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 ruthless contemporaries.
On the ego trip
"Shower, clang, clatter!"
A boat has arrived in the actually very idyllic Ærøskøbing. A charter boat, as you can see from the Baltic beard and the typical lettering of the boat's name. Unfortunately, the boat has also run aground, namely on a small motorboat moored there. Wood splinters. My husband and I look up.
"Oh, it doesn't matter, the old goat," I hear a man's voice. "The main thing is that nothing is broken. Have a look."
"No, it's not."
"Excuse me," I say as the boat passes us. "You rammed that boat there, you have to inform the owner." I almost feel guilty for feeling so bourgeois. But still.
"There's nothing there," says the moth-head and simply drives on. Of course, I make a mental note of the ship's name, date and time and take a photo. I'm a fair person. And I think it's only natural to report this damage.
Well, the people.
I don't know if my perception has changed in recent years, but it seems to me that ruthlessness and boorish behaviour have also become more prevalent in water sports. I don't know if I'm romanticising the past, but twenty years ago people were more polite to each other and also more attentive. Of course, you can't lump everyone together, but things have changed. People are more easily annoyed, they are loud, they think they can get away with anything in the harbour because they have time off. It's the weekend or you're on holiday, and a port is not a prison after all.
That's true, but in a harbour like this you have to be even more considerate. The boats are close together, there is no privacy like in a hotel room, which means: pull yourselves together. You're not alone here.
Speaking of taking: While I'm having a sundowner with my husband, a smart 42-foot boat comes roaring up. She's at the front, he's at the back and shouts: "We'll take the one next to those two staring at us!" Rast pulls up, rushes into the box as if the devil is after him, and we can just about jump up and try to hold off while our glasses tip over and gin and tonic flows onto the teak deck, which of course sticks like a pig.
Luckily, a gentleman is standing at the front of the jetty and can just about hold off the approaching boat, but then the lady throws the fore line at his head and she runs back to the stern to kick out the fenders.
A gust pushes the ship to one side, we stop. A stern line comes loose. The man shouts: "The bowline wasn't really tight!" in our direction and I immediately feel guilty.
Ten minutes later, there is a brief silence in the box. The man with the leash on his face has walked away without a thank you being heard and we are no longer given a glance. Tonic sticks to our feet. Instead, the music on the neighbouring boat is turned up to such a volume that we can no longer have a proper conversation.
I always ask myself - because this is not an isolated case - whether these people were simply not brought up, whether they have perhaps forgotten their upbringing, or whether they simply think they can do it, it's their berth now, which is something like a flat.
Two adolescent boys crawl out of the depths of the ship, tapping away on their iPhones and drinking Coke while the music blares and their parents can't even manage to tie off the traps properly.
The tragedy is that you can only lose with these people. Unfortunately, they are completely resistant to advice and unable to accept criticism.
Dialogues then go something like this:
"Sorry, hello, hello, hello, yes, here, next door, ah, good, thanks for hearing me, could you turn the music down a bit?"
Gawking look: "Is it too loud?"
"Er, yes."
"It's not that loud."
"We do."
The music is turned down a little and we are looked at like the biggest philistines who wear functional waistcoats and fanny packs and see their purpose in life as looking at seagulls through binoculars.
Or: "Excuse me, your traps are rattling, could you tie them off?"
"Yes, that's all right, we've only just arrived." (Three hours ago.) And then the very worst: when the first bottles of beer are decapitated at around 4 pm and the dice cup is often used.
They sing and yodel to indisputable performers and dice until the rind cracks.
These are the moments when I wish for a weekend or a holiday in a rented sarcophagus. The peace and quiet must be marvellous.
But honestly, I think the next day: is it so difficult to show a little consideration, not to shout like a honk, simply to practise a little togetherness instead of antagonism? I know, I know, the holiday, the holiday.
"And I know they're not all like that," I think as I switch on the outdoor speakers and then programme Europe with "The Final Countdown". At full volume.
It's six o'clock in the morning. It's going to be a beautiful day.
Have a nice weekend!