Back in the DDR

Tuesday dawned bright and pleasantly breezy, as forecast. The first job of the day, of course, is breakfast. People tell us we are very picky about food. We take this as a compliment, although it is rarely, if ever, meant as such, but the reality is that the Skipper won’t eat German bread, and I won’t drink their coffee. The coffee is easily solved, with the Mate’s traditional Provisions Crate™ and the spirit stove, but the food has proved trickier. I have therefore invested in an electric coolbox, which works either on mains or on a car-type 12V socket. This means we can keep butter and cheese, and even a beer or four, (although naturally the lattermost is irrelevant as far as breakfast is concerned. We are not, after all, German.). We had supplies of matzos, plain digestives (the Mate’s favourite) and Tiptree marmalade, so breakfast on board, in the amber light inside the cockpit tent, was more than civilized. The fridge worked pretty well (and proclaimed its usefulness with constant loud whirring), but if the weather had been really hot I don’t think the butter and cheese would have lasted the week. I certainly wouldn’t use it to store meat for more than a day or so. A useful acquisition nonetheless, as it can be plugged in to the socket in the car boot for supermarket shopping on really hot days. Now all we need is the really hot days.

Dead posh breakfast (Love the mug)

Thus refuelled, we set off for Lubmin. We put a reef in in the main sail before leaving the marina. We’d probably have been OK without it, but every now and then there was quite a powerful gust, so it made helming easier, and we still managed around 5½ kts. It’s actually not too tricky to put a reef in at sea (as we discovered later in the week) but Skipper likes to err on the side of caution, bless him.

Fate seems to have it that every time we cross this bay we go all the way on starboard tack, although I’m not sure three crossings is a statistically valid sample. Anyway. Lubmin power station is visible from a far away, and as there is virtually no current we just had to point the boat at the chimneys (clearly marked on the chart) and allow a little for leeway. We made sure to steer clear of a cluster of black-flagged fishing floats, and entered the channel to the marina without difficulty.

Lubmin is the site of a communist-era nuclear power station that was never commissioned. It doesn’t look like a nuclear power station. Why does it have four tall chimneys? If I’ve understood correctly, nuclear power stations do not produce smoke unless something has gone badly wrong. Also, a deep ship channel has been dug from the sea to a harbour at the power station. Just how much uranium did they think they were going to need? Oh well, what do I know? Very recently, a yacht marina has been created with an entrance from the ship channel. Access is therefore simple and sheltered, and there is a pinewood which makes the power station completely invisible from the pontoons. From the marina, it is a 3km walk along the clean, sandy beach to the resort of Lubmin, where there are restaurants and shops.

We tied up at a berth marked with the traditional green “vacant” sign, and went in search of the harbourmaster. There are no buildings at Lubmin marina (yet), but we spotted a tubby gent working on an engine, outside an old container serving as a workshop. I asked where I could find the Harbourmaster, and he replied gruffly that I just had. He led me to his office. At this point it all got just little bit more surreal. Every marina in this area has a restaurant, which is just as well as there are usually no shops, and Lubmin is no exception. Here, the function is discharged by the Gastroschiff   “Das Vaterland”. You couldn’t make it up. Das Vaterland is a retired Hamburg harbour ferry, badly rusted and still painted in its municipal public transport colours, and moored in the corner of the marina. The Skipper, being half French, always gives a shudder at the word “gastro”, because in French it means “tummy upset”. (Hence his point-blank refusal to enter any establishment claiming to be a “gastro-pub”, which in French would mean advertisement promoting gastroenteritis). Plenty of scope here for puerile chuckles at the silliness of foreign languages.

Gastroschiff Das Vaterland. Fried fish, anyone?

Where was I? Ah, yes, the harbourmaster. His office turned out to be a notepad kept under the bar of said Gastroschiff.  He gave us a key for the loos, and I bought tokens from him for the showers. A shower token is called a duschmark. I have never yet dared to ask if this is a parody of “Deutschmark”. Is it a joke, or a very sensitive issue? Pls adv.

