Pole Dancing

Day 4

I awoke at Stahlbrode to the sound of birdsong, but not the usual raucous seaside variety. We were close to the reed beds at the edge of the natural harbour, and beyond were houses with leafy gardens. It seemed strange to be on a boat listening to the familiar twittering of home. The tiny yacht haven was tranquil in the morning sunshine, and there was a steady easterly breeze. The bread rolls and weather forecast had been delivered as promised and our departure was as trouble-free as our arrival had been.

Das Drama at Stahlbrode

We had decided to spend the next night at Lauterbach, on Rügen, a distance of over 15 miles. We had to sail to the end of the Strelasund, then turn left and cross the Greifswalder Bodden. Skipper reckoned we might not arrive until early evening, depending on how the wind behaved. In early July at this latitude daylight was not an issue; thought I’d be seriously ready for a beer by 7pm though. Once clear of the Stahlbrode ferry crossing, we raised the sails and tacked along the sound in a steady Force3. As it turned out, the wind was kind to us and we were able to sail close hauled or close reaching all the way from the bottom of the Strelasund to the Lauterbach approach channel. It was one of those effortless and relaxing afternoons that more than outweigh the windless or miserable ones. Das Drama was very happy and managed 6.8 kts at times. Visibility was good, and we navigated without difficulty from buoy to buoy. Thanks to the cooperation of the elements, we arrived at the approach to Lauterbach early in the afternoon.

Next to the old town harbour at Lauterbach is a newer marina. The entrance is narrow and looks a little scruffy, but this is deceptive. In fact the marina is modern and spacious, with excellent facilities and even floating holiday houses with private moorings. I’d go as far as to call it posh, certainly in comparison with most places on this coast, charmingly devoted as it is to the old-fashioned bucket-and-spade family holiday, which seems to be enjoying a renaissance as Germans worry about their carbon footprint and the dangers of the fierce Mediterranean sun.

Still struggling to control Das Drama with any accuracy when motoring, we aimed for a row of three empty boxes. Here, Nordic berthing arrangements could not be avoided; fortunately there was by now very little wind. It soon became obvious that the boxes were designed for much bigger boats. I tried in vain to lasso a post, but its top was way above my head as I stood on Das Drama’s stern, not even half a metre above the water. I contrived to drop a line in the water, and Skipper reacted quickly to put the engine in neutral. We were now lying crosswise with a post at either end of the boat.

All around us, people were sunbathing, and the sound of children laughing carried across the water as they swam and messed about in rubber dinghies. Skipper was not inconspicuous in his scarlet ocean racing gear and lifejacket, even less so with both arms flung round a mooring post, yelling helpfully, “I’m not letting go!” I finally managed to get a line round the post and make it fast to the boat. Meanwhile, help had appeared on the pontoon in the shape of a young German couple. They took two bow lines and hauled us sideways towards the second stern post. I eventually got a line round this one too, and we thought we had it cracked. We needed to move the boat forward to get the bow within stepping distance of the pontoon, but it quickly became apparent that the stern lines were too short. We had plenty of rope aboard – we would just have to knot an extra piece on at each side. The Germans, thinking their good deed for the day done, had by now wandered off to spare us further embarrassment. As I secured the bow lines ready to go back and sort out the stern, a voice from the cockpit informed me, “You’re not going to like this”. “You’ve dropped one of the lines? Never mind,” I replied calmly. No, really. Unable to stop chuckling to myself at the thought of our tubby Skipper wrapped round a post like a tree-hugger, I wasn’t going to spoil a clean sheet this holiday by giving him an unhelpful earful now.

Just as we were finally getting tidy, a middle-aged German chap appeared on the pontoon brandishing a hank of mooring line. We thanked him, but explained that we had all we needed. He insisted on giving us this old but not badly worn rope, so we accepted with good grace. As we strolled out of the marina to explore the town, we saw the same chap and his wife emerging from the chandler’s. Over his shoulder, a smart new length of blue mooring line – we had furnished the excuse he needed for a little shopping trip.

I was certainly thirsty by the time we settled ourselves at a bar on the town quay. At least it’s never hard to find a decent beer in Germany.

