"Pan-pan, pan-pan, pan-pan." My hand freezes half way to the VHF. The voice on channel 16 is urgent, clear, professional. This is not someone "from away" who ran out of gas. This is someone local, an older man with that unmistakable Downeast accent. I sense strong emotions under the cool tone. He is captain of the Cranberry Island Ferry out of Northeast Harbor, Maine, and he has just run aground at the harbor entrance.

	Photo courtesy Nancy Noble
	Nancy Noble takes in the sights at Small Point Harbor from the deck of Halcyon. It's not unusual to run aground. It is unusual to talk publicly about the experience. But that's just what we got some of our readers to do. In the story at the left and the others below, we hear the tales from people who've gone where we hope we never go (or go again). There's a little saying... We're well worth our salt Wake up - we're aground Grounding spots to watch for

"Connie" I call to my wife, "he's right where we were 10 minutes ago!" In the thickest of fogs, he had gotten on the wrong side of a red buoy with 20 people aboard and had run hard onto a ledge. He was concerned that the outgoing tide would allow the boat to roll on its deep keel.

"Thank goodness we decided not to go" Connie says, and I agree, for I too am relieved to be safely back on the mooring instead of trying to find our way out of the harbor through the fog and between the ledges. By the end of the day, the ferry would be back on her mooring, apparently not much the worse for wear.

Connie and I settled in for a long, cold, gray day, glad to be secure but much saddened knowing we well might miss our big adventure for this year. We had planned to leave that same morning as part of a flotilla that would take us across the Canadian border into New Brunswick, through the Reversing Falls and up the beautiful St. John River. We had dreamed, schemed and prepared for this since October and were indeed very disappointed.

The previous summer, we had traveled from our home mooring at Great Bay Marina in the Piscataqua River as far as Jonesport, Maine. It had been a wonderful boat summer, including being caught in pea-soup fog after spending a night in Roque Island Harbor. We were quite proud of ourselves after successfully making our way for 25 miles back to the Petit Manan peninsula with our radar and GPS. Now, at Northeast Harbor we were very ready for the Canadian border and New Brunswick and very frustrated we might miss the whole trip.

Three hours before hearing the pan-pan, I had hauled myself out of the warm V-berth into the cold, damp cabin and threw on some warm layers, my foul weather gear and boots. It was indeed foul at Northeast, a cold, rainy and very foggy June morning. The skippers of our 35-boat flotilla were to meet at 6 a.m. at the dinghy dock to review departure plans. The fog was what they call "a dungeon fog" Downeast, meaning you're doing well to see your own bow rail. Our boat is a Cape Dory 28 Flybridge Cruiser, so that bow rail is not far away.

Setting out for the dinghy dock I couldn't even see the boat moored right next to me Ð somewhere. I was betting the group would vote to delay a day. And I was appreciating the fact the dinghy is inflatable and would bounce off things unseen.

At the dock I was stunned to learn that the majority of sailboats had left hours ago and the majority of remaining skippers had decided to head for Cutler at 8 a.m. This being only our second summer with a boat of any size I was apprehensive. If we went we'd be setting out in the thickest fog I've ever seen and if we didn't we'd be all alone if and when the fog lifted. We might not be able to catch up with them at all.

Back at the boat I passed the news to Connie. We opted for another hour of sleep and to reassess at 8 a.m. At 7:30 we were ready to go, very grateful to have other, more experienced boaters to follow. Switching on the VHF, I heard chatter among several of the boats and learned they had left earlier. They were easily 45 minutes ahead of us and experiencing virtually zero visibility at the mouth of the harbor and beyond. Worse yet, the boat I had planned to travel with had also left, so now we would travel alone and in the fog Ð if we went at all.

Neither Connie nor I give up easily, so with our GPS/chartplotter and radar we slowly made our way to the fuel dock, topped up with diesel and began to pick our way to the harbor entrance. There was a band of tension in my gut and we were both on high alert. We couldn't see a thing, and I wanted to actually see the red buoy marking the harbor entrance before we changed course. We strained our eyes, to no avail.

Our chart plotter showed us right on top of that buoy, but there was nothing there. Nothing on the radar. Thick fog is bad enough but when things aren't where they should be, my anxiety level takes quantum leaps. "Where-in-the-hell-are-we?" Suddenly a monstrous hulk leapt out of the fog at us and tried to climb on board. "There it is!" would be a tad trite.

Connie wisely suggested that we didn't have to go. Sadly, I agreed and the anticipation over the past eight months turned to leaden disappointment as we inched our way back to the mooring and started shutting things down.