We followed a sandy path from the marina into the woods, to a little group of metal containers housing the facilities. These sheds were painted white, but rust-streaked and uninviting. However, this is Germany: inside, the loos and showers were perfectly functional and spotlessly clean.

A Geman couple came in to a berth near ours. They had their car at the marina, and kindly offered to get a crate of beer for us from the supermarket. (They didn’t ask if we needed any food...). We declined, perhaps foolishly, and set off for a stroll along the beach. We walked all the way to Lubmin town, although the Skipper still believes that this had not been the intention*. 

She made me walk  for over HALF AN HOUR

We found a pleasant bar for some refreshment, and headed back to make supper on board. We were amused (well, I was; Skipper was appalled) to see a German walking his dog in the shallows, totally naked (the owner, that is). Again, of course, I didn’t have my specs to hand.

Yet another of my outrageously extravagant kitchenware acquisitions came into its own this evening. I had bought a sort of rubbery-plastic designer collapsible sieve, and was delighted that it worked really well for draining the pasta. Shame we’d run out of beer…

*I’m not that bloody naïve. Skipper.

Grounded, not Aground

When everything had calmed down, we spent a reasonably comfortable night in splendid isolation at the end of the pontoon. There were a few showers, but no more heavenly tantrums. Early on Monday morning, we went in search of a weather forecast, which only confirmed the gloomy predictions we had seen the previous evening, that is to say SW 4 to 5, gusting 6, increasing to SW 6 to 7. We didn’t want to be wimps, but a number of factors stacked up against going out in these conditions. Our main problem was the little outboard. It really isn’t feasible to motor very far, especially if there is a significant swell, when it becomes hopelessly inefficient. Also it guzzles fuel, and sooner or later somebody has to lean out over the stern to fill up the petrol tank. This is a bit hairy at the best of times, but positively foolhardy in a serious swell, and totally impossible in heavy rain as there is no way to prevent water getting into the tank. I suppose I could hold the jerrycan in one hand and an umbrella in the other, like a cross between Amelia Earhart and Mary Poppins, and Skipper could hold me by the ankles and steer at the same time, but it’s not hard to see how such a plan might go awry. Even more critically, we would be following a lee shore… No, all in all there was really no choice but to stay put.

If we were going to be landlubbers for a day, we couldn’t have picked a better place (well, on Rügen, I mean). The marina facilities are excellent, and maybe I could get a ride on that steam train to see a bit more of the island?

Given time to take a closer look at our surroundings, we realized that the mooring boxes behind the landward pontoon were indeed smaller. The Skipper got chatting to yet another friendly neighbour, who thought we might get buffeted a bit where we were, and offered to help us move round to the space next to him, which we duly did. The weather didn’t seem to be quite as lively as forecast, but we had made our decision, and with Haltlos safely tied up in a very sheltered spot even the Skipper felt able to relax.

We found that the narrow gauge railway, the Rasender Roland (Racing Roland – why? sorry, don’t know!), runs from the tiny station at Lauterbach Mole to the charmingly-named little town of Putbus and then on to the main town of Bergen auf Rügen. Putbus was founded as a seaside resort for the aristocracy in the early 19th century, and is famous for the Circus, a perfectly circular arrangement of terraces, inspired by Bath’s Royal Crescent. The original buildings all remain, and although it’s a bit scruffy these days, it’s still the perfect spot for relaxing with a small beer in the sunshine. You can even admire the abundant roses for which the town is also well-known, if such is your inclination. I suppose the luxurious holiday homes were built a little inland from the harbour and beach at Lauterbach to afford some protection in case of a less than idyllic summer, always a risk at this latitude. Feeling the need to acquire a little souvenir, I bought a watercolour and a pretty hand-painted bowl. (The latter, I realized afterwards, when I put on the infamously under-employed specs, was made in Poland, but that’s OK because Poland is not very far away.)