Beyond the Bridge

Day 3

As Tuesday morning dawned bright and clear, posing no threat to our plans, we felt as if we were starting again. Naturally, we still didn’t make the 0820 bridge opening, as Skipper’s pilotage stuff takes a while. It’s not just that – he’s the most un-morning person you could ever find: queasy and snappy until at least 10am. After coffee (which generally renders him considerably more human), we set off and crossed the sound, entering the harbour at Stralsund to wait for the bridge opening. There were a dozen or so yachts circling in predatory fashion, as if at the start of a race. We could see a number of boats massed on the other side, and weren’t sure how this was going to work. In the event, we got the green light first, and jiggled our way through. We had to carry on motoring for a while to clear the queue of boats on the other side, but put the sails up 10 minutes later in a gentle breeze. Now the holiday really got under way. We were delighted at how Das Drama tugged away under sail, and were soon reaching down the sound at 4 to 5 kts. After two days of windless gloom and narrow channels, this was bliss! We found ourselves “racing” a larger yacht, nicknamed Fat Boy by Skipper. He should know. Collision rules were meticulously observed and there was much cheery waving.

Waiting for the bridge to open

We were heading for the village of Stahlbrode, on the mainland side of the sound. A little car ferry ploughs across from there to Rügen Island, there is a well-spoken-of fish smokery, a few holiday homes and not much else. When we started the outboard to enter the harbour, we found that the throttle had been loosened and it would work at maximum revs or not at all. We progressed with a deafening roar for a few seconds, followed by dropping the revs to tick-over to lose speed, repeating as necessary! The pilot book notes that the eastern corner of the natural harbour is shallow and stony, but we could see yachts tied up to pontoons there. In addition, the deeper, and more sheltered, walled harbour was infested with those confounded Nordic mooring posts. The choice seemed obvious. There was a space free which we could approach upwind, so mooring was refreshingly simple. We were a little exposed to the breeze, though, and had to follow the example of the boats moored around us by leaving all the mooring lines very loose to minimize the creaking and thumping which would otherwise have kept the entire village awake all night.

The harbourmaster’s office was also a general store and bar. We dutifully bought and wrote our postcards and the harbourmaster volunteered to post them in the village.  We ordered bread for the morning, which he explained would be delivered to the boat at 7.30am, together with the latest weather forecast. What more could we ask?

We had viewed the prospect of eating out in Germany every day for a week with some trepidation, as neither of us likes pork, but again we ate well, at the quayside restaurant (having declined the harbourmaster’s invitation to a bratwurst barbecue). I felt duty bound to try the pickled herring, which was excellent. Despite the rave reviews, I couldn’t quite summon the courage to try the smoked variety. Skipper decided to leave the culinary experimentation to me, and had a steak. The wind dropped during the evening, and we spent a very peaceful night.

The Middle of the Sands

Day Two

Monday dawned damp, misty and windless. We investigated the as yet untried spirit stove, as good coffee was proving hard to find. We lit it, turned it up to maximum and set the coffee pot to heat. As designated galley slave, the Mate was sceptical of this little stove’s ability ever to boil a pan of water, but all at once the thing really got going, and there followed a frantic few minutes as I tried to figure out how to shrink the leaping flames. Quicker than expected, we got our caffeine fix, and we made an improvement on the previous day: it was still morning when we left harbour.

Our departure was, inevitably, not quite as stylish as we might have wished. I was in charge of the bow lines, and all the Skipper had to do was lose the buoy and back us out gently away from the pontoon. The buoy had other ideas. It did not want to see us go, refused to pass down either side of the boat, and settled happily just next to the rudder. Terrified of damaging the prop, Skipper tried to guess which side the buoy had decided to go and gave in to its greater personal authority. Finally we were moving slowly astern towards the boats moored to the next pontoon.  Closer, and closer, and closer to them. Engine in forward? I suggested helpfully. Skipper declined to reply. After lots of uncontrolled wiggling about, watched nervously by other sailors trying to look inconspicuous as they shuffled around clutching their largest fenders, Das Drama was ready to leave and we proceeded smoothly out of the marina. Boats are like horses: you have to let them know who’s boss.

