Now we're drifting out to sea on a swift current as I wrestle seat cushions and dig around in lockers looking for the second anchor. Like in the old Ty-D-Bol commercial, we're being flushed -- out the inlet. Meanwhile Bill is doing some burrowing himself, clearly searching for something crucial. Last night, my buddy Bill and I celebrated his first 500 miles on the ICW with a couple of T-bones and a bottle of Jack. Now we're suffering -- our bow anchor isn't holding, Bill's hidden the second anchor under his sea bag, and I can't raise help on the VHF. Another 10 minutes goes by and it feels like days under the searing sun. Sweat and salt sting my eyes as the backup anchor drags and finally sticks, and thankfully, the VHF crackles to life. "Bohicket Marina, please switch to 68." Whew...help is on the way. Deep breath. Nothing to do now but wait. I turn to impart the good news to my apprentice cruising companion and find him lounging on the aft bench in the sun, halfway through his all-important find. "Hair of the dog," he offers with a grin.