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.