The anchor held steady through the night as if gripping the seabed like its life depended on it. The winds, once lively, softened after midnight, leaving the morning eerily quiet. Little did we know that the silence held a surprise.

We had planned an early start, eager to take on the day’s challenges. But as the engine button was pressed, we were met with… nothing. Dead silence. Instead, a cryptic error message blinked back at us: “ST Lock.” What on earth could that mean? It was uncharted territory for us, and the realization hit hard—a chill ran down our spines.

Stranded. Anchored in the middle of nowhere, nestled in a secluded creek far from civilization. No AAA service to save the day, no mechanic magically appearing with a toolbox. Worries began to seep in. With nowhere else to turn, we dove into the depths of the internet, seeking clarity. Experts offered terrifying possibilities: water in the engine, injector disassembly, hydraulic system replacement—all tasks far beyond our capabilities.

The tension was palpable, but we refused to give in to despair. The digital treasure hunt continued, and then—a glimmer of hope. A nugget of wisdom emerged: the system will lock the starter if the throttle wasn’t fully in idle. Could it really be that simple? I dashed to the cockpit, inspecting the throttle lever. It seemed just barely forward, not fully in idle. Or was it just wishful thinking? I held my breath, adjusted it, and pushed the starter button. The engine roared to life! Relief washed over us; we were back in business.

Of course, the anchor wasn’t ready to let us go so easily. It was buried stubbornly in the creek bed, daring us to challenge its grip. With persistence and a few strategic maneuvers, we coaxed it free, and we were finally on our way.

The journey to Charleston was nothing short of perfect. Timing was perfect as we navigated shallow spots with support of the tide, and the current propelled us to record-breaking speeds. We reached the marina well ahead of schedule, super happy about a smooth leg.

But the fuel dock awaited—a T-dock in a narrow fairway, paired with a strong crosscurrent that promised an extra layer of difficulty. Yet, channeling our inner “Captain Ron,” we executed the docking maneuver with precision, sliding into place gracefully. The slip was no different; every movement felt seamless.

With Koko shining after a freshwater rinse and her salty crust removed, we treated ourselves to some well-earned poolside relaxation and a hearty dinner.

Tomorrow, Charleston beckons, and we’re ready to explore every inch of its charm.