It really was a great start to the morning. I had a few of my closest friends out for a bit of an impromptu trip—a bachelor party of sorts for our friend Liam. Fishing on Long Island Sound in mid-August is challenging for even the most ardent fishermen, of which I certainly am not. Still, it was as good an excuse as any for us to put off obligations, get out of the house, and go for a boat ride.
The Karen Marie was purring like a kitten as we snuck down the Connecticut River and out into the Sound. Lines were dropped, music was cranked, and the trolling began under bluebird conditions. I was muttering prayers to the fishing gods at this point: “Just one fish, please—at least one fish for our groom-to-be. And maybe one more for my friend’s son. And then one for Nick and Keith if it’s not too much trouble. And a big daddy for me too, if you have time.”
The fishing gods saw fit to bless this greedy angler with one real bite.
“Whoa, fish on!”
A short but worthy battle ensued, and culminated with a mid-sized bluefish that created an outsized memory. High fives were exchanged, and cheers of “Let’s go!” rang out. This was the first fish caught aboard the Karen Marie—a first I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
We trolled for a while longer, but it became clear that, besides that single wayward blue, the only thing we were going to catch was a sunburn. Switching tactics, we decided to try our hands at fluke fishing in the river.
I found what looked like the perfect spot just outside the channel in a no-wake zone, where everyone could at least kill some time jigging. I maneuvered us slowly into position to drop the anchor. I glanced at the depth sounder: 12 … 7 … —.
“F***.”
It’s said that there are two types of boaters: those who have run aground, and liars. With the sickening banging of bronze on rock, I was baptized into the former category.
With a boat full of friends, I did my best to stay as poised as possible while I checked for leaks—there were none—and maneuvered us back between the navigational beacons. There was a small vibration from the port prop and a more severe shudder from the starboard side. We were in for a slow ride home.
The guys took it in stride, but I wasn’t too happy. Angry, disappointed—more than anything, embarrassed. This was my first outing aboard the Bertram with these friends, and Mr. Power & Motoryacht put his boat atop a rock—something I’d avoided in my previous 12 years of boat ownership.
Salt in the wound: We were just a day out from a family cruise to Greenport, our last chance for a multi-day trip before Karen returned to work and Caleb began daycare. I’m not sure what was more bent at that moment—the props or my ego. That must have been obvious to my friends, notorious ball-busters all, who graciously made a point to say how much fun they still had.
I’d come to learn that, while the props certainly needed professional mending, I’d avoided any other serious damage. My yard, Safe Harbor Dauntless, recognized that summer was fleeting and offered to put the Karen Marie back in her slip so the family and I could enjoy a staycation. They didn’t have to do that, but it was a gesture I greatly appreciated. As my pride and props were mended, we enjoyed our time in Essex and felt lucky to call our “destination location” home.
Highs and lows—just like the tide, our chosen pastime can swing from high-fives and cheers to anger and tears in a matter of minutes, or in my case, seconds. As the weeks slip into my wake and the boat is running better than ever, I wonder: Would I take the whole experience back if I could?
Of course, I wish I hadn’t hit a rock—I would have kept that bluefish if I’d known he’d cost me thousands of dollars. But no, we all made some great memories and found ourselves excited about a new hobby. Even if I have to hear, “Try not to hit anything this time, Dan,” for years to come, it’s the memories made on the water that are the real keepers.
See you on the water,
Dan
daniel.harding@firecrown.com
@danhardingboating
This article originally appeared in the January 2026 issue of Power & Motoryacht magazine.
