When Anchors Go Rogue: A Nautical Adventure in Tilos

Ah, Tilos—an idyllic island just northwest of Rhodes, perfect for a serene Friday evening. Or so we thought.

We knew strong winds were on the way, and Jeff, ever the wise captain, suggested we sail back to Kos early. But alas, the siren call of Tilos was too strong for our daughter and her friend (and probably the cat, though he’s not saying much). So, we agreed to leave at dawn on Saturday. What could possibly go wrong?

8:30 PM, and the winds were howling, gusting up to 35 knots. We were nestled in Livadia Bay, with our dinghy stowed and everything shipshape. Three other boats were anchored nearby: a big one, an AMEL 54 from the Netherlands, and a smaller UK-flagged Beneteau were pretty close to us. We were enjoying the starry sky, Protopsalti serenading us, when suddenly—the dreaded anchor alarm blared its obnoxious tune, rudely interrupting our tranquil evening.

“Anchor’s dragging!” Jeff yelled, as if we needed more excitement. The boat was thrashing in the waves like it was auditioning for “The Perfect Storm,” and I was trying to hold it in one place, having it in reverse while Jeff fought to free the anchor, which had attached itself to a buoy chain. Meanwhile, Danae wandered into the cockpit, blissfully unaware that we were moments away from starring in our own maritime disaster movie.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it—the AMEL, once anchored safely away from us, was now a black silhouette on the shore, its hull making an unfortunate acquaintance with dry land. Not to be outdone, the smaller UK boat had also joined the shore party. It was like a very exclusive, very disastrous beach club. Everything happened in seconds, the boats thown out on the shore so fast; the waves and the wind were extremely powerful, no anchor could hold in these conditions.

Jeff finally freed our anchor, just in time for the wind to launch our back massive cushions into the air, blocking all visibility. Danae and I leapt into action, wrestling the cushions down while Jeff steered us toward the open sea. The moon, graciously offering us three-quarters of its light, made sure we could see just enough to be terrified.

We set our course for Kos, waves slapping us in the face the whole way, while the girls huddled on deck, probably rethinking their life choices. The cat, in a fit of pure feline panic, expressed his displeasure in a way only a cat could—by leaving a smelly surprise on our bed. I momentarily considered testing the theory that cats hate water, but we had bigger problems to worry about.

By 1 AM, just before we could safely anchor in Kardamena Bay, I was on helm duty when I noticed a mysterious boat approaching. No AIS signal, no radar blip, just a fast-moving shadow. Pirates? Coastguard? Maybe both? Jeff, ever the skeptic, dismissed the pirate theory, but I wasn’t so sure. As the mystery speed boat shown two huge blinding lights on us, as if we were on stage performing our solo, I prepared for a high-seas showdown. But just as quickly as they appeared, they vanished, leaving us to wonder if we’d just had a brush with maritime madness.

Exhausted but relieved, we finally settled in for the night—only to discover that our front cabin had turned into a mini swimming pool, thanks to an improperly closed hatch. Everything was soaked, including one of my paintings, which now had a new, unintended watercolor effect. Danae ended up sleeping in the living room, which required a late-night game of “where do we put all this stuff?”

By morning, with the winds still howling and the sea still choppy, Danae was ready to head ashore, as if the previous night’s chaos was just a bad dream. The lesson here? When the captain says it’s time to leave, it’s time to leave. Not that anyone under 30 will ever learn that, of course.

Sailing—where the adventures never end, and the lessons never stick!