Text by Joscha Seehausen
"Look at the land, it helps!" is one of the first sentences I remember. I was sitting on a 470 with my father, and the grey waves off the coast of Brittany gave us a good shake. I was four or five years old and regretted my decision to climb onto the boat despite being warned. My little stomach was overwhelmed by the ups and downs of the ageing Olympic dinghy.
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Next to us, a handful of other dinghies battled their way through the waves. In them were young music students from the Rhineland. All wrapped up in yellow rain jackets and orange life jackets, the fear of the inexhaustible enthusiasm of the group leaders was pale green in their faces. One of them was my father, a music school teacher by profession and responsible for looking after the youngsters. Music was played in the mornings, and in the afternoons the orchestra, big band and co. took to the water. Whatever the weather! In the evenings, we warmed up again with beer and lemonade by the big open fire, practised knots and nibbled on crisps.
The venue was the "Centre Franco Allemand", a facility similar to a youth hostel, with its own dinghies and canoes. The Rhine-Erft district had built this centre in the south of Brittany to enable school classes, clubs and even music schools to have a lively exchange between German and French culture. We brought Beethoven and Bach with us, the French gave us their love of the sea.
The cosy boats smelled of adventure
I spent the Easter and autumn holidays this way for many years. Until one day a light blue Lis dinghy turned up on our doorstep. My great-uncle Klaus finally wanted to get rid of the very old GRP boat - and made my father very happy.
My parents' house is in Leverkusen, not far from the banks of the Rhine, so in the years that followed we learnt the pitfalls of the Rhine current, commercial shipping and unreliable outboards on the Lis. My brother and I were able to go home for lunch without further ado. The other children, on the other hand, who frolicked in the harbour, disappeared at lunchtime on board their parents' skerry cruisers and modern GRP yachts. Sometimes they took us with them.
I was fascinated by the cave-like cabins. There we had hot dogs from the spirit cooker. At home we had roast vegetables and salad. The cosy boats smelled of adventure, the children's room of homework. You could climb into the bow of our dinghy, but you were punished with bad air and itchy skin caused by the mouldy foam floats. Cosiness? Not a chance. I wished I had my own little yacht where I could read comics, listen to cassettes and eat hot dogs.
"We brought Bach and Beethoven to Brittany, and the French gave us a love of the sea."
About the author
The 34-year-old Joscha Seehausen from Cologne is a film and TV director and writer, including for the ZDF satire programme "Heute Show". With his Varianta 65, which he refitted himself, he explores inland waterways at home and abroad. Alongside his partner, his parents and daughter also join him from time to time. He regularly reports on his sailing trips on his YouTube channel.
Rediscovering the passion for sailing
My childhood, and with it the joy of sailing, came to an abrupt end when the album "Nevermind" by grunge band "Nirvana" made its way into my childhood bedroom. From then on, everything ordinary was rejected; instead of a sheet and wooden paddle, I now held an electric bass and a broken Mercedes star in my hands. I no longer spent my weekends on the water, but in my school friend Simon's cellar. He had taken over an old drum kit from his father and we decided to be a rock band from then on.
20 years later I receive a message from the same Simon: "Sailing licence for only 400 euros including everything. One week in Holland. Fancy it?" I reply with "Yes, Bock!" On a West Frisian pond, we learn how to handle the polyvalcs typical of the area, argue about whether I know more about sailing than the sailing instructor, sample various types of whiskey and both pass the exams for the SBF Binnen and See licences after a fun-filled week.
Just a short time later, an old desire germinates in me: I want to sail whenever it suits me, I want to eat hot dogs in a cosy cabin, I want a floating holiday home for the best days of the summer. In short: I want my own yacht!
From now on, I spend my evenings on the internet on second-hand boat portals. It quickly becomes clear: either I invest a lot of money in a reasonably nice boat or I buy a wreck and throw myself into a gigantic refit project. I don't have the reserves for the former, and I don't have the time or expertise for the latter. I bravely opt for the second option.
Varianta 65 is chosen
After a few disappointments, I stumble across a YACHT video on YouTube: "Favourable used models - a comparison of six small cruisers." One boat is mentioned in particular: the Varianta 65 from Dehler. It is the cheapest in this test, is praised by the editors for its good sailing characteristics and is also a very light construction. Trailerable with a mid-range car. For me as a resident of Cologne, far away from any coast and beautiful lakes, this is a relevant aspect. Also because I only drive a Mini, towing capacity feels like 300 grams.
