Toward the end of July 2002, Freya, in company with Dorin Robinson’s classic Cle Illahee, arrived at a Nanaimo marina. We had tied up on a sunny mid-morning in expectation of my wife’s arrival that afternoon, but no sooner had the lines been secured than my cell phone rang. She was delayed; nothing to do but wait. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe. Such is life.

By the next day, the sunny skies began to dissolve into grey slop while Mother Nature used a thick paintbrush to obscure the hills around the town. During the early morning, the decks had been well washed by a freshet and by the time the first cup of coffee was consumed cooler temperatures, unsettled winds and dark skies in all quadrants gave ominous portents of nasty afternoon squalls. Thankfully, Nanaimo has many book stores and I passed my time relaxing in Freya’s window seat, lost in 19th century seas guided by Patrick O’Brian. From my vantage point, just one boat ahead of me I could see an occasional waft of pipe smoke from Cle Illahee’s starboard door. Dorin was passing his time as quietly as I.

There were several vacant spots on the docks that afternoon and considering the seas building up outside Newcastle Island, I wasn’t expecting them to fill. I was about to turn another page when a faraway shout grabbed my attention. The worried voice came from the direction of a dock to the north and then grew into a chorus of several anxious voices admonishing someone attempting to maneuver into the marina. It was then I spied a 43-foot Bayliner unsteadily approaching the open berth just across from mine on “J” dock.

Whoever was steering the Bayliner seemed intent upon the destination but undecided just how to arrive. The boat would move forward in a short arc with a burst of power, then careen in the opposite direction a few feet until the engine was reversed, resulting in it sliding awkwardly to one side or another. A woman was standing close to the stern half hidden by a dingy, and I went forward to take the lines from her.

At first glance, the woman seemed dressed in the usual boat garb you’d wear on a wet, cool day, except she was wearing the most unusual hat. Her balance appeared poor, and while she was attempting to throw a fouled dock line with one hand she held tightly onto a bit of the boat’s canvas with the other. There were more shouts by others on the docks to the north, but little by little the boat edged close enough for the lines to be passed and a dock attendant and me tied them to the dock.

I began to look closer at the woman, who stood before me on the swim step, now rocking unsteadily as if in a daze. Her strange hat was but a towel and bloodstained gauze wrapped several times around her head. A developing black eye and facial swelling accompanied various cuts and scratches visible under the edge of the makeshift bandage. As I reached toward her, she took my hand and wordlessly stepped onto the dock, then quickly sat down on the dock’s bull rail, burying her head in her hands.

Down from the cockpit came a burly man about 6’3”wearing a Cowichan sweater and torn shorts. His brilliant red hair was in wild disarray, as was the unruly red beard on his face. He had huge hands and his legs were like two tree stumps, ending in what I guessed were size 15 feet shod in open-toed sandals that didn’t match. As he bent down to check his bow line two bilge pumps kicked in, expelling a steady torrent of water onto the dock and onto his feet.

From another dock to the south came a hail. “Angus, Angus,” the man shouted, “I see you made it!” The red-haired man turned toward the direction of the hail and replied in a Scots brogue so thick and at a volume so loud that it could wake William Wallace from his grave.

“Occk Brian, e’ve doon it. But the wee woman and me have had a bad trriip from Campbell Rrriver.” Somewhere in the background, I was sure I could hear pipers filling their bags and getting ready to blow.

When the boat first came into view I had the feeling something was amiss, but I had been more concerned with the skipper negotiating the landing; now I started to see more.

There was no bowsprit or railing. They were gone, as if wrenched or torn from the boat. Where the anchor chain should lay was now an open grotto, and the cover for the hatch was missing. A ragged bit of electrical wire – or was it anchor chain? – dangled next to the opening and over the side. There were deep gouges out of the deck and hull.

The small crowd on “I” dock were talking among themselves almost like a Greek chorus and pointing to the deep scratches and dark marks on the port hull they saw above the waterline. One of the boat’s forward windows was punched in and there was something very odd about how the RIB dingy was fixed to the swim platform. Every line on that boat must have been used, small or large, as if wrapped by a child, wound several times around the dink and then led to any point where a line could be tied—including the radar arch. The bilge pumps cycled again with a deep-throated gargle, then two mighty streams poured from the thru-hulls.

By now the fellow from the other dock, Brian, and his wife had walked over. His wife walked with the injured lady up to the marina office to call a taxi to take her to hospital. From a bag, Brian produced some beer and offered it to Angus. The can seemed almost Lilliputian in his hands. After flicking the pop top with his massive thumb and pouring half of the beer down his throat, the hefty Scotsman told his story. To better hear the yarn, I sat down by Dorin, finding a spot on the dock bull rail.

Their vacation was drawing to a close as they left Campbell River area early that morning to head south to Victoria. The weather was unsettled, but Angus could see only “wee waves” when he poked his nose out from his anchorage at Gowlland Harbour into Discovery Passage. It was a rushed departure, he explained, because once the anchor was up the wind kept trying to blow them onto the lee shore.

