After spending three days bunkered down during a strong northerly front in the Bahamas, we decided if we didn't leave, the weather would only deteriorate. Hours after making this stupid decision we were punching the Grand Banks 42 through large swells churned up by a week of fierce north winds. With roaring winds of 30 knots and higher, my crew Jack Bulger and I exchanged glances, both realizing we were in for a long disagreeable night.

Dropping below to take a fix off the GPS, I found a pilothouse of blank electronic displays ���no radar, no GPS, and no plotter. My response was what any tired, wet boater would do. I flipped all the electronic breakers multiple times, increasing in frequency as the wind grew louder. No luck.

Remarkably there was still a functioning depth and log unit which was wired to another panel. After my heart began beating again, I realized the prudence of keeping my ded reckoning (DR) skills polished, albeit they were slightly tarnished. Every so often, while cruising in my home waters, I'll plot a DR position verifying this against the GPS position; ensuring modern electronic marvels are not diluting this basic navigational skill.

The DR is gained from the boats previous position and relies on determining the boat's speed over your course. Thankfully we plotted our position on the chart less than an hour before we lost the instruments. Therefore we had a starting point. Except for the lighthouse in Hope Town, now at our beam, there were only two other lighted navigational aids on our course to Exuma Sound. I changed our heading to give us a little more sea room realizing that there is a margin of error with ded reckoning. After drawing a line on the chart representing our course to Georgetown, we then took a pair of dividers and plotted our estimated position in hour intervals based on an average speed of 9.4 knots. This provided us with an approximate idea of where we should be during the course of the night while also giving a picture of where not to be without good light. With my stopwatch and our log, I plotted the distance traveled by multiplying the speed and the time. Since we were able to plot three waypoints on our chart before the system failed, I was able to get a good picture of the current and compensate for it, again favoring an offshore course.

It is important to note, that if possible, a log should not be solely relied upon for speed data. If you have the benefit of two charted objects, which we did not, run between these and measure the time. Then divide the distance by the time to give you speed. I had the advantage of being intimately familiar with the Grand Banks 42, and knew her speed range by RPM and could generally factor in the sea state for an estimated speed as a check and balance against our log.

During the night we passed the light at Hole-in-the-Wall and Eleuthera's East End Point. These provided us with a means of measuring distance off, providing another element to our position. Digging out our hand-bearing compass, I took a bearing on the light when it was 45-degrees off our bow, maintained course, and then took another bearing when the light was 90-degrees off. The distance run between the two bearings is equal to the distance offshore. With the dividers I plotted this on our rhumb line. On my old boat, I went so far as to mark the 45 and 90-degree marks on my lifeline with tape. (This was before you could fit a GPS in your pocket).

As the sun rose the following morning and we spotted Little San Salvador off our port and Eleuthera to our starboard making our entrance into the Exuma Sound, I was thankful I kept up on these basic skills when the skies were fair and the instruments were humming. Trying to refresh my mind drenched in saltwater while being thrashed around on an angry ocean would have been more adventure than I could have stomached. Next time you're out cruising for the weekend, play the DR game��� you never know when the game is up.