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 all about mooring, or rather the fact that sometimes it's not about mooring at all, but about completely different things.
"And you never cook either!"
I'm sitting in the cockpit of our boat on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. It's wonderfully quiet. My husband is out shopping.
"Oh, look, that box up there next to the red motorised glider. There are even pile fenders there, that's great," I hear and look up from my book. A boat slowly passes by our berth. In front is a pleasant woman in her early forties, behind - as so often - a stressed-looking man of the same age. A young Labrador sits there and is just so cute.
"The box is too big. You can't do that!" the man shouts.
"It's not, it says three metres forty, that fits."
"I'm not going to make a fool of myself."
"Why would you?"
"I'm not driving into a box with pile fenders, only pensioners do that."
"I see," says the woman with a slightly venomous undertone. "We also have pile fenders on our berth."
"So what? They know me there too," says the man.
Huh? I'll put the book down.
"This place is great," says the woman, waving the lead. "Let's take this one."
"No, I won't take the first seat that comes along. I'm sure there are better ones." Well, that could be my husband. There was more than one occasion when we ended up lying in a packet next to a stag party boat because you can't take the first available seat under any circumstances. There are so many other and better ones.
"We've already been to every jetty." Now the woman is getting really angry. "Besides, I'm hungry, I don't feel like messing around here forever. I have to go with the dog too." The dog seems to nod.
"He needs to learn that," comes from the bike.
A boat with a gentleman's crew passes them with a greeting and they decide in favour of the spot with the pile fenders.
"That's great, Roland," the woman now yells and throws the line onto the foredeck. "Now the space is gone."
"I didn't want it anyway, please don't make a fuss here, you're embarrassing."
"Oh, I'm embarrassing? I think YOU are embarrassing. 'I'm not a pensioner and I'm going to a place with pile fenders. The harbour is totally full. And now what?"
"Don't do thatfrom everything a drama."
Oh well, this is going to be fun. They are representatives of the genus "Padibast", which of course means "couples who argue when mooring".
Padibasts can be found in every harbour. While they are wandering around with their boat looking for a mooring, they get into arguments that often get quite heated. In a lock, we once saw the owner of a motorised sailing boat hit his partner with a fender because she hadn't tied the boat down properly. She then climbed off the boat and ran away in a rage. I often wonder how such stories continue.