Working their way south, they found several tugs with tows either moving down from the Seymour Narrows or heading up to catch last of the slack. Angus stayed on the eastern side of the approaches to Campbell River to give the tugs room. As he passed the Cape Mudge lighthouse, the seas started to get rough. He increased his speed to stabilize the ride, heading clear of Cape Lazo and then turning down the passage between Denman and Hornby islands.

By the time he got to the rip south of Cape Mudge, the winds had built the waves up and he pounded into them, driving the bow into the water as he came down the back side of the waves. Somewhere out there the anchor, which he admitted he’d forgotten to secure, must have become airborne, lifting the chain clear of the wildcat. With a vengeance, the anchor dove for the bottom, pulling out every bit of chain, right to the retaining snub at the end of the coil.

Angus, who’d been very busy steering, sheepishly admitted he didn’t realize the anchor had left. It must have hung there as the boat continued its 15-knot slog south, until it came to a shallower area just a bit south off Cape Lazo. It was then that the anchor and 300 feet of triple B chain found purchase.

“She made a terrible roar and the boat dug her nose into the water,” he related. “We rolled godawful, lots of noise, snapping and clanging. The engines quit and I got thrown almost uff the flybridge, but the riggin fer the canvas caught me. The wee woman was flung ‘cross the galley and into a cupboard. Everything in there opened up, every cupboard, drawer, the refrigerator, everything. Occk, stuff was a breakin everywhere.”

Angus disentangled himself from the frame of the flybridge enclosure and found the boat pointed toward from whence he’d come, held in place by a well-set anchor. Waves were now washing over the bow, most of which was missing, with maybe three feet of it now over the side and hanging, along with several feet of railing. The hull had been cut in two by a much stretched anchor chain.

With the windlass gone and the anchor chain sawing its way through the remnants of the bow, Angus scrambled for his toolbox, where he found a hacksaw blade and some kind of holder, then made his way forward. Between dousings from the substantial waves, he sawed away on the chain. When the links parted, the boat abruptly swung downwind and began to roll “just awful,” he said. Gaining his footing, he went to see to his wife’s safety and found her amidst a pile of canned goods, fresh food and appliances that slid about the confines of the galley floor like something that had been run through a Cuisinart.

Angus was relieved to see that his wife, while sporting a growing, egg-shaped bump on her head and several bruises from colliding with the remains of the galley, was able to stand up. Both of them set about getting the boat underway, she attempting to stow what was rolling about her, Angus climbing up to the flying bridge that was whipping back and forth with each crosswave.

Angus paused in his story and took a draw from the can of beer. Emptying it, he accepted another from his friend. Now, mesmerized by the tale, Dorin and I leaned closer to catch each word.

The starboard engine was locked up and would not start. The port engine finally came to life, but when he put it into gear, he felt and could hear a faint thumping either in the engine room or underneath the boat. Still, he had a schedule and since they were no longer cross to the waves, he set out on one engine at 7 knots. It was maybe 20 minutes later that his wife took a break from her cleaning, looked toward the stern and realized that the RIB was no longer in its davits.

There began a search for the 12-foot RIB, which they found. However, it was full of water, the outboard hanging on by one clamp, and the davit brackets had snapped clean. By now, they were to the east of Hornby Island as they began to retrieve the errant dingy. It was during a misstep with the RIB coming aboard in rolling conditions that the “wee woman” was hit by the outboard, knocking her into the water and cutting her on the forehead. The dingy went back over the side while the wee woman was rescued and dragged aboard.

Angus placed his wife back in the galley and then went about rescuing the RIB. Forty-five minutes later he had it back at the stern but had lost the outboard in the melee. Thinking all was secure, he once again turned the boat south while his wife went into the head to find something to treat her injuries.

It was three hours later that Angus realized that he’d not heard nor seen his wee woman, and went below to investigate. He needn’t have worried, because when the boat set the anchor, the result was that most of the bulkheads moved or deformed. While the poor woman could force the head door closed, she was not able to open it for three hours, as the boat lurched and augured its way toward Nanaimo. Her head wrapped in a towel, sick to her stomach, exhausted from calling for help and crying, once she was freed from her prison she wanted only to lie down while Angus kept the boat moving south.

But the gods were not through with Angus and his “wee woman.” Passing off the Ballenas Islands, they lost—and yes, recovered—the RIB for the third time, using every knot in the Boy Scout manual to affix the runaway to the stern. By the time they’d made the Newcastle passage, Angus knew the thumping was probably a bent shaft or prop damage, for now the bilge pumps were moving gallons of sea water over the side for every thousand feet they went forward. The intrepid Scotsman related that the steering was “vehhry funee” on the way down, and getting up to the dock at Nanaimo was …“a great deal of fuuss.”

Pausing for a moment, Angus opened another can of beer, looked down and then turned once more to view the sad sight of the Bayliner. He turned back to his friend and said nothing for a moment, then very quietly as he shook his head, he uttered, “Occk, Brian, what am I to tell the rental company?”

Behind me, I heard a snap. It was Dorin biting off the stem of his pipe.

Mike Oswald is a boater and retired airline pilot who lives in Tulalip, Wash.