Life on board a sailing yacht and in the harbours offers many a bizarre encounter. Author Steffi von Wolff tells us in her commentary"Wolff's territory" regularly talks about her experiences as an on-board woman. Not always meant seriously, often satirically exaggerated, but always with a lot of heart and a wink. This time it's about a cruise with strangers.
Visitors come on board
"It's so nice that it worked out," says Dörte happily, handing me her bag over the bow. "Wait, here's another one. Here's Jan's. And here's the other one."
I heave the bags behind me. Jesus, they're heavy.
"What's this weird construction?" asks Dörte as she climbs up. "Can't you get on board without a stem?"
"No, the pulpit is too far back, I can't hold on properly," is my answer. "That's why my husband made me something."
"Well, as a sailor, you have to manage that without help," Dörte replies. It's a Friday afternoon in Flensburg's city harbour. Autumn. Sunshine. Beautiful light. We met Jan and Dörte at a sailing festival and immediately took a liking to each other. One thing led to another, and now we're here.
"You don't even have a railing net," says Dörte.
"No, why should I?" I ask.
"Well, you should know that, but I think it's a safety issue. Oh, hello!" She hugs my husband, who is already sitting in the cockpit with Jan. "This is a small table here."
"He's enough for us." Slowly, very slowly, I find that overbearing and disrespectful.
"Would you like a drink?" my husband asks.
"I bought us some crémant," I say. "And chilled it."
"Wow, you could have saved yourself that, Dörte can't handle anything carbonated. You don't want to experience that." Dörte nods.
"I see, but I can drink crémant," I say.
"If you say so," says Dörte. "Do you have blackcurrant juice or mallow tea?"
"Er, no."
"Hm. Well, I'll stick to water for now. I'll have a look at the boat."
She goes down.
The dinner
"But it's cramped here. Do you like the pantry? I wouldn't have enough worktop space and then a light-coloured worktop on top of that, well. What's for dinner?"
"We wanted to have dinner with you."
"Eating out is far too expensive. I've got everything with me. I cook."
Also good. She starts tinkering around. "How did you organise the cupboards? That's completely impractical. Where are the pots? What kind of strange place is this for spices? Oh well."
I stand there and say nothing. Why didn't I notice that at this festival?
"Would you like a beer too?" I hear my husband ask upstairs.
"Have you got a really good rum?" asks Jan.
"Er, yes." I hear my husband get up.
Of course we have really good rum. For special occasions. When you've survived a hurricane, for example. Or when you've recovered a contact lens that was washed out of your eye by a wave. When you've overcome scurvy and pulled family members overboard from the Arctic. We have a good rum on board for that.
My husband comes downstairs and fetches the good rum. He smiles at me and seems in good spirits. Oh well.
"Ah, a Don Q Reserva de la Familia Serrallés." Jan nods patronisingly. "There are better ones. Oh, I could drink rum by the litre."
Then Dörte comes up with two tupperware bowls and hands Jan one of them.
"Chickpea soup," she says.
"I see. Are our plates still downstairs?"
They both stare at us. "No, I didn't cook for you now, that wasn't agreed at all; you wanted to go out for dinner."
I see.
By 9 pm, I'm so exhausted by Dörte and Jan that I feign a headache and crawl into my bunk. How can you stand it? Nothing is good, everything is stupid.
My husband later says quietly to me, "We have to get through this". He also says: "Jan has drunk all the rum."
Sure, you can drink it by the litre.
The next day
"That's the breakfast? I see. Have you got porridge? Fruit? Tomatoes? Cucumber? Oh well. No, I don't eat the sausage. I can't stomach it, it gives me heartburn, the Mettwurst gives me paws. I'll stick to my verbena tea. Good thing I brought it with me. So how do you eat? Well, you have to know."
We want to sail to Lyø, the wind is right, it's wonderful.
"Your winches are far too small," Jan realises. "Well, you've let yourselves be ripped off. And the lines are probably from China. Poor quality."
"They're not from China," says my husband. "They're from ..."
"It doesn't matter. Tell me, how do you steer? I thought you could do that. You're a real egghead."
"The wind changes all the time."
"Well," says Dörte. "I have to pee." She goes downstairs.
"No toilet paper in the bowl, please!" I call after her.
"It's not pumping properly. It's completely blocked," you hear. Well done.
"I told you, no toilet paper ..."
"I thought it was a joke. A loo must be able to cope with toilet paper. Oh well. You should know."
In Lyø, the mooring turns into a disaster because Jan doesn't listen to anything and Dörte refuses to help. "I'm not here to work."
I, on the other hand, am exhausted and thank God when they go to take a shower.
The finale
I see that my husband is calmly untangling the lines.
"What are you doing?"
"I'll untie the cheap lines and sail the boat with the too-small table and the tiny winches into our home harbour now. Then we'll go for dinner and then we'll drink litres of the rum I'm going to buy. Fuck them. Go on, pack up the two of them and take them to the jetty."
I don't need to be told twice.
Fifteen minutes later, my mobile rings.
"Where are you?" asks Dörte. "We can't find you at all."
"We're not here anymore," I say, getting happier by the second.
"Yes, but ..."
"You can stay and have a nice time, but without us. We don't care. You should know that."
Then I just hang up.
Never again. Never again will I spend a weekend on the boat with almost strangers.
Well, at least not with those.
Have a nice weekend!
