When Lift Straps Attack (and Other Lessons in Letting Go)

We knew something wasn’t right.

Water was gushing up from the kitchen sink while Plot Twist sat in the slings, half-submerged, looking entirely too innocent for the chaos she was causing.

After running through every terrifying possibility—new engine work, generator through-hulls, seacocks—we were mentally preparing for something expensive and complicated.

Then John Williams gave that sweet, ah-ha look. “I know what it is.”

He stepped outside, leaned over the hull, and called back calmly: “The lift straps are blocking the drain port.”

Of course they were.

Our sink drain ties into the engine room bilge outlet, and the straps holding our girl in the air were pressing directly against it. Water had nowhere to go… so it came back inside.

The straps were adjusted, and the water stopped gushing. 

With all systems checked, no leaks from the new seacock, and the engine purring like she hadn’t just tried to drown us, Chris eased us from dry storage into the most beautiful sight imaginable:

A dock.

We thought we’d stay a night. Maybe two.

Instead, we stayed through project delays… and a 40+ knot blow.

And let me tell you something—I have never been so thrilled to be tied to the craziest, most expensive dock we hope to ever experience.

Yes, the marina fees made our eyes water.

But safety first.

When that wind howled and other boats were dancing wildly at anchor, we were secured, snug, and profoundly grateful for overpriced peace of mind.

Finally, the day came that we could move, so we headed out to find a place to anchor while waiting on a weather window to cross to the Bahamas.

Our first anchorage?

We nosed in… looked around at what felt like a marina masquerading as an anchorage… and promptly left.

Too crowded. Too tight. Too many boats for two newbies trying to drop a brand-new, shiny Mantus M2 mega anchor for the first time.

Up the channel we went.

We found a quieter spot with just one other boat—its ripped sails flapping dramatically enough that I briefly wondered if Jack Sparrow might row over under cover of darkness.

But we did it.

We dropped the hook with 2–3 feet under the keel.

And then we watched her.

For hours.

Like nervous new parents staring at a sleeping baby.

By day two? We didn’t think about it at all. (Well… except for the anchor alarms. Those stayed firmly on.)

It was glorious.

The stop we'd chosen didn't suffer from major ICW wakes, there was no marina noise, and most importantly, no dock fees ticking like a taxi meter.

Just us and the water, so we made a plan.

Then the weather changed.

So we made another plan.

While waiting, we realized that if we truly wanted to live comfortably on the hook, we needed to upgrade the breakers for the solar panel system.

The channel was flat calm that morning. We maneuvered the dinghy down like seasoned pros, hopped aboard, and zipped to shore to grab our package from an Amazon drop box.

Fifteen-minute errand. Easy.

On the way back, we learned a valuable lesson.

A sea can change in two hours.

What had been calm water turned into rolling swell, whitecaps, and a knuckle-clenching, salt-sprayed hour of bouncing, bracing, and praying we didn’t take flight.

We arrived safely, laughing and humbled.

And very aware that the ocean always gets the final say.

Next up: weather windows, final preparations, and the moment we finally point Plot Twist toward the Bahamas.

Stay tuned. 🌊⚓️