When the engine dies, the cove suddenly grows larger. The chain runs down, the boat turns into the wind and stops somewhere; you usually know the moment it stops through the soles of your feet — the tremor in the deck falls away. The most restful sleep at sea is had right there, over an anchor where that tremor has gone quiet. The least restful is waking in the middle of the night, not quite sure why, hunting the darkness for a fixed point. The difference between the two usually lies in the five minutes you spend setting the anchor.
It Begins as You Enter the Cove
Good anchoring doesn't begin the moment the anchor hits the water. It begins as you come into the cove. An experienced sailor reads the bay while the bow is still turning in: where is the wind coming from now, will it back overnight, which corner stays sheltered until morning? If you've come into a crowded cove late, the luxury of choice shrinks; then you have to judge how far the boat will wander as it swings, and how the neighbour's chain runs along the bottom. Swinging room is measured first by eye, then by instinct.
Reading the Bottom
What the anchor grips is not water but the seabed. Sand and mud are the bottoms that put your mind at ease; the anchor buries, settles, and forgets you until morning. Rock and weed are another matter — the anchor seems to hold, then slips quietly away when the wind backs. Posidonia (seagrass) holds poorly and is protected as well; dropping on it tears up something that has grown there for centuries. The depth sounder gives you an idea, but the surest method is an old one: put on a mask and look. On a clear afternoon, watching the anchor bury itself in the sand with your own eyes gives a reassurance no screen can.
The Matter of Chain
The most common mistake is being stingy with chain. The general rule is to pay out at least five times the water depth (5:1); if the weather is up or you're staying the night, a little more settles the mind. The reason is simple: the anchor holds not from a steep pull but because the chain lies flat along the seabed. Too little chain "unhooks" the anchor upward; plenty of chain lays it down and keeps the anchor at its end buried. When the chain comes taut the boat's sound changes — once you've heard it, you can tell the anchor has set by ear too.
Is It Dragging?
After dropping, gently backing down in reverse to test the hold is the sailor's first handshake. The rest is a matter of the eye: a rock on the shore, a distant light — pick two fixed points. If the boat slides against them, the anchor is walking. Most chartplotters have an anchor alarm; setting it for the night takes five seconds and spreads your sleep across the whole night. Dragging usually starts when the wind shifts, so the first hour is the one you keep most awake for.
For the Night
A few small things remain: lighting the anchor light, checking the forecast one last time, and keeping an escape plan in a corner of your mind — which cove would you run to if the wind hardened from an unexpected direction? Once these are thought through, what's left is a cup of tea on deck and the sky.
There is also an unwritten rule of anchoring. The first night, you sleep with one eye open until you fully trust the anchor. Old sailors step onto the deck one last time before turning in; they look at the distance to the neighbour, the direction of the wind, the colour of the sky. This short round is both a check and a small ritual — a quiet agreement between you and the cove. If the anchor has set well, the rest is easy. The slap of the water against the hull, the chain tightening and easing now and then, the light of another boat far off; in time it all folds into the soundtrack of a peaceful sleep. Then you, too, fall quiet.
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