The Buffet Car...

... with wood-burning stove

The Rasender Roland is certainly a tourist attraction, but it is primarily a cheap and reliable form of public transport. We ran to catch the train back to Lauterbach, because we knew it wouldn't be running late. Not sure I could cope with the day-to-day certainties of living in Germany.

My watercolour shows a beached fishing boat (original idea, eh?) loaded with floats. Each float has a tall “flagpole”, with either two red or two black pennants. We had seen dozens of these floats stacked next to the boatyard at Lauterbach, and had come across quite a few in the water. We had assumed them to be lobster pots, but our friendly neighbour in the marina explained that they are always found in pairs, and in fact mark the ends of a tubular eel net. The black ones are not so troublesome because they are used for nets which lie on the bottom, and so you’re not likely to snag them, but the red pennants mark nets suspended just below the surface, so you have to give them a VERY wide berth. Useful information, but whilst we had no reason to doubt him, I was a little puzzled because we hadn’t seen eels on a menu anywhere (thankfully). If they don’t eat them, what DO they do with them? (Answers on a postcard, please.)

My souvenir watercolour: Rügen fishing boats

We made the best of our confinement at Lauterbach to consider a number of possible destinations for the next day, and to make a plan for the rest of the week. The winds were expected to ease, and if the forecast westerly materialized we could have a good sail southwards across the bay. Again, our neighbour was only too pleased to give us the benefit of his local knowledge (and show off his English). He suggested Peenemünde, of V2 rocket notoriety, where there is apparently a very good museum. It was a bit too far, though, given that we had to bear in mind getting back to Altefähr in a few days. (Maybe next time.) He also recommended Lubmin, which we had previously discounted because the pilot book made it sound distinctly unattractive, but he assured us we would be comfortable there, so the choice was made.

Wet, Dry and Wet Again

We slept pretty well, considering that the cabin was, unsurprisingly, a little damp. I had brought a new sleeping bag which opens out completely, to use as a quilt, so at least we weren’t cold. Next morning, the Skipper was in macho mood. “You should try sleeping on a pile of wet sails in a Force 7 in the middle of the Channel!” Yeah, course I should. Or maybe a cardboard box in’t middle of ‘t road?

Most importantly, the sun was shining. The sea was flat, but there was a gentle breath of wind, so maybe Stefan hadn’t got it totally right. We repaired to the restaurant terrace to do the passage plan – never mind the bedclothes, just don’t let the charts get damp.

Making Plans for Haltlos

We had hoped to get as far as Lauterbach, on Rügen island, today, but hesitated because of all this talk of windlessness.

Lauterbach was, of course, the scene of our most ridiculous, in the literal sense, attempt to berth a boat. The Skipper was confident that we now had much better mastery of manoeuvring a long-keel boat, albeit a small one. I didn’t like to contradict him – after all, I certainly couldn’t do any better - but I didn’t honestly remember having acquired any real proficiency in this area.

Our Plan B was a bit vague, but it was light until almost 9 at night, so we didn’t really envisage having to put in an extra overnight stop. In the event, the wind picked up to a steady Force 4 all afternoon, and it even had the good grace to back sufficiently to enable us to cross the bay on one tack. There was a bit of a chop once we cleared the shelter of the Strelasund channel, but only enough to make helming more interesting. This is the sort of sailing the Skipper loves. Not very strenuous.

The Greifswalderbodden is dotted with clear water marks, strategically positioned so you can navigate from any one port to another in simple stages. On a good day, you can see the next buoy from each one you pass. In a manner reminiscent of the episode with Basse Nouvelle in Brittany, the Skipper made sure to pass close enough to read the name on the buoy, just to make sure. He insists this is in no way a comment on his confidence in my navigation, or indeed helming.