As we motored down the little channel in oily calm, the mist closed in progressively, and we passed a number of boats showing lights. Our bow and stern lights had to be slotted in to a fitting on the deck and plugged in to a little socket, so we decided to do this straight away, in case the visibility were to deteriorate. As I tinkered about on the foredeck (unsuccessfully, as it turned out - it seems there was a loose connection), my ears were assaulted by a very worrying sound: silence. Engine stopped. Fortunately, there was not much traffic around, just a couple of motoring yachts, but the lack of company just added to the spookiness. We weren’t going anywhere, as the sea was as glassy as it gets, but we were uncomfortably aware that outside the channel there was little more than a metre of water. We checked the fuel tank of the outboard and there seemed to be plenty left, so why had the engine stopped? I suppose we are too accustomed to dealing with recalcitrant computers: if something goes wrong, start it again, and if it works OK then carry on and don’t worry about it. We perhaps should have given it a little more thought, but in the event we managed to restart the outboard after a couple of tries, and carried on merrily.

As we approached Stralsund – this time having actually done the pilotage before setting off – the motor died again. This time, of course, we had indeed emptied the petrol tank. OK, no problem. Hanging over the stern I filled up the tank from the jerrycan, and re-started the engine. Trouble was, as soon as we put it into gear it stopped, every time. Reluctantly facing the possibility that the bolshie buoy at Barhöft might have hit the propeller, we hoiked the outboard out of the water and had a look. It seemed fine, although wound up in huge quantities of weed. It is true that anything technical is the Mate’s job, and I was supposed to have read various thrilling tomes about boat maintenance, but sadly I was at a loss. I pulled the weed off, at least.

Skipper, meanwhile, was undaunted. We were close to Das Drama’s home port of Altefähr, a fairly simple harbour with which we were familiar. A gently breeze had risen in the meantime, so we raised the sails, and managed to sail at about 2kn. “We’ll sail in to Altefähr”, he declared, barely able to hide his glee at having a good excuse to enter a harbour under sail. There was some debate, between the Skipper and himself, about whether we needed jib or mainsail, and I was kept warm raising and lowering canvas for a while. Just as we got our act together and headed for the harbour entrance, a load of teenagers in kayaks emerged and proceeded to circle about in preparation for a race. Great. Whilst figuring out which German phrase we might usefully yell to their safety boat if things got hairy, we sailed on, and you will be disappointed to hear that we spotted a free berth and tied up to it, with the help of another Folkboat sailor on the quayside, and with remarkably little Drama. Skipper was a little bemused by my praise of his manoevring under sail. I’m not often that nice to him.

Skipper remained reluctant to ask for help, but was eventually persuaded to call the charterer. It turned out to be a simple matter of an oily spark plug. We felt silly, especially as when the same thing had happened to our lawnmower we had worked it out and fixed it. Anyway, the bow light socket was re-wired, and we had our evening in Stralsund – well worth a visit – by resorting to four wheels.

Sailing Das Drama, Day 1

Day One: Girl and Buoy

Amazingly, morning revealed that the venerable cockpit tent had done its stuff, and everything inside was totally dry. The other boat crews were busily getting underway to pass through the swing bridge’s first opening of the day at 8.20. Bit early for us. We were glad not to have been too hasty, as another thunderstorm broke during the morning, but with showers and sunny spells likely to be the order of the day, we eventually decided better time spent getting rained on at sea than  sitting in sunshine in the harbour, so off we went.

Getting out of the mooring box wasn’t too tricky. Philipp had warned us that steering in reverse with the outboard was almost impossible, and to bear in mind that 5hp was not going to stop 2 tonnes of moving boat anywhere near as quickly as you might hope. We were also told to use the tiller when mooring, and not to try to steer with the outboard. All advice duly noted. We pulled Das Drama out by her mooring lines, without much embarrassment, and chugged sedately out of the harbour.

The plan, such as it was, had been to potter about in the bay getting the hang of the boat. I couldn’t see what could be difficult about it: we had sailed larger yachts without difficulty, but it’s true the Folkboat was a rather different sort of creature. I hoisted the sails, which I’m sure I couldn’t have managed without so many helpful comments from the helm (this was to be the pattern for the week). We tacked northwest up the sound and the wonders of the Folkboat design quickly began to reveal themselves. We had never persuaded a boat to sail so close to the wind, even though our attention to sail trimming was at best sporadic. Having satisfied ourselves that little Das Drama was going to behave herself, we began, somewhat belatedly, to wonder where we should take her. A few picturesque little ports had been recommended, but our delayed start ruled them out for the day, especially as we were, as usual, beating upwind. Poring over the chart and pilot book, (in German only) I identified the little marina at Barhöft as the best option.

