The gust is much stronger than expected, and a particularly large breaker rolls in from the darkness. Despite a fully extended arm on the tiller, the "Yaghan" luffs too slowly. The pressure increases and increases, the boat pushes more and more. In addition, the breaker pushes from windward so that the North Sea floods into the cockpit via the leeward coaming. Pia and Tina are up to their stomachs in water on the starboard bulge. Fortunately, the spook is over after a few seconds and we are over the wave. Or rather, the wave over us. The four-degree water gurgles out through the bilge pump.
"Do we still feel comfortable with this?" Pia asks calmly into the whistling of the south-west. That's the diplomatic version of: "We'd better turn back!" Jozef, her husband and co-owner of the boat with Pia, reassures her; it was just an exceptional wave. Besides, we could drop out of the Elbe estuary towards Helgoland in three quarters of an hour, then the course would be more pleasant with a half, almost clear wind. I sit at the tiller and vow to steer more carefully - even if it's difficult in the dark. But we stick to our plan to celebrate New Year's Eve on the red rock.
The steel long-keeler easily copes with the weather
You can already see the beacon. It's just after six in the morning and we had planned to arrive at around ten. So we only have four hours to go. Besides: "It would be nonsense to turn back now. The way back against the outgoing water would be further than to the island," Jozef summarises. What's more, the "Yaghan", a Brabant 32, is a long keeler made of steel. She can easily cope with the weather.
It's not the first time that the trip has been cancelled. Two days earlier, we had happily cast off the lines in Hamburg's City Sports Harbour under the Elbphilharmonie concert hall in temperatures of minus three degrees with a glassy, icy deck. With the six o'clock high tide, we made good time to Glückstadt, where we first got stuck in the mud when trying to dock and then a problem with the gear lever became apparent: travelling forwards worked, but suddenly stopping or reversing no longer did. And after a few attempts, the gearstick then also refused to go forwards.
For the first time, the question arose as to why we were doing this - travelling down the Elbe into the wintery North Sea in the cold and darkness. The answer: we had planned to sail in under the red rock, moor the boat in the safe harbour and then toast the New Year together on Heligoland.
But first we had to fix the problem with the faulty gearstick. We managed to reach the sheet piling with our last ounce of vigour. After a quick search, it was clear: the gearwheel that transmits the power to the Bowden cable for shifting gears on the gearbox was worn out. It simply jumped out of the ring gear and back into neutral.
As the equipment supplier had just closed on Saturday afternoon, it was not possible to obtain a replacement part quickly. To prevent the journey from coming to an end as soon as it had begun, we improvised without further ado. A stainless steel thimble, actually intended for an eye splice, could be bent open, pushed over the shaft behind the gearwheel and bent back together again. The gear wheel could now no longer slip.
The "Yaghan" was the only ship in the harbour
Once the repairs were complete, we were able to move the boat to the fishing club's floating jetty - the only one still in the water; all the other jetties had long been ashore. Apart from the customs ship, there was no other boat in the outer harbour apart from "Yaghan". The next day in Cuxhaven, in the SVC marina, we also moored lonely and alone on the last remaining jetty. At the end of December, there is not much going on on the Elbe apart from commercial shipping.
There was one good thing about this: no searching for a free berth, easy mooring, and nobody was bothered by the billows of smoke rising from our boat. A small wood-burning stove on the main bulkhead in the saloon made it cosy and warm below deck and dried our clothes in no time at all.
After just one day, we were already in sailing holiday mode. The pre-Christmas stress of work and gift-giving had given way to the lightness of being on a boat in no time at all. That's how we had imagined it. It wasn't going to be a normal New Year with tonnes of raclette on the last day of the old year and a hangover on the first day of the new year, but a sailing holiday with the prospect of other sailing enthusiasts mooring on the island for New Year's Eve.
Pia and Jozef had left their boat in the water especially for this project and even retrofitted a hot water heater. This now warmed the cabin while sailing instead of the wood-burning stove. With Tina, myself and Karlie, a Parson Russell terrier, the crew was complete.
25 to 30 knots, impressive waves
After the involuntary dip in North Sea water, we have now reached deep water in the Elbe estuary at fairway buoy six. We can now drop a little, about ten degrees, and head straight for the beacon of the German offshore island. Unfortunately, the change of course does not bring the hoped-for relief; on the contrary, the waves get even higher. The wind is blowing at 25 to 30 knots from the south-west, but is expected to turn westwards and increase. That's why we decided to cast off at half past four with the early high tide and let ourselves be pushed out of the Elbe estuary as the tide ebbed. We wanted to be on Heligoland before the wind picked up to well over 35 knots.
