The Revenge of the Windlass: The Anchor Strikes Back

Indonesia

It all really began in Sumur, right at the end of the Sunda Strait where the Indian Ocean starts to flex its muscles. The windlass—the boat’s anchor elevator—was already straining to lift the anchor out of 20 meters of water. It wasn’t quite dead, but it definitely wasn’t running ten-out-of-ten. I told myself it was fine. After all, it had struggled a bit back in Belitung too as it had been since I bought the boat. But here I was staring down the Indian Ocean with a good weather window—gold in this game—and instead of turning back to Jakarta sailing two days to weather (upwind, miserable) to get it looked at, I pushed on. Hindsight being what it is, I should have turned around then and there. Fixing it in Jakarta would have saved me from what turned into one of the longest, most expensive, most aggravating sagas since I left the States—maybe only second to the generator fire of 2023.

Cocos Keeling

Total confusion about where to anchor. I thought the rules were to drop hook at the marker outside Direction Island, out in the open wind, for check-in. Once cleared, then move to the sheltered side. So I anchored far out, almost in the main channel, with 30 knots of wind ripping at me nonstop. When the Coast Guard came to check me in, the windlass completely died and I couldn’t raise the anchor. The sweetness of the Australian Coast Guard is they came back the next morning—three of them, not thrilled—but they helped me hand-haul 60 meters of chain in 30 knots of wind. Brutal, but by the end we were laughing.

Over the next week I tried every angle to get a windlass shipped to Cocos. There is nothing—and I mean nothing—on that island. The only way was via the mail plane from Australia—insanely expensive, a month of waiting. Sailing back to Jakarta was out of the question: wind on the nose, a punishment sail. The Maldives and Seychelles both admitted they probably couldn’t fix it. On a whim I contacted Mauritius. They said they had a machine shop that could fabricate parts or I could buy a new windlass outright. That was enough to convince me. On my final day in Cocos I was thankfully only in about 8 meters of water, and I managed to haul the chain myself. Off I went, bow pointed toward Mauritius.

Mauritius

I was wedged down deep in the marina where there was no breeze, baking in the heat. The tide was only about three feet, so at least I didn’t have to constantly adjust lines, but it was still miserable. They picked up the windlass on day seven, took ten days to work on it, and only re-installed it about six days later. In the end, I probably sat there three full weeks waiting for them to finish. They refabricated a piece inside the windlass and handed me a $3,000 bill.

As soon as they were done, I escaped north to Grand Baie. Up there I grabbed a friend’s mooring and spent two weeks exploring Mauritius, which really is stunning. Funny enough, the famous “underwater waterfall” at the southern tip had been my screensaver for twenty years. When I finally sailed down there, it was both gorgeous and a letdown: from the beach it just looks like white sand and turquoise water, no waterfall illusion at all. Still—tropical, colorful, beautiful people everywhere. A solid stop.

From Grand Baie I carried on to Réunion, tied up in a proper marina, and never really tested the windlass again.

Madagascar

I arrived in Hellville—aptly named—and dropped hook in muddy but decent holding ground. Got myself checked in, hung out a couple days, and then followed a regatta over to Nosey Be for the night: bonfire, braai, a couple laughs. Next morning I went to pull the hook and move to Crater Bay. Yup—snap. Same failure. Free-spinning worm gear.

Luckily I had a friend left in Nosey Be who drove my boat while I manhandled most of the chain until the very end when he pitched in. At Crater Bay I anchored way outside the pack to be safe, very clear with everyone that if I dragged, I wouldn’t take anyone with me.

The windlass problem was déjà vu. Madagascar is like Cocos: impossible to source parts quickly, insanely expensive shipping. On day five, Jimmy—the local fixer—tracked down a guy who had a nearly identical windlass sitting in his backyard. He sent a buddy to remove mine, using all my tools because he didn’t bring a single one, and confirmed the failed part was the worm gear.

When I met the guy, he wanted $900 for a $100 part. In Madagascar, where everything else costs six bucks. He would not budge. I walked away, which nearly got Jimmy in hot water. After days of dead ends, I finally caved and paid the ransom.

The day I agreed, it was too windy for them to come out. The next day, while I sat powerless, a 100-foot fishing vessel slipped and smacked into me three times. I screamed at their crew; they shouted back in Malagasy and did nothing. Finally, three cruising friends rushed over in dinghies. Nine girls in bikinis and two guys helped me haul 90 meters of chain by brute force while the ship bore down. They yanked me clear, but not before my bowsprit was knocked out of alignment.

The following day the repair crew came back, again using my tools, bolted everything in, and we did the test: chain down, chain up. Seemed fine. Then I sailed on, next using it in Bali Bay to Lingalinga it actually behaved all the way down South Africa—Richards Bay, Durban, East London, Cape Town—all marinas, so no anchoring required. Which meant I never truly tested it.

St. Helena

Anchored in 60 meters, dumped the full 100 meters of chain into a wide-open, rough roadstead. Loved every second of the island, which instantly shot into my top five destinations on the planet. Probably number three. But when I went to leave—yup, it broke. Same cursed gear, again.

There I was, stranded on another tiny island with no way to raise anchor. I scrambled, trying to source a new windlass from South Africa, from Brazil, from anywhere. Recife quoted me insane prices thanks to a 100% import tariff—a $4,000 windlass would cost me $8,000 plus shipping. Impossible. Finally, I arranged for one to be staged in Martinique.

On my last day in St. Helena, the ever-kind shoreboat guy and a couple of friends rowed out. We shared some cash and laughs as they helped me muscle up 90 meters of chain in a lumpy sea. From there I set off, stopped in Recife briefly, and eventually made it to Martinique—where I finally replaced the cursed thing with a brand-new unit and upgraded 10-millimeter chain. At last.

Recap

What a saga—time, money, sweat, frustration—just to end up with what I should have done six months earlier.