I am instantly enamoured of the old Van de Stadt design and set off in search of it. Within a very short space of time, I visit various Varianta sellers in the Eifel, the Ruhr and the Rhineland. I learnt a lot about the boat, its design advantages and disadvantages, possible modifications and typical weak points.
In the end, I find exactly where the Varianta used to be built: in Sauerland. Not far from the former Dehler shipyard, I discover a white 65 from 1973 on Lake Möhne. The trailer appears to be in good condition, as do the sails, and there are plenty of accessories, even an electric motor with battery. But there is water in the boat. The keel doesn't make the best impression either. Littered with rusty pocks, it looks worse maintained than the underwater hulls of the other Variantas. At the bow, a large blemish in the gelcoat is evidence of a brutal blind date between the hull and the bridge. Has the boat been well looked after? Am I buying a pile of work? I am unsure.
With refit to your own yacht
The owner wants 4,000 euros for the small cruiser. In the end, we agree on 2,200 euros. Partly because I was encouraged to do so by an expert. The boat happens to be parked in front of the Henze shipyard on Lake Möhnesee. I pick up the phone and ask Sven Henze for an assessment of the white Varianta in his car park. And also for a cost estimate for refurbishing the underwater hull and repairing the damage to the bow. After taking a look at the hull, the shipyard manager throws 1,000 euros into the room. He adds: "You can't go wrong. If something goes wrong, you can repair everything yourself."
That's reassuring. The only drawback is that I won't be taking my Varianta out on the water again this year. It's already October 2023 and the season is as good as over. The boat remains in the Henze shipyard for an overhaul. But two weeks later I get the call: "Boat is ready, you can pick it up!"
In the meantime, I have organised a winter parking space. I am now a member of the Unterbacher See sailing club in Düsseldorf and can therefore park my boat on the club's lawn. After a few trips to the local DIY store, I'm ready for the refit. The first thing I tackle is the strake. It had spent months in a pool of water in the uncovered cockpit and was now threatening to break. I briefly consider throwing this rotten pile of tropical wood on the scrap heap, but after a quick Google search and a shock at the cost of a new one, I decide to give the rust a rescue attempt. I use a Dremel to remove all the rotten elements, glue the healthy parts back together and fill in any missing areas with epoxy resin. A few Spax screws fix the outer frame in place.
Finally, I apply six coats of varnish. The result is impressive thanks to meticulous intermediate sanding with fine grit. Apart from the odd touch of varnish, there is nothing to complain about. An initial sense of achievement that makes me want more.
Create storage space
Secondly, I turn my attention to the engine mount on the transom. Here, too, the wood is mostly rotten. By tapering the block a little on all sides with a circular saw, I can save the healthy wood. Once again, I fill the holes with epoxy resin and apply several thin coats of paint within a week. I easily get rid of the rust on the metal elements of the engine mount with 400 grit sandpaper and polish. So far, so good. Now it's time for more complex work.
On some Variantas I had seen large wooden boxes under the cockpit floor. This provides optimum access to the otherwise barely usable storage space. However, such a wooden box is at least 120 centimetres long and requires a rail system so that it can be pulled out from under the cockpit like a drawer. I come up with a simple construction using inexpensive transport rollers and have the individual parts for building the wooden box sawn at the DIY store. The quick screwing together is once again followed by painstaking painting work.
When I try to install the box in the boat, I am bitterly disappointed. It doesn't fit. When taking the measurements, I overlooked the fact that the boat tapers towards the stern and the storage space under the cockpit becomes shallower towards the stern. However, it is not possible to measure this area, as the relevant areas deep in the hull are inaccessible to the hands and arms of an adult.
So I reduce the size of the wooden box by eye. In the end, my clear varnished DIY pride and joy becomes a slanted wooden Frankenstein. But: the box fits into the boat after the emergency operation. And tools, sailing clothes, pots, pans and a bottle of fruit schnapps can move in straight away.
How does it work with the gelcoat?