Between the islands and the mainland, the water is generally shallow, and access to the ports confined to dredged channels. Although well marked, these were very, very narrow. The other difference between Das Drama and the yachts we had sailed before was the absence of a GPS with chart plotter. Being of a purist inclination (OK, saddos) we thought this would be a good navigation refresher course, and the hand bearing compass was duly dug out and pointed at a few likely landmarks. Skipper was helming, as usual, but it didn’t take me too long to remember how to use the plotter. We were unreasonably pleased with ourselves to find that, when passing the first pair of channel markers leading to Barhöft, the bearing to a nearby transmitter tower was exactly what we thought it should be. There was no way we could tack within the narrow confines of the channel, so the little outboard was lowered  and started without difficulty, and proved capable of propelling us at reasonable speed, albeit in flat water. We were getting smugger and smugger as we swiftly identified and successfully followed the transits into the port. Perhaps we should have been more wary of such hubris.

In the Baltic, it seems not to be the norm to announce your arrival in advance. If you can find a space you grab it, then go and present the Harbourmaster with your fait accompli. If he doesn’t like your choice of spot, he can always help you to move! We arrived at Barhöft at the same time as a larger (in truth, they were all larger) yacht, the Sunday Morning, crewed by a middle-aged German couple.  They watched us fail spectacularly to pick up a stern buoy. In our defence, steering the Folkboat when using the outboard was horribly imprecise, and with our inexperience we couldn’t immediately see how best to go about our task. Having the boathook handy might have been a good first step, on reflection. We tied up alongside a hammerhead (unfortunately not available to visitors) for a think. Meanwhile, Sunday Morning had picked up the buoy we had botched and was now tied up to the pontoon. Her crew, busy tidying the mooring lines, observed to me that our boat was well-named. I found this funny, and translated for the Skipper, who also laughed. Sunday Morning’s crew looked a little taken aback - I suspect she had meant to be fairly scathing. If so, it was the only time anyone we met was other than totally charming all week.  At the second attempt, a buoy was quite easily picked up and we tied up bow-to, as is the custom. (Yachts often bring a little step-stool to place on the pontoon to make getting on and off the boat less strenuous.)

Barhöft turned out to be typical of the marinas were were to visit around Rügen. The facilities were modern, simple but dazzlingly clean, mooring inexpensive, and the welcome enthusiastic. Our German was more than adequate for the situation, but there was usually at least one person eager to practice his English on us. There was rarely a choice of restaurant, but again our first evening proved prophetic: quick and friendly service, infinite patience while we translated the menu, a good choice of fresh fish, smoked and pickled herring, lots of fresh veggies and perfectly decent plonk, generally sold by the glass. This I considered to be a Good Thing, as getting back on board over the bow and then negotiating the entrance to the cockpit tent with the best part of a bottle of claret lapping at the molars could well have had embarrassing, if not catastrophic, consequences.

Planning our next move

After supper, we got the charts out to make, finally, something resembling a Plan. It was now clear to us that the places that had been suggested would involve motoring up and down narrow channels. The islands are undoubtedly pretty and worth a visit, but we were here to SAIL, and nothing could be more suited to that than a Nordic Folkboat. We therefore decided that we would head back towards our “home” port of Altefähr, stay overnight across the sound at the pretty Hanseatic port of Stralsund, then pass through the impressive swing bridge and head southeast to the relatively deep and open water of the Greifswalder Bodden bay for the rest of the week. Satisfied with this plan, we settled down for the night cosily in Das Drama's little cabin.

