Thursday
morning at Wieck. We went in search of breakfast (and other useful things,
having failed to find any facilities for visitors). Yesterday evening I had
spotted a pretty-looking café which claimed to be Austrian, just across the
swing bridge from our berth. Happily, they were open for breakfast. The
building was the former primary school: there were class photos on the walls, and
pots of crayons and assorted toys on shelves around the room. Very jolly, if you weren’t too traumatized by
your own nursery school experiences.
You may
have gathered by now that we care deeply about our morning coffee. Judging by the
furniture and general appearance of this kitchen-style cafe, and the accent of the
lady proprietor, I was optimistic that the place really was run by Austrians,
for this would imply a vastly more palatable offering for the caffeine-needy. Why
should Austrian coffee be so much better than German? It is not, as you might
guess, because Austria is nearer to Italy (although that may well account for
the superiority of the cuisine in general over that of their larger Teutonic
neighbour). Italians may be incredibly fussy about their coffee, but the brutal
truth is that much of what they serve is gritty, tepid and fit only for purging
drains. No, the reason lies in the proximity of Vienna to the Ottoman Empire.
The Austrian capital was never conquered by the Sultans, but it wasn’t for want
of trying. Many centuries of, often uncomfortable, neighbourliness inevitably
resulted in some cultural blurring. The Austrians got proper coffee and sweet
pastries, and the Turks got spaetzle. 30-love.
We had an
excellent breakfast. The coffee really was wonderful, and we pigged out a bit
on the pastries. Back at Haltlos, we readied the boat for our return to the
Strelasund, aiming to get at least as far as Stahlbrode. (Gastronomically a bit
of a come-down: smoked herring or barbecued bratwurst was the choice last year,
if I remember correctly.) We hadn’t managed to find much weather info, but the
Navtex had no severe weather warnings to impart, and we were in very sheltered
waters, so we didn’t worry too much.
I was a bit
concerned, though, about the one-way system through the building site at the
mouth of the river. Holding station in the middle of a waterway is all very
well heading upstream, but threatened to be more challenging when being carried
down by the current. We also had a
debate about the order in which to release our mooring lines as the wind and
current were in opposite directions. We decided to leave the upwind stern line
until last, and made a smooth and competent-looking exit. This wind/current combination
seemed to help, in fact, bringing our bow neatly into line downstream as we
reversed out. I was posted to my usual spot at the mast, and indeed spotted a
cluster of buoys which we could have used if we’d had to wait. In the event,
the light turned green at the perfect moment and we puttered out.
Once clear of
the river entrance, we got the main sail up and I set about raising the jib.
This must be done from the foredeck, with a slightly complicated system that
involves hooking the halyard to another line which can be pulled tight from the
cockpit. Suddenly, there was quite a bit of traffic. “Do you mind if we start
sailing while you do that?” asked the Skipper, “We’re a bit in the way here.”
Before I had chance to reply, I was given a textbook demonstration of something
the Nordic Folkboat is apparently famous for. This creature knows exactly how
far she would like to heel in any given situation, and sees no reason to waste
any time getting there. It’s like flicking a switch. There you are, flat deck, alles in ordnung, and half a second
later…
It is
fortunate that I had a firm grip of the jib halyard at that moment. As soon as
the Skipper steered away from the wind, I found myself prostrate across the
deck, hind paws scrabbling for purchase – no rails, remember- and a face-full
of inflated jib. I got an arm round the mast, and felt sufficiently confident
of my situation to remonstrate with the Skipper. “You said jib out on the
starboard side!” I wailed. “Ah,” came the reply, “sorry, I meant starboard tack”.
My reply was muffled by the sail, (which was still vindictively trying to push
me overboard) and it’s probably just as well from the point of view of
matrimonial harmony. I enquired politely of the Skipper if we mightn’t be a tad
over-canvassed, and this was indeed his view. I asked for a short time-out to fetch
and attach my safety line. The Skipper’s log records that this
near-serious-problem arose from the awkwardness of steering with the outboard.
I include the previous sentence for balance and completeness.
Putting a
reef in at sea proved straightforward. The big advantage with a Folkboat is
that everything is of manageable dimensions and doesn’t require great strength.
You may be wondering why I am always the lucky soul who gets to do all this
exciting mast and foredeck stuff, but actually it’s no problem when the boom is only at
about chest height, and also I’m a bit more nimble-footed than the Skipper. (I'm not good at sitting still, and when I'm supposed to be relaxing in the cockpit and enjoying the view I'm usually casting about for something useful to do.) Additionally,
to be fair, it’s useful to have the Skipper at the helm where he can keep a lookout and
think about what we need to do next.
Having re-established
a reasonably seamanlike demeanour, we sailed out down the channel. We passed an
impressive fleet of German and Scandinavian boats heading for Wieck for the
regatta weekend. We were particularly impressed by the Danish boats, of which
there were dozens, because of their ensigns. None of the faded and frayed
jobbies so beloved of the English yachtsman – no, these were real symbols of
national pride: clean, new and ENORMOUS!
 |
| Not enormous, but proudly flown nonetheless
Having got
the appropriate sail arrangement, we had a fantastic day’s sail. It was largely
upwind, which we both enjoy, and so, clearly, does Haltlos. There were a couple
of little squalls, but not too much rain. There was a bit of a Bucket Incident,
but I’ll spare you the details of that. We had made very good time, so decided
to continue past Stahlbrode to Neuhof. This would make it easy to pass through
the bridge at Stralsund at lunchtime the next day. We had that rare treat, for
us, of coming into a familiar port, and the slot we had used earlier in the
week was free so we cheered ourselves up with a smooth and trouble-free
berthing. Sometimes we almost feel we’re getting the hang of this yachting
lark.
A short while later, the torrential rain we had so cleverly dodged all day finally caught up with us. We had just about got the cockpit tent in place, and we cowered inside watching the raindrops bounce off the water, unable to converse above the deafening battering on the roof. It didn't whip up much of a sea, but it happened very fast and there must have been some nasty gusts. Sadly we have only one more day of sailing. Looking on the bright side, this is our last night of fish and chips - tomorrow the exotic delights of the Athos. Really looking forward to kleftiko and rice! |
 |
| Spot of weather at Neuhof |
