I woke up early after a very restless night, went to Publix at first light, and shopped for previsions to sustain me for at least a week. I got to the boat at 9:30 am, filled the water tanks, and everything else looked good, I opened up all the ports, turned on the refrigerator, and started to get ready to get underway. I took the navigational instruments to the cockpit and started the engine. Quickly I noticed that the engine temperature was rising much quicker than normal. I looked at the stern, the engine cooling water was only a fraction of what it normally was. This is exactly the kind of problem I was hoping would not happen, I had to figure out what was going on. It could be a blocked inlet hose, a faulty pump, a broken impeller, a blocked engine passage or the exhaust hose. I needed to find the problem and fix it PDQ, I had to be gone today. I looked at the raw water strainer, which strains out big chunks just before entering the engine cooling pump, but there was no blockage. To test the pump, I poured 5 gallons of water into the bilge and placed the inlet hose from the strainer into the bilge and bingo… The water flowed normally, and the temperature went down too. OK, got the problem, an obstruction in the inlet, which is on the keel about 6 feet underwater. If I had a day or even half a day, I could dive and clean out the intake myself or hire a diver to, but that’s not an option with the departure deadline I’m living with or an approaching storm. My only choice is to fill the bilge with water without sinking the boat, motor out of the canal into the Intercostal Waterway (ICW), drop the anchor, (which is a general no-no), and see if I can get a tow somewhere, all while TS Alex is getting closer (it’s supposed to go right over-top of South Florida), the bands are getting closer together, the winds are increasing as are the rain showers.
With enough food on board for a week, the bilge holding about 15 gallons of water, the automatic bilge pump turned off, so it doesn’t empty (as it would with that much water), and the engine running, I throw off the lines and pull out into the middle of the canal. I make it about 2/3 of the way down the canal when I run out of bilge cooling water, damn I’m screwed, but I keep on going. I’m about 50 yards from the edge of the ICW when the high-temperature alarm goes off, the current (what little there is) is pushing me back into the canal and this part of the canal is narrow with boats on either side, but I can’t stop, I have to get enough speed to allow the momentum to get me out of the canal and into the ICW, I rev the engine, build up some more speed and then shut the engine down, silencing the alarm. My speed drops sharply in only moments, it’s clear that there isn’t enough momentum to get me clear out of the canal, Aw shit, I have to restart the engine. The engine starts right up with an immediate high-temperature alarm, I rev the engine and regain the speed I lost and then leave the engine at idle, with the alarm still screaming, I clear the canal.
When I make the middle of the ICW I put the engine in neutral. The wind is whistling up the intercoastal at 25 – 30 knots and wants to push the boat this way and that. I run to the bow and drop the anchor, paying out about 50-foot of chain, then securing it to one of the bow cleats, I race back to the cockpit and shut the engine down after knowing the anchor is holding, finally the alarm quits. Oh my God, what a Chinese fire drill. I go below and open the engine compartment, the engine is hot, very hot, maybe hotter than it’s ever been. Hopefully, there isn’t any engine damage. But for now, at least, I’m off Ted’s dock. The weather has steadily deteriorated, and the usually bustling waterway is baren with not a single boat to be seen. I’m alone, anchored in the ICW, between the Commercial Blvd and Oakland Park bridges, and the wind is whipping up in my face, but I’m certain of one thing, this is not where I want to spend my time sitting out the storm over the next 2 ½ days. There isn’t enough room to swing with the proper amount of storm chain out, it’s too narrow, too close to homes and businesses, and the sides of the ICW here are poured concrete, which makes a horrible sound when you crash into them.
After catching my breath and taking a few moments to assess the present risks, I get out my cell phone and call TowBoat US, thanking my lucky stars that I opted for the unlimited towing option. They answer my call and say they can get a towboat to me in about 2 hours. They ask, ‘where are you going? I hope you already have a slip reserved because we just called around for another tow and there is nothing open out there.’ I reply, ‘Ya, I kind-of knew that’, I tell them, ‘I was planning on going to Lake Sylvia if there is room’. Lake Sylvia is a small basin with room for about 10 boats that is surrounded by a residential area close to the 17th Street Causeway. They told me to ask the TowBoat captain when he arrives; he was down near there this morning. At the end of the conversation, I ask them to call my cell if anything changes, and I’ll be standing by on VHF channel 16 as well.
After the hour and forty-five-minute wait, I get hailed on Channel 16, and the tow boat is minutes away. Damn, these guys are on time, even while a storm is approaching, that doesn’t happen often, Good On-Ya guys! After the captain arrives and passes me the tow line, I ask him about Lake Sylvia and he says that there was room earlier this morning, but he hasn’t been by there since. He assures me that we will be able to find a place to ride out the storm. Towing is a slow-going process, I’ve been seated at the helm for about 3 hours now, no potty break, no food or drink break, it’s windy, and spray has been in my face the whole time. When we clear the last bridge southbound before Lake Sylvia, it’s about forty-five minutes before dusk. As we start to approach the entrance, it looks full to me, there are already about 12 boats anchored in the lake, and I am starting to think that we might have hours more to go, with most of it in darkness, before we find a place to put Aine for the night. To my surprise, there is one spot left. The anchorage is crowded, and I prefer more swing room, but it will have to do. Any port in a storm. 
Since I don’t have a working engine, we have to use the tow boat to set my anchor. When that’s done, the towboat captain asks if I need anything else as I’m passing the tow line back to him. I answer no, I thank him, and he is off. I get started battening down everything for the windy days and nights to come. Spending time on a boat during a Tropical Storm or any storm with wind gusts to 50 knots is a matter of faith… religious faith most definitely, but also faith in tangible things, things you can touch, and things you have touched. It tests your abilities as a captain to anticipate what is coming and assess whether the boat you prepared will withstand the stresses, faith that the people who built your boat in the first place did so in a proper workmanlike manner, faith that you trust yourself to make good decisions that will undoubtedly come during the storm, contemplative decision and reactive decisions. It all depends on how much time you have to act. I had a single overriding fear, something that I could not control or change, if the shit hits the fan, well it hits the fan… With no engine, if the anchor dragged, which is a fairly common occurrence in a new anchorage, (did I mention that this was my first time at Lake Sylvia?), there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it except watch disaster approaching and wait to see what happens after.
Very few people ever have to place their lives in their own hands and thank God for that, it’s a lot to contemplate. With everything as prepared as possible, I made a hardy dinner, snuggled up in my bunk, set the anchor watch alarm, and drifted off to sleep. I woke up a few times during the night when the strongest gusts hit the boat. With each, I’d go forward and poke my head up through the companionway hatch, look around, and judge my location based on where I thought I was. Trying to determine if I’m moving/dragging, or not. It is more difficult than you might first imagine. I had 125 feet of chain and rode out, an anchor bridle attached to both bow cleats and the winds coming from all directions placing the boat at different points in the anchor circle, your perception is constantly changing. Convinced that all is still ok, I re-bunk myself and fell back to sleep quickly.