But despite the pushing current and strong wind, we are quite slow with a speed of five to six knots over the ground. The "Yaghan" is so heavy in the water with full tanks, the forecastle full of firewood, the bilge full of provisions and the luggage of four people and a dog that every wave slows us down. The pressure in the sail increases every time, which immediately causes the boat to overtake. In short, it felt like a rodeo ride in pitch darkness, with a bucket of ice water being thrown in our faces every ten seconds.
Taking away even more sail area is not an option, the main is already reefed twice and the smallest genoa is set. At best, we could switch to the smaller self-tacking jib. However, between the gusts, which have long since exceeded the 30-knot mark, we would be much too slow. Instead, we start the diesel and let the engine push along.
That helps. The "Yaghan" immediately glides more smoothly through the choppy North Sea. The additional thrust gets us through the waves better and the sails can develop their full propulsion. We are now motor-sailing towards the island at just under seven knots.
A purple-coloured stripe gradually appears in the east. Around eight o'clock in the morning, the sun has not yet risen, but it is now bright enough to see the waves that have been rocking us for hours.
They are impressively high, many with foaming crests. You feel small in the wave valley and the beacon disappears for a moment behind a grey wall. If its return is in an unfavourable rhythm with the waves, it cannot be seen for a long time.
Nothing brings a crew together better than hanging synchronised over the railing at sunrise
But it doesn't matter, because the island itself is now emerging from the morning grey as a dark mass. However, this is of little comfort to Pia. She's had enough for now: "You can carry on on your own. If we had seen the waves beforehand, we would have turned round straight away." She says and disappears below deck.
She's not entirely wrong, especially as things are about to get worse. About seven nautical miles from the island, an hour away from our destination, we are hit really hard: a strong gust of wind hits just as a wave over three metres high breaks directly in front of the bow and almost brings us to a halt despite the engine assistance. The resulting extreme increase in pressure in the sail puts the boat so heavily on its side that this time not only the cockpit coaming but also the boom jib disappears into the water.
The "Yaghan" quickly rights itself again and regains its speed. And the cockpit, which has mutated into a bathtub, quickly empties again. But this is too much for Jozef and Tina. As soon as the boat returns to a horizontal position, they both pay tribute to their seasickness. Later, Tina comments laconically that nothing brings a crew together better than hanging over the railing in synchronisation at sunrise.
An hour - what feels like an eternity - passes with wave steering and gritting our teeth, then we've made it. We sail into Heligoland's outer harbour, hoist the sails and then chug past the largest rescue cruiser "Hermann Marwede" into the inner harbour. There are six other yachts moored in packets on the only remaining jetty. We go alongside a blue 40-foot steel yacht and have a glass of rum for the first time.
An overjoyed crew explores Heligoland
The result of the crossing: a tear in the leech at the head of the genoa, a handle torn out of the companionway, water ingress at the fore hatch. As a result, the bunk below got wet and chaos reigned below deck. On the other hand, there is an overjoyed crew with salt crusts on their smiling faces. New Year's Eve can come.
Until then, we still have a day and a half to explore the island. From the jetty, we walk past the jammed fishing boats and the tucker boats that usually take tourists to the neighbouring island of Düne. We stroll to the ship chandlery and all the shops selling duty-free cigarettes and spirits that have earned the island its reputation as a fusel rock.
At the promenade, we turn off into the small village along Lung Wai. Foreign-sounding street names such as Lip de Swart, Om Wass and Bop Stak catch the eye. Heligoland Frisian, called Halunder by the almost 1,500 islanders, is the second official language alongside High German.
On Heligoland, people only shake hands on New Year's Day
In addition to their own language, there are other very individual laws and customs on the island. Cycling is not allowed, for example, as it is simply too narrow here. We have also arrived on the island at just the right time for another oddity: Heligolanders don't shake hands when greeting each other - it's too awkward, as you're always running into each other. Only once a year, on 1 January, is an exception made.
A staircase leads up to the Oberland on the red-grey rock that we had seen hours before. Emerging from the shelter of the houses, the wind hits us again with full force - it's a good thing we set off so early. It is now blowing at almost 40 knots. We lean into the icy cold air stream to make progress. Despite the bright sun, it's bitterly cold up here.
However, the island can do little harm; it once had to cope with something completely different. When studying the information boards, many small and large depressions turn out to be bomb craters from the Second World War. Almost the entire area of the Oberland is littered with them.
Lange Anna, the famous towering rock formation, however, stands like a pillar in the sea. The surf cannot reach it because of a breakwater. In front of it, however, the waves have become even bigger, with white strips of foam covering the North Sea.
The next day, we take an excursion boat over to the dunes. Seals lie on its beaches and let the sun warm them. Signs explain the difference between a harbour seal and a grey seal, and a description on our island map says: "Slow down with a walk on the beach, a day on the dune is a holistic wellness day for body and soul." We were still amused by this cliché advertising slogan on the short crossing. But that's exactly what it actually feels like when exploring this little paradise.
