"Years from now, when

we retell this story to our great-grandchildren, promise me you won't

tell people I hid in the bathroom, would you?"

"Only if you promise not

to make a column out of our stupidity. This is the dumbest thing I've

done in 60 years of boating."

What? Me, tell the world we

let ourselves get blown into water too shallow to float our boat, and

spent days waiting to be rescued? And all for lunch in a nice restaurant?

Never.

It was Sunday on Kentucky Lake,

so we decided to anchor out and wait for the weekenders to evaporate before

venturing into Grand Rivers, Ky., to visit a restaurant we'd heard about.

We picked a pretty little cove near the mouth of Sledd Creek, across the

lake, with a good view of the traffic going through Kentucky Lock and

Dam.

It had been a warm afternoon,

so as soon as we set the anchor, we went over the side for a swim. Almost

at once, we noticed black clouds building up in the sky north of us.

Got back aboard and closed

up to take a storm. Really, we enjoy riding out a storm in the snug confines

of a well-secured boat.

But this one wasn't. Well-secured,

I mean.

We should have caught on when

some downed limbs near us appeared to be moving directly into the storm.

In fact, we were doing the moving, not the branches.

JUMP STARTS HERE

We'd broken the First Commandment

of small boatmanship by anchoring in an exposed position that allows the

wind a long unbroken sweep, especially when it's obvious there's bad weather

in that direction.

Dave knew that. I knew that.

Just a dumb lapse in attention.

Not to worry, we told each

other. The trawler draws only 18 inches, after all, so obviously this

water was merely ankle deep. If the motor won't push us off, we'll just

get out and push ourselves out of a jam.

Didn't budge. We tried all

the old tricks: rocking the boat from side to side to break the suction

of the mud, pushing sideways, tilting the motor up a little, me pushing

while Dave gunned the engine. He even walked the anchor out in front of

us as far as he could to kedge toward it with the engine racing.

Didn't budge.

Scarlett-like, we declared,

"Tomorrow is another day," fixed our supper, read our books,

wrote a little, went to bed.

As if the wind blowing steadily

all night wasn't bad enough, the TVA folks let the river down about six

inches. Morning found us hard aground. Dave swallowed his pride and called

a marina on the opposite shore to ask for a tow, grateful for once that

the cell phone kept our dilemma from being overheard by other boaters

on the water.

"Won't take but a nudge,"

he told the guy at Lighthouse Marina. "It's not a large boat."

So along comes Marty with a

300 hp twin-engine open boat. Dave waded out to meet him ­ no use

two of us being stuck ­ and took him our anchor line.

Tried it with the motor running,

tried it without the motor, tried it with both of us pushing the stern.

Didn't budge.

Apologies exchanged all around.

Marty said in 20 years of running a marina and working with boats, he'd

never failed to dislodge a grounded boat. Dave told Marty he'd never had

to call for help before.

Marty headed