Now it's time for the upholstery covers. Originally, the Variantas from Dehler were supplied with imitation leather covers. Definitely not a pleasant feeling on the skin in summer. Fortunately, the previous owner had the upholstery reupholstered with a cotton fabric. However, the choice of colours - a combination of purple and green - is not quite to my taste. I buy fabric dye for the washing machine at the drugstore. The classic colour: navy blue. The dark colour should be able to cover even the purple. And indeed, the second wash with colour powder produces very attractive covers. Cost: 20 euros.
Then it's time to get to grips with the gelcoat. In one place, a button on the tarpaulin has been up to mischief and created a round hole, in other places I find scratches and cracks. I find out about the correct procedure on YACHT-TV and am amazed at the skills of refit expert "Dr Boat". But: I don't have the confidence to mix gelcoat and let it harden in the absence of air. An easy-to-use gelcoat repair filler seems more practical to me.
Customer reviews confirm the ease of application, but some buyers complain about the not quite white colour. As my old hull is more beige than white, I go for it. A few days later, my expectations are confirmed: the application is foolproof and goes quickly. The colour fits reasonably well, and after a quick polish, the result is quite satisfactory.
Steep learning curve for woodworking
Time to take care of the wood. The handrails on deck are loose, the screws no longer seem to grip. I take them off and fill the holes in the GRP with epoxy resin. At home, I sand down the handrails and paint them with high-quality two-component paint. After a few days, I reattach the handrails to the deck. And lo and behold: the screws hold perfectly again in the hardened epoxy resin.
"The self-built wooden box, meticulously covered with many layers of varnish, looks impeccable. Unfortunately, it doesn't fit in its intended place."
I proceed in a similar way with the two-part companionway bulkhead. I sand off the old, brittle varnish and apply several coats of new varnish to the wooden planks. In contrast to the initial attempts at painting with cheap DIY store boat paint, the result is immediately convincing.
The interior is also getting a makeover
Finally, it's the turn of the interior. Over the last five decades, every previous owner seems to have installed and removed their own fittings. There are holes in the wood and GRP in many places. I set to work with a wax set for repairing scratches in parquet floors. With blocks of wax in various colours - especially in different shades of brown, grey and beige - and a small heating rod, you can mix the required colour perfectly.
This is followed by the interior lighting, which has given up the ghost. After a look behind the fuse panel, I decide not to rewire the whole thing. Instead, I buy four rechargeable LED lights. They can be dimmed, are detachable thanks to a magnet and, with their wooden look, certainly make a ship-like impression.
The weeks go by. Time to give the boat a name. Should it be funny? Or should it be more profound? My godmother comes to mind. As bedtime stories, she had told my brother and me about her great adventure trips: week-long canoe journeys through Canada and Alaska. Of campfires in forests far away from civilisation, including scary encounters with grizzly bears and weird hermits. For me, no one symbolises the spirit of adventure and the joy of discovery more than Aunt Ella. A perfect name for my boat.
A boozy idea for the maiden voyage
Simon gets in touch again: "Fancy a beer?" - "Sure!" We meet in a brewery in Cologne. Two old friends with us. Simon is about to become a father for the first time. We toast to that. However, he would really like to go all out again. Preferably in Hamburg. Just like before! The suggestion meets with broad approval. I'm also about to become a father for the first time. A few months after Simon. I come up with an idea that I immediately regret: "We can take my boat to Hamburg. There are four berths and there's no better place to admire the city than from the Elbe."
The uncountable beers trigger a storm of enthusiasm and the deal is struck: take the boat on the trailer to Hamburg, sail a bit, party properly again and return. But is that even realistic? The boat isn't even ready yet. Anyway, the diaries are pulled out and we agree on a date in March. "We can all do that. Great," exclaims Simon. "And that's in six weeks' time - cheers!"
I only realise the consequences the next morning. I need a licence plate for the Elbe, which means I need an international boat licence. Worse still, I've never sailed my Varianta before! I don't know whether the old six-hp outboard will be enough to push us against the current. And I've never even set the mast, I don't know the condition of the rig and I don't even know how to set the sails on the Varianta, let alone trim them.
I call in my father. He's happy to help. Together with him, my pub crew and I rehearse on dry land how to set and lay the mast. We even set the sails as a test and try to work out the functions of the individual fittings, clamps and blocks. After three hours, we feel like we've got it all figured out.
