I find
myself under some pressure to crack on with this blog. The Skipper is not at
all comfortable with my guardianship of The Log, my indispensable work of
reference. I find the implication that I am not far enough up the evolutionary
scale to be trusted with anything so fragile as a book rather hurtful. I mean,
I even have opposable thumbs! I suppose I must acknowledge, though, that his
concern is not entirely without justification…
A little
while ago, I was sitting on the terrace working on an earlier episode, with the
log next to the computer, on the garden table. Skipper wandered out from the
kitchen (he regularly checks in there to see if any food is being prepared and
might be in need of quality control), picked up said logbook and observed that
it was not totally, how shall I put it, flat. I was treated to a severe Look.
“It’s in the shade,” I protested, “Perhaps it’s been somewhere humid?” Another
Look. Then the moment I had been dreading: he flicked through the pages,
stopping at an entry from Brittany earlier this year. I confessed. “I spilt
some water. Really, it was only water.”
“It’s
WAVY!” The voice of indignant outrage. I failed
to keep a straight face. I mean,
I said I was sorry, and I really am, but is it so unacceptable that a sailing
logbook should get a little damp occasionally?
Anyway,
back on the Folkboat. One of the ports earmarked by the Skipper for a visit
this year was Wieck – reputed to be the Cowes of the Baltic. The main yacht
marina is a couple of miles upriver from the coast, beyond a swing bridge. We
thought that sounded a bit of a drag, but the chart also showed a number of
sailing clubs with those lovely mooring boxes along both sides of the river
below the bridge, so we set off from Lubmin with the idea of finding a berth on
the river, and only going all the way up to the marina if necessary.
It was a
beautiful morning, and I considered walking along to the beach for an
early-morning swim, but I’m afraid to say indolence prevailed. We sailed out of
the Lubmin channel, and decided to do a long-ish dogleg as we didn’t think it
would take us all day to get to Wieck, and our remaining sailing time for the
year was vanishing rapidly. In hindsight, I realize we must have become much
more confident about manoeuvring the Folkboat in port and negotiating the
mooring boxes, because we had stopped worrying about getting in as early as
possible to get the ghastly berthing business over with!
We
sailed out to the Ariadne buoy in a SW force 3-4, with a calm sea and warm
sunshine. We then turned towards Wieck, which lies close to the end of the
Strelasund channel between Rügen and the mainland. We had a very satisfying
upwind sail towards the marked channel leading to Wieck. The Skipper was smug
about staying ahead of a couple of bigger boats going the same way, as we again
marveled at Haltlos’ enthusiasm for sailing upwind. From the Mate’s point of
view, short tacking the Folkboat is delightfully simple and not at all
strenuous. (There are a couple of little winches, but I’ve only ever used them
for tying on fenders.)
When we
reached the river mouth, the scene before us bore so little resemblance to the
picture in the pilot book that we seriously wondered if we were in the right
place, despite having followed a series of buoys numbered exactly as expected.
Where there should have been a few trees and a little ferry landing stage, we
found a huge construction site, and the river entrance reduced to a passage not
much wider than a lock. A one-way system was in operation, and the light was
red. We chugged as slowly as possible, but the light stubbornly refused to change
to green. There were a couple of fuel-dock-style pontoons attached to the
riverbank, and some of our travelling companions tied up to wait. We were about
to do the same when, finally, the light changed and skipper gave our poor
little outboard some welly to get through quickly and avoid getting squashed. When
we’re motoring, the Skipper has to sit on the aft deck to reach the throttle. From
this position he is not far above the water, and so can see very little ahead.
In marinas or busy channels, the Mate is therefore instructed to stand on the
foredeck and shout instructions. I always have the feeling that other boats’ crews
are saying to each other, “Look at that poor bloke getting a steady stream of orders
from his Frau!” but really, if I don’t rattle on like a particularly bossy
satnav I get, “Talk to me, talk to me!”
We
pootled on up the river, and soon found an empty berth belonging to one of the
yacht clubs, clearly labelled as free until several days later. We wriggled
more-or-less neatly into the space, watched from the quayside by a couple of
firemen (presumably off-duty) sipping beer from bottles and clearly not
inclined to offer any assistance. I jumped aboard a rather smart little racing
yacht next door to get our lines sorted, and our firemen looked slightly
surprised, but (wisely) decided it was not their affair.
We
quickly realized that the following weekend was Wieck’s annual regatta – in fact
we were lucky to arrive on the Wednesday, as the place was quickly filling up.
Presumably the owners of our berth were not into racing and accordion music,
and had gone in search of somewhere more tranquil for the duration. Along both
sides of the river, marquees and stalls were being assembled and equipped for
large scale beer-and-herring consumption. We began to wonder just how peaceful
our night was going to be. The facilities clearly shown in the pilot book
proved to be no more than imaginary. Despite some time spent wandering around
we found no club house or any way to pay for our mooring. The crew of the
racing boat appeared, off out to practice for the weekend, and told us someone
would come by to collect money the next morning. I pretty much stopped worrying
about this as there were no facilities whatsoever so what exactly would we be
paying for? No water, no power, no loos. No joke, that last point, when all you
have is a bucket and you’re moored on a town quay busy with passers-by…
 |
| Wieck: the swing bridge |
On the
bright side, Wieck proved pretty enough, with little houses and flowery gardens
along quiet lanes. The swing bridge opens for 10 minutes every hour, and a
steady stream of boats was passing in both directions. We asked directions and
set off for the supermarket. It proved to be about a mile away – much too far
for the Skipper’s sense of humour. It was quite hot, it’s true, and the
prospect of walking back laden with water, beer etc brought on one of his
grumpy fits. Well, it had to be done. The provisions were stored and we set of
in search of supper. We had a drink on the terrace of a smart bar overlooking
the bridge, and crossed the river to a rather old-fashioned restaurant with a
slightly more varied menu than usual. We
were getting really sick of fish and chips. The option of bits of bacon mixed
in with your fried potatoes did little to relieve the monotony.
