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.