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.