Angle of Vanishing Mate

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