A Little Drama Goes A Long Way

our first bareboat charter, July 2011

Early June, and Skipper was not happy. Prospects for a summer of sailing seemed to be evaporating before our eyes, and progress towards the Holy Grail of Yachtmaster had almost ground to a halt. After a disappointing first outing of the season, thanks to rather more wind than strictly necessary, and other plans falling foul of work commitments, his likely mileage for the year would be lucky to scrape into three figures. Watching him poring glumly over his log book on a Sunday evening, and sulkily contemplating a business trip to New York that would have delighted most normal mortals, I felt compelled, as Mate, to take action.

What was required was a reasonably cheap 5 or 6 days of sailing, to warm us up for what was to have been our first ever bareboat charter, a week on a Bavaria 33 around Brittany in August. Rocks, tides and an unfamiliar sailing area sounded pretty challenging if we’d hardly set foot on a yacht for nearly a year.

At this point, a little background might help the reader. Skipper has been banging on for some time now about the delights of the Nordic Folkboat. In common with all non-owner yachtsmen (so he tells me), he devotes considerable time and energy to deciding what boat he will eventually buy if, as and when circumstances permit. A purist devotee of the long keel, but not the world’s most adroit at marina manoevring; a day-sailor who loves his creature comforts but has what I think must be called a visceral aversion to sea toilets; an accountant horrified at the prospects of mushrooming maintenance and mooring expenses – well, you can see that the possibilities are not unlimited.

So, back to our gloomy June evening. Well, hazards Mate, what about chartering a Folkboat? Not many people rent them out, I am told, and Skipper scribbles down a few numbers for yacht charter companies in the Solent and off he swans to the Big Apple. On Monday I make a few calls. It is pretty short notice by now, and I can’t find anything smaller than a 39 – too big, and too expensive anyway. The last telephone number is for a little one-man-and-his-boats company on the German island of Ruegen. Amazingly, Philipp, whose English is rather better than my German, has a Folkboat free for the first week in July. No oil painting, Das Drama is a fiberglass jobby with a grubby blue deck, but so what? Mate has always felt there is no point in buying a boat you can’t sleep on , even if only for a couple of days, so let’s make Skipper camp on one for a week and see if he’s still so keen. Ha!

Now, Skipper is the sort of chap who likes to plan carefully, to think things through and consider all the implications before making a decision. Most laudable, I’m sure, but Mate is made of more impetuous stuff. And in any case, Skipper is busy in New York (and rather enjoying it, incidentally, despite himself) and cannot think of a reasonable objection in time, so voilà! Das Drama it is! It is at this point that Mate finally begins to take an interest in the realities of Very Small Yachts. No loo. OK, I think I can figure out how to work a bucket. No gas. Fine, we can learn to use the spirit stove – safer, anyway. No fridge. Well, apparently mooring is predominantly in marinas, so we can shop each day and eat supper out. Not even a water tank? Sorry, WHAT?

With departure only a fortnight away, Skipper was nervous about the lack of time for planning, so the diary was ruthlessly cleared of all engagements (including the Mate’s 50^th birthday celebration) so the required lists could be written and re-written.  Packing was the next challenge: if it won’t fit in an Audi A4 it certainly won’t fit in a Folkboat.  The man who took foul-weather gear and thermal longjohns to Croatia in August doesn’t travel light. Wish we’d made room for an extra bucket, though. (See above).

Before we knew it, the car was loaded, the cats dispatched to the cattery and we were off to Germany.  It is a myth that there are no speed limits on German motorways. In busy areas, the limit changes with bewildering frequency, it seems that over half the network is dug up at any one time, and the traffic is atrocious. We arrived on the holiday island of Rügen, late and irritable, in cold, driving rain. Good job we made room for the foulies and thermal undies. Things could only get better. And indeed they did.

Skipper had been managing expectations carefully, so much so that Mate was surprised at how big Das Drama looked, bobbing gently in her Nordic mooring box: bow to the pontoon, lines from the stern to a tall wooden pile on each side. Having met the charterer, Philipp, and dealt with the formalities, the next job was to rig the sails: rolled up, they occupied virtually all the space aboard. We were than able to stow our kit and we ate an excellent supper at a Greek restaurant nestling in the pinewoods overlooking the bay. We then managed to put up the rather aged cockpit tent, converted the entire cabin area into a bed, and fell immediately asleep. We awoke to the wrath of the gods in the early hours. Lightning danced overhead and the rain fell in torrents. We cared not.