Those are some pretty harrowing stories... wow... especially Mildog's one shot at boat rescue! Well, I almost forgot my most frightening story of all, which happened on the same 2004 trip as the incident in Warm Creek Bay, but just a few days earlier. In this one, the entire incident could have been avoided had we just anchored the skiboat to shore just slightly better. As it was, that one sloppy job put two people in serious danger of drowning in a storm, and two boats in danger of getting wrecked on shoals or rocks. It all started out very innocently, like these incidents always do. I'll pull out my journal from 20 years ago once again, and let it tell the story...
August 15, 2004
Near Dominguez Butte
Lake Elevation 3576
By 5:30, we had found a fine spot on the main channel, near Boundary Butte, just off Padre Bay, in the vicinity of the submerged Crossing of the Fathers. And there, on a sandy beach, with Nayyer and Shubber throwing the baseball around on the shore while the rest of us floated peacefully in the late afternoon sun, is where the story of day should have ended.
But somehow things weren’t exactly right—maybe the spirit of Navajo Mountain was pissed off at the deal we made at the marina to get a better boat. As I lined up a picture of the darkening sky toward Navajo Mountain, my camera battery fell into the lake! A bad sign anywhere, it was certainly an omen of some sort. Although I successfully fished it off the shallow lake bottom, the battery was dead as the submerged shrubs it was tangled in.
We could have tied the motorboat better, I suppose. A couple of twists of the rope around a few medium-sized rocks seemed good enough, but apparently it wasn’t, considering the boat was last seen floating away about 100 feet offshore. It was still calm when Chuck and Shubber dispatched themselves to give chase. At first they were gaining ground on the slow boat, sure to retrieve it in a minute and get back to their game of catch on the beach. But suddenly the gale winds arose, and whitecaps began to swirl from nowhere. And the motorboat, without benefit of either a pilot or an engine, began to pick up speed across the lake, here about a half mile wide. And Chuck and Shubber just as surely began to lose ground, even as they paddled more and more furiously. The lake threatened to make them lose even more, as the whitecaps began to peak like meringue. Laughter on the houseboat quickly turned to concern: those guys were out in a storm, with no way back as the wind continued to blow them away.
What to do? The only sensible thing: we launched the houseboat and went after them. In our haste, we left two of the four anchors ashore for our return—no time to pull them in. We made a quick assessment. There were three targets to rescue: Chuck, Shubber, and the boat. We’d start with Chuck because he was closest, and probably not as strong a swimmer as Shubber. Besides, we really couldn’t see Shubber anyway in the waning light, between the whitecap peaks. Setting his rescue aside for the moment, we pulled near Chuck in a few minutes, and Baber—using a flotation device as it was actually intended—jumped in and completed the rescue. Chuck was shaken, but not stirred.
Along the way, I regretted missing an absolutely outstanding photo op to the north, of the best rainbow I’d ever seen, framed against a slate gray sky and brilliant red rocks reflecting the late afternoon sun. Camera? Or Shubber? I let the rainbow go…but where was Shubber? He’d better be out there to make it worth missing that shot. There he was! On a small island! And there he wasn’t, now back in the lake swimming after the motorboat, which had wedged itself against the rocks clear on the other side of the channel. As resourceful as he was, it appeared he actually got in the little boat on his own, though this was difficult to confirm from this distance in the growing twilight.
But there it was, all clear it seemed. Rescue accomplished, even without our help. So the houseboat returned to the beach, weighed anchor, to await Shubber’s return. Minutes passed. No Shubber. Sun’s going down. Still no Shubber. Laughter turned to discussion, soon giving way to muted concern. The winds and waves remain strong, and lightning continues to menace in the darkening dusk. Could he be in trouble? Obviously, since he wasn’t back yet.
So once again, we launched the houseboat, only this time with navigation lights on into a deepening twilight thunderstorm. We knew from Chuck’s rescue there were all kinds of submerged shoals between our position and Shubber’s far across the lake. So what’s a crushed prop? We had no choice but to find Shubber—now no easy feat in the growing darkness. But once mostly across, the picture became clear. There was the little boat, still bobbing against the rocky shore, with Shubber aboard. Good! At least he’s on board. But what’s wrong with the boat?
He gestured wildly toward us. The boat appeared sound, but maybe it was somehow damaged against the rocks. Or the key was missing. Or the engine had vapor lock. Only later did we find out the simple explanation—he just wanted someone to swim over and help him detangle the rope that had twisted around the prop. Instead, we assumed his gesture to mean that he needed to be towed out. In the stormy waves, both boats heaving among the rocks and shoals, night sky upon us, this would not be easy.
At such times, the mind works especially fast because it has to, but the chaos of the situation soon got the better of us, clear thinking as we might have been. Now the houseboat, never maneuverable to begin with, soon found itself dashed on the rocks, cradling the motorboat in a precarious envelope of shoals, the props dangerously close to destruction. Briefly we considered a tricky right engine maneuver, a last ditch effort to pull us all free. But a quick decision had to be made, with time and choices quickly running out into the night. Our position could have been much worse, bad as it initially seemed. We had Chuck, Shubber and the motorboat, the main objectives. Although we were pinned against the rocks, there were decent anchorage possibilities by applying a little creative thought—no beach, but at least there were big boulders on shore to tie down to. And it was nearly dark. Besides, some other desperate houseboat had apparently already snagged our previous spot, where we left two of the four anchors.
So we would stay put for the night. Hardly perfect, but good enough. As the lightning flashed in the black rain, we caught glimpses of the rudders and props, which were totally at fate’s mercy. There’d be no choice but to wait till morning to inspect the damage.
One lucky postscript: the upgraded boat came with four anchors, not the usual two. Seemed superfluous at first, till now, where two of the four are stranded on a distant beach. Now we’re glad we have what we do, which we’ve wedged into rocks the best we can.
All are eagerly waiting to read this journal entry, particularly the last part. Most are eager to ensure that the blame is properly assigned. But history is written by the winners, and writers by virtue of the pen are blameless. Still, I will concede that had Nayyer (and I, okay) tied the motorboat a little more securely to the shore in the first place, I wouldn’t have much to write about.
August 16
Before sunrise
In the pre-dawn light, I woke up early after a fitful sleep. The storm had driven me indoors—a rarity—which led to a series of actions that needed to happen, like duct-taping the warning lights on the cabin panels to reduce their glow. But mostly it was important to wake up early while the lake was calmest, so we might have a decent chance of pulling ourselves free.
Good news: calm water.
Much to our shock and delight, there appeared to be no prop damage to either engine, and, while the left prop and rudder were still firmly anchored in rock and silt, the right one spun freely. What luck! A little careful pushing with the oars, slow right turn with the starboard engine, and a few bumps later we were free. Chuck and Shubber soon retrieved our original anchors from across the lake, one of which was being used to moor somebody else’s motorboat. It was only 6:00 AM, but we needed it back, even if it woke up Junior. Those guys were lucky to have that spot at all, thanks to us...
Honestly, with just me on board it was easy. With 2-4 people on board, the added weight in the little boat made everything tougher to keep the rpm’s just right to keep the nose of the boat high.