And then we heard the ferry captain's pan-pan.

Hearing that distress call yanked me back in time. Suddenly, it was not mid-June but weeks earlier, Memorial Day, and the voice calling on the VHF from the ferry was my own.

Just prior to Memorial Day we had set out for Pigeon Hill Bay, Maine Ð right at Petit Manan light, just past Schoodic. With tanks full and ready for the 160-mile trip, we slid down the Piscataqua River past Portsmouth, N.H. with our faithful boat dog and companion, Susser, the Weimaraner. We rounded buoy K2R and headed northeast.

By day three we were on our way to Stonington after a pleasant cruise with stops in South Portland and Friendship. There was a good bit of fog about, and NOAA advised visibility of 1 to 3 miles early, then clearing Ð not great, but we'd done well with much worse, so we set out.

We threaded our way between McGee and Seavey Islands, left red nun "8" to port, and set a course of 71 degrees toward Port Clyde to leave green can "7," marking Allen Ledge, to starboard.

***

The memory is as clear to me as if it were happening now: The fog is a great deal thicker and visibility is nowhere near 1 to 3. In fact, it is time to pay a lot of extra attention and to be grateful for our new WAAS electronics feeding the chart plotter. I read about WAAS all winter, about how it would be landing commercial aircraft in 2002 and was accurate within 10 feet anywhere in the world. With Maine's fog, ledges and narrow channels, it seemed ideal for us. How nice to see a large color screen with depth contours, ledges, buoys and best of all a representation of our boat in relation to all of that, accurate to 10 feet.

The fog thickens and visibility deteriorates to the dungeon category, with nothing in sight beyond the bow rail. For some reason we can't pick up green can #7 on radar, but the depth reading is good and the course over ground vector on the chart plotter shows us perfectly on course.

With no land for the radar to see to starboard, just nasty underwater ledges, I decide to use the radar for collision avoidance, the chart plotter for course and position and the depth sounder to be sure all is going well. Intensely alert, I scan windshield, radar, depth, plotter.

We are on maximum alert Ð windshield, radar, depth, plotter, windshield, radar, depth, plotter. COG vector perfect. Windshield nothing, depthÉOh my God Ð 14 feet! There should be 40! A chill tears through my stomach.

The only explanation is that we're not where the plotter shows us to be and must be too far to starboard, approaching the ledge. I turn full hard to port and pray. One second. Please! Two seconds: PLEASE! Then there is the most sickening banging, crunching scraping, and grinding I'd ever heard, sickening to my ear and sickening to my heart. When it ends we are hard aground and motionless.

I am stunned and feel schizophrenic. Clearly, this is not possible. We were on a perfect course using some of the most sophisticated equipment available. But now there is the bitter reality of seaweed on that rock outside the window. Stunned gives way to despair as the sea washes over the granite and picks us up just enough to slam us down on first the port and then the starboard sides of the hull.

With our 3-foot keel, that is a hard slam. I don't know how long the boat can take it. Standing is next to impossible, as is trying to get my bearings or even thinking in those early seconds. I scream, "NO! NO! NO!" as one of the waves washes in and spins us like a toy end for end, a complete circle. Two more of those and I am completely disoriented. The compass spins like a top just before it topples.

In those first minutes I am certain I have lost the boat. I feel the deepest grief as I see the sea pound her on the granite. She's such a fine and proud little boat. How could I have done this to her? I hold the wheel feeling absolutely helpless, wanting to magically save her by holding on to her, by somehow lifting her off the rock by lifting up on the wheel.

I understand captains going down with their ships Ð I have lost the boat we had poured our hearts and souls into, this boat that we spent twice our budget for, that we had labored over with joy and anticipation. Now she is gone forever. We'll never be able to afford another.

Shock, grief and fear surge through me. I feel humiliated and shamed for having made such a blunder, and equally bad for not knowing what my blunder was. It is without a doubt one of the worst moments of my life.

I snap out of my stupor as Connie frantically points to the radio while being violently thrown across the cockpit, once almost going overboard. Susser, who had been a true boat dog, is ready to abandon ship. He sticks with Connie as she struggles with the inflatable. Usually he comes to me for comfort in rough seas, but he knows where to be this time. I call our mayday.

Recovering from the shock, I realize the engine is still running Ð wow, a bit of hope! Throttle down. Still in gear. Does the transmission work? Yes! Does the prop hit the prop cage? No! Connie desperately tries to untie the inflatable and prepare our escape. The Coast Guard arranges for someone to come to our aid. I give them our exact position according to the GPS, about which I am beginning to have serious doubts.

