the wet, whipping cold.
Back in the marshy bend, we were relieved to see the current had slacked and started to run in the other direction. But wait, so did the wind! We now had opposing wind and current from the opposite direction where each force was previously coming from. Opposing oppositions? Our heads spun like an eddying tide. I motored as Scott irritably signaled directions from the bow while I tried to keep the boat in the middle of the creek. But whenever I went into neutral, we got pushed toward one bank or the other. We went in circles trying again and again. Finally, we got the anchor set. Scott, wanting no further issues, decided to deploy the stern anchor to keep us from swinging around with the next tide. We didn’t have the dinghy launched, which is how we’d practiced setting the stern anchor only once before, but he was determined.
As if in a cyclical dream, we were unable to set the stern anchor. At the helm, I tried to avoid running over the stern rode with the prop while maintaining the correct angle to the primary anchor. When Scott attempted to winch the stern hook in, we realized it was under us, useless. Suddenly, as the boat yawed and rolled in a gust that came with the trailing edge of the storm, the stern rode went from limp to forcefully taught and caught one of our teak cockpit slats, breaking it in half. Shards of wood and curses went flying, but the wind and rain carried them away.
Scott struggled to get the pointless stern anchor back on board and when he did, we agreed on something: We were set with just the primary anchor. At last the storm waned, wind diminished, and we were better positioned with enough room to swing.
Frozen and exhausted, we went below to monitor our position from a track on the iPad. We slept briefly and woke early, ready to flee the scene of this bad dream, but the sea was still too heavy, whipped up from the storm. So we debriefed over hot breakfast with apologies and vows to be better seafarers, planners, and partners. Then we set out eagerly, inexperienced with giving the seas enough time to lie down.
What followed was 12 hours of one of the roughest slogs we’ve logged—including taking green water over the deck down the hatch left opened under the dinghy up forward, drenching our newly upholstered settees (another learning moment). But by evening the seas had settled, and as conditions improved, we pored over tide tables, scrupulously analyzed the charts against the weather, found a safe anchorage for the forecasted tides and conditions, and sailed into the protection of Cumberland Island.
In Ocracoke, North Carolina, we’d run across a new term spoken by the locals—”mommucked.” It means to be beaten up, worked to a frazzle, vexed, smashed to smithereens, banged around—and leaving South Carolina we were indeed all of those things. But after being mommucked in Big Bay Creek we went on to sail over 20,000 vigilant, patient, challenging, fulfilling nautical miles, and we’re still going.
What We Did Wrong
We should have had a plan ahead of time where we intended to anchor, one that included checking current, tidal range, and even moon phase—rather than just reviews we read online or an app. We now call this kind of attention and planning “eternal vigilance.” Embedded in eternal vigilance is eternal patience. The paradox of sailing is that everything happens fast and slow at once. Sailing requires patience since it is largely made possible by factors outside of our control—like weather. Sailing safely takes time, and that’s the point.
Trying a new technique—in this case, the trip line, and later the stern anchor—in a place we didn’t know wasn’t the greatest idea ever.
We should have been more patient when we were aground. If a vessel is on soft bottom, especially if there are no rocks or breaking waves, consider staying put. The flood will eventually lift the boat off and everyone aboard can get some rest.
Attempting to tie up to someone’s dock in those conditions was ill-considered.
We shouldn’t have left right away the next morning, given the sea state. We didn’t have to leave; we could have waited until the weather calmed down more.
Arguing with each other during a crisis moment is a lousy way to communicate. Staying calm sometimes takes effort but it’s worth it.
What We Did Right
We debriefed, talked about how we could have done better, apologized for our behavior toward one another, and took the power of nature to heart.
We didn’t give up!
April 2025