Talking of which, though, we did have a bit of a hairy moment, which was entirely my fault. The Skipper asked me to look at the charts to see how close we could pass to the mainland at the end of the channel, to avoid tacking. We were well outside the dredged channel, but our planned course appeared to take us across an area of flat bottom with about 10m of water. Virtually no tides in the Baltic, of course, so it looked fine to me. I went back up, and took the helm. We were idly discussing how soon it might be a good idea to tack, when the depth sounder suddenly showed 2m and started flashing at us. The Skipper went over to peer at it and press buttons. “Never mind that,” I cried, “TACKING NOW!” Curiously, there was nobody in our way, and soon we were scooting along in deep water again. A closer inspection of the chart revealed a small shallow I had failed to spot, for the simple reason that I had been too lazy to put my specs on. I didn’t get a telling-off – it was more one of those schoolmistressy “I’ll leave you to reflect upon the error of your ways” jobs. In my defence, at least I got us out of the fine mess I’d got us into.

We arrived at Lauterbach late in the afternoon, still in warm sunshine. There was plenty of space in the marina, but we hoped to find a smaller box to avoid a repeat of last year’s performance. On our way to investigate the land side of the last pontoon, we spotted an unoccupied hammer head with a green “vacant” sign. This seemed the easiest option, so we tied up there, wondering nevertheless if we were going to be told to move to leave space for a bigger boat. The spot was rather exposed towards the marina entrance, and the only things to tie up to were the pontoon piles, but we got it sorted with a lot of rope and carefully-placed fenders.

The best thing about Lauterbach, we remembered , was the restaurant attached to the chandler’s, which I think belongs to the boat builder Vilm Yachts. (Vilm is a smaller island off Rügen.) Sure enough, we had an excellent supper there, although it was a bit uncomfortably breezy on the terrace. As we were finishing our meal, the wind died completely, and an eerie calm descended. We strolled back to the marina, taking the shortcut through the little railway station. I was distracted by the sight of a beautiful old steam locomotive chuffing away at the platform, when the Skipper pointed out a rather nasty-looking squall coming our way from out in the bay. We hurried on, and as we came down onto the pontoon the first large raindrops began to fall. We were, of course, moored right at the other end of this very long pontoon. There were plenty of people about, taking a little post-prandial constitutional, or just chatting in groups. I started to run, and couldn’t understand why nobody else seemed to see the urgency.

"That," observed Owl, "is not a Good Cloud."

Just as I got to Haltlos, the storm broke and it was like being underwater. There was lots of Donner und Blitzen, and the wind literally screamed through the rigging of the two hundred or so yachts. The Skipper donned his foulies and went on deck. The tempest seemed to bring out his sense of Drama, and he fretted and tinkered with the mooring lines. Suddenly, he let out an anguished cry. I hurtled out to help, but fortunately the problem wasn’t ours. On the next pontoon, the wind had got underneath the corner of a rolled-up jenny, the furling line had either snapped or come uncleated, and the sail was being shredded into tiny ribbons. The noise was appalling. Suddenly, it was all over, and there remained just a few innocuous little clouds racing after the squall like ducklings trying to keep up. Thankfully, we had not put our cockpit tent up before going out to eat, or else we might well have lost it. The flip side of that being, of course, that our stuff was not getting any drier!

Hamburg to Haltlos

After a week of luxury aboard Nara, quite a different week of sailing was in prospect. One lesson applicable regardless of the size of the boat, though, was that we would get much more sailing done if we could manage to be a little better-rested at the start. Skipper accordingly wangled a couple of days’ holiday, and politely suggested that the Mate might like to make herself scarce so some serious kipping could be got on with. Obedient as ever, I left him in peace for a day (my exile was curtailed mid-afternoon so I could rustle up a spot of supper, naturally).

Having resolved to make better use of the week than we did last year on Rügen, we wanted to arrive as early in the day as possible and get through the “starting gate”, the Strelasund swing bridge, which is only open for 20 minutes, three times a day. We therefore decided to spend the Skipper’s second rest day on the road, with the relatively modest target of Hamburg. This would leave a 2 or 3 hour drive to Altefähr the next morning. Philipp the Folkboat Man was extremely cooperative, and proposed to do the handover at 10.30 – presumably because the Haltlos wasn’t going out the preceeding week.