Final work on the Varianta
During the remaining days until departure, I do some final work on the boat. I tear out the splintering wooden veneer floor in the cabin. It is replaced by a teak imitation made of EVA foam. It looks good, but as soon as I stick the soft material on, I realise that the sponge-like surface magically attracts dirt. Nevertheless, I decide to cover the lids of the two baking boxes with EVA foam as well. My floating yoghurt pot immediately looks more airy. Time will tell how the material performs in wet conditions or under intense UV radiation. In the worst case scenario, I'll cover the small areas again every year. Cost point for half a square metre: a reasonable 35 euros.
In the niche that is actually intended for the chemical toilet, I install a powerful power bank with an inverter for 230 volts. I connect a coffee machine to it. If you work hard, you need caffeine. There is space on deck for two flexible solar panels, each with an output of 100 watts. I pull the cabling into the interior through the anchor peg. This eliminates the need to drill a hole through the deck. Finally, I attach two self-made shelves in the interior for nautical charts, binoculars etc. Then I take a look at my to-do list and realise: everything is done!
I am very pleased with my work. The old boat has become a really cosy boat. A few days later, the boat licence from the ADAC arrives in the post, and with it the licence plate required for the Elbe. I stick the letters on the bow and come up with what later turns out to be a pretty stupid idea: I drill a hole in the cockpit floor with a hole saw. I put a stainless steel filler neck into it. This way you can set up a table in the cockpit and simply insert the table leg into the filler neck. If you don't need the table, you can close the filler neck with the lid. This prevents water from entering the boat. I seal the hole in the floor with Sikaflex and butyl tape. The bracket wobbles a little. But it will be fine, I think to myself. The Sikaflex will fix everything in place at the latest.
Childhood dreams come true
On the morning of 16 March 2024, we set off for Hamburg with the boat on the trailer. After a five-hour drive, the Hanseatic city welcomes us with spring-like temperatures and bright sunshine. Ideal conditions for a maiden voyage. In Finkenwerder in the Rüschkanal, west of the city centre, we launch the 21-foot boat via a slip ramp. Shortly afterwards, we head out onto the Elbe.
Side by side with large container ships, we still feel a little uneasy at first. But: "Ella" floats, the old outboard engine runs, and the Elbe turns out to be much less threatening than we had feared. We sail with a stern wind, the tide also pushes along. The engine falls silent and we glide along under the unfurled genoa.
"Deep inside me, I feel the little boy I once was, whose dream has just come true. Only the hot dogs are still missing."
In the warm light of the sunset, we pass Hamburg's landmarks: the Michel, the fish market, the huge floating docks and the jetties. Shortly afterwards, we steer into the City Sports Harbour. We are allocated a berth and later look through the scratched windows of the 50-year-old version of the Elbphilharmonie concert hall, which is still quite young. Deep inside me, I feel the little boy I once was and that I have fulfilled his dream. This is my boat. We have just experienced a real adventure. We're sitting in a warm, cosy cabin. The only thing missing are the hot dogs. No matter, I'm over the moon.
A small drop of bitterness the next day: the double-sealed hole in the cockpit floor is not tight. Several litres of water make their way inside and collect in my self-constructed Frankenstein box. There, of all places, in the supposedly driest place, was my extremely expensive laptop. It doesn't survive the journey to Hamburg. Later, after unscrewing the case, an employee at the computer shop is astonished to discover that he has never seen such extremely corroded circuit boards before.
After the successful Hamburg Tour, I'm continuing the refit project. For the 2025 season, I'm giving my Varianta a new Genoa 1 and a mainsail. The bunks will be fitted with new mattresses. The 50-year-old predecessors had become rock hard. Now my Varianta is much more comfortable to sit, sleep and lounge on. What's more, the original Sony radio from 1973, for which Dehler had installed a special mount in the Varianta at the time, now plays the voices of the three question marks. What I would have given to spend my weekends on this boat as a child!
Speaking of childhood: both my mate Simon and I have become fathers of healthy children. My daughter, born five months after the Hamburg tour, has the same name as the Varianta and my old, once so adventurous godmother: Ella.