OK, back to the boat Ð is there a chance I can get off this ledge? But which way to go? Which way off? Just try it, I tell myself, just get out of here! ForwardÉno movement, worseÉ. Reverse Énothing. More power forward Énothing É more reverse É nothing ... or was that a slight shudder astern?

The Coast Guard asks if we're taking on water. I lift all the covers to the bilge, afraid to look inside. "No, not yet," but it wouldn't take much for a big one to roll over the gunwale. Hey, is that a nudge? Yes! OK, wait for a wave to lift us É reverse Éfirm but not too much É yes, we moved! Now a rhythm: wave surge, throttle, wave surge, throttle. Still no water in the bilge. Wave, throttle, wave, throttle. Maybe, just maybe, we're going to be OK. Wave, throttle and we're off! But how to stay off?

The compass is still useless. We back into the chop, but where are we? The chop that helped us off is trying to push us back on. No time to hang out and wait, but what do I trust? The chart plotter seems to be what got us on the rock. Hope and trust to luck, I tell myself.

Heading in what seems to be the most likely direction, we start slowly making way, only to end up on another part of the ledge. This time is a bit less frightening but comes with a large measure of desperation as a bonus. Perhaps in getting off the first time I used up all the luck I am going to have. No Ð we free ourselves again and with plotter and a wide margin for error head for Port Clyde, canceling our distress call. The nightmare is over.

***

Weeks later, looking back on the whole event, I feel warm respect and appreciation for many aspects of that harrowing experience. The Coast Guard was concerned, efficient, courteous and downright respectful. I already felt like a fool and was afraid they and the fishermen would help confirm that. I couldn't have been more wrong.

During our distress call we talked to the captains of the Laura B and the Elizabeth Ann, both Monhegan Island ferries. Elizabeth Ann had been preparing to turn and offer assistance. The captain of the Laura B had been getting ready to come out in a skiff, since his larger boat drew 9 feet.

Two commercial fishermen came out of Port Clyde to escort us in through the fog and show us where we could tie up. Once we were secure they came over to say hello and let us know they were glad we were OK. I told them how terrible I felt and the minute one of them spoke I knew he understood.

"I'll tell ya a little something," he said. "There's hardly a guy in here that hasn't hit something, and I've hit that same rock you did. Next time it may be you coming to give me a hand." On another fishing boat, mom, dad and two kids heard it all on their radio. They introduced themselves later, saying they too were glad we were OK and sharing that at the height of our anxiety the kids said, "Mom, I don't feel so good."

With friendly help from the folks at the Port Clyde general store we found a diver to check out the hull and assess our condition. He arrived almost immediately, was most kind, and advised that her keel had some nasty fractures but she'd be OK to travel as long as we were not taking on water. She was still bone dry! Wonderful people at Port Clyde!

We made it to Stonington the next day and headed straight for Billings Diesel and Marine. We arrived homeless, with a stocked refrigerator, a dog, all our supplies for the cruise and no car. They helped us find a place to stay that would take the dog, offered to help us get settled, and ultimately find a ride to Pigeon Hill where we were to meet family. We left the Connie B in their good hands with the promise they would have her ready in time to get to Northeast Harbor for the New Brunswick flotilla. We picked her up two weeks later, on time and ready to go.

After all that, we made it to Northeast only to hang on a mooring in the fog. But the day dawned bright and crystal clear so we made a beeline for St. Andrews, arriving in 10 hours and catching up with the gang. Their first day had been hellish, with dense fog all day and nothing to see but radar. Some were on their bellies in rain all day watching for lobster pots. We, however, enjoyed sun, calm seas and beautiful scenery.

I still think back to that night at Port Clyde after the diver checked us out. Having found a mooring for the night, we went ashore for a walk with boat dog. We left the anchor light on to make our boat easy to find in case the fog thickened. Looking down on the harbor from the hill, there was our proud little boat with her light gleaming. I was amazed she could look so good after what I had done to her. The diver had tried to cheer us up by saying, "Don't feel so bad, this happens all the time. It's just a bunch of fiberglass."

Maybe, but looking down on her that night I had to admit I was in love with a pile of fiberglass with a gleaming light atop her.

What went wrong: I had the misfortune of being the first kid on my block to install a brand new WAAS GPS. I had used differential GPS the previous summer and simply switched to the "new and better" WAAS. But the early production units, mine included, were defective and subsequently recalled. A software flaw caused the unit to misapply magnetic variation. In our case, it misapplied 17 degrees, enough to put us on a collision course with Allen Ledge.

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