We assembled our mountain of stuff and loaded the car slowly and carefully. The Mate has a history of being over-impatient to get on the road. The Skipper starts to feel harassed, and the inevitable consequence is that something important is left behind. (Last year it was the buckets. I think I may have learned my lesson.) Philipp also volunteered the information that the stretch of Autobahn between Bremen and Hamburg which had so tormented us last year was still dug up (I’m sure it will be lovely when it’s finished) so we took a slightly circuitous route and arrived late afternoon.

I didn’t remember Hamburg being a particularly attractive town, but we found a wonderful, and wholly unexpected, holiday atmosphere around the Inner Alster Lake in the city centre, just a couple of minutes’ walk from our hotel. The waterfront was lined with bars and brasseries, and most surprisingly of all, beer was being given a good run for its money by prosecco in the popularity stakes. It was not necessary to ask the Mate twice. The Hamburgers were out in force to bask in the warm evening sunshine. It was fun, and we felt that the holiday was well and truly underway.

Very early the next morning, we drove out of a Hamburg shrouded in cool mist. There were just a few people out and about in search of bread or news (or possibly beer. It would seem there is no such thing as a yardarm in Germany), and it promised to be a lovely day. So much for promises. As we drove east along the Baltic coast, the skies darkened and it began to rain. The further we went, the heavier it got. We stopped for provisions in the little Hanseatic port of Stralsund, just across the sound from Altefähr. At this point, the rain seemed to have eased and we had hopes for a decent day – it was still only 10am, after all.

Stralsund, seen from Altefähr

The optimism was short-lived. By the time we had crossed Angie’s Bridge (ceremonially opened by the Chancellor a few years ago) to Rügen the rain had become a deluge. We parked by the little harbour, grabbed a first instalment of kit, and went in search of Haltlos. Despite the weather, it felt really good to be back.

Altefähr is a tranquil and unassuming village, largely turned over to retirement cottages and holiday homes for Berliners. There’s a sprinkling of restaurants and cafés, a little fleet of fishing boats best described as motorised punts, and a sort of youth hostel and sailing school for teenagers. A tourist boat, looking as if it belongs on a lake rather than at sea, does tours of the sound and doubles as a ferry. Several times a day it docks at Altefähr and the little boats have to squeeze round it to get in to the harbour.

Haltlos was bobbing in her little Nordic mooring box, bringing a frisson of trepidation to the Mate, as memories of our exploits with this cruel and unusual berthing arrangement came flooding back. Philipp the Folkboat Man was already there, busy preparing the boat next door. We carted our stuff to the boat, by which time we were completely sodden. The Mate’s new pale grey chinos had become completely transparent. (Everyone pretended not to notice. Must be getting old.) Poor Phillip had left his foulie jacket behind, and his T-shirt was now so wet there was no point in putting on more clothes. He shivered uncontrollably as we went through the inventory. It was only July, after all. Haltlos is in a class above Das Drama in terms of comfort: there is a heater! Philipp had already put it on, in a futile attempt to dry out the cabin, but everything we brought in just made it wetter. I changed into shorts. The Skipper does not share my view that getting legs and arms wet is infinitely preferable to getting clothes wet. All you need is a towel and the problem is solved. This is undoubtedly a reflection of the Mate’s exclusively warm weather sailing experience – a couple of night-time Channel crossings and foulies would surely go up in my estimation.

Worst of all, Philipp’s sacrifice was in vain: it became clear there was no way we were going to get through the bridge at 12.30. As I said before, the Skipper hates to be rushed, and I’ve learned it’s wiser not to argue. (In this particular respect, you understand, not as a general principle.)

We set off through the monsoon in search of lunch. We found ourselves the only customers in a cavernous restaurant overlooking the sound. The waitress took the trouble to explain to us that today was the highlight of the Altefähr summer, the Sundschwimmen race. Every year at the beginning of July about 2000 people aged from 14 to 80+ swim the 2.3km from Altefähr to Stralsund, the fastest completing the crossing in a little over 20 minutes. We watched from the terrace as the swimmers waded out from the little beach, some jostling for position while others seemed content to wait until the rush was over. It seemed like a reasonably sensible way to spend such a miserable afternoon.

On our return to the harbour, we bumped into Stefan the Hafenmeister, still wearing the most unbelievably dazzling white baseball cap, emblazoned with his title and the town logo. I wondered yet again whether he has a job lot of these hats, or is he just an überlaundrymeister? He remembered us from last year, which was pleasing. We asked if he’d seen a weather forecast. “Tomorrow the sun will shine,” he asserted confidently, “but there will be no wind.”

Haltlos could mean different things. You could translate it as “without constraint”, which isn’t far removed in English from “adrift”, so we won’t go with that translation. It could also mean “reckless”. If she is that, she’s going to have to mend her ways with THIS Skipper. Either way, her teak decks and freshly-varnished wooden cockpit lockers and mast made her look rather smarter than dear old Das Drama.

The Folkboat next door had been chartered by a young couple with a very small baby. We watched discreetly as they stowed crate after crate of stuff through the forepeak hatch, and speculated as to whether they were brave or just plain crazy to take an infant out for a week on a very small boat. What I know about babies could be written on the back of a postage stamp using a 2” paintbrush, but I couldn’t help feeling the lack of hot water could be a bit of a drawback.

In the relative sanity of Haltlos, we got everything organized and looked at the clock. Two hours to wait until that confounded bridge was due to open, only 20 minutes motoring away. Tum-tee-tum. I hate waiting around, and my mind started rehearsing the trickiness of the passage through the Bridge, as well as those dratted mooring posts. The Skipper, a sensitive soul, grasped that I was getting edgy, so we decided to set sail and have a little pootle about the sound.

Our departure from the accursed box was, if I say so myself, pretty professional. I let out the bow lines while the Skipper hauled us back with the stern lines. When we were clear of the posts, we chugged out steadily with the little outboard, feeling ominously smug.

Right then, sails up, lets dispel the Mate’s apprehension and get the week on the road! Er, just one little thing: the luff of the sail is supposed to go up that little groove in the mast, if you remember? Oops. “It’s a mainsail, not a bloody spinnaker,” grumbled the Skipper. Of course, having started I had to keep going, because a Folkboat doesn’t have anything as bourgeois as lazyjacks, so my ineptitude was clearly displayed to the whole of Altefähr. Thanks to the Skipper’s proficiency at keeping the boat into wind (for once) I managed to get the sail down without giving it a jolly good wash, and the second attempt was rather closer to the textbook description. I’m not sure sailing a nearly-new, hugely expensive, 34-foot cruiser was the best preparation for the Folkboat. What else was I erroneously going to take for granted? Stay tuned.

The Bridge.

The bridge opened several minutes late. Angie would have been aghast. I think they were waiting for a train to cross, but surely that couldn’t have been delayed? Motoring through was, of course, no problem. You tend to forget that most sailors understand that a little sailing boat with an outboard has severely limited acceleration, and so they are very considerate. Local sailors are also almost exclusively German, and therefore even better than the British at forming an orderly queue.

The rain had stopped, and we sailed in light winds to Neuhof, a pretty little marina with (bliss) finger pontoons, fondly remembered from last year. There was plenty of space. The Baltic resorts are largely dependent on visitors from the Berlin and Hamburg areas, who do not make their plans far in advance, but rather turn up for the weekend when the weather forecast is good. It wasn’t, so they had stayed at home. Our plan for the week was to sail around the Greifswalderbodden bay, between the mainland and Rügen, so we hoped for enough breeze to get to the end of the Strelasund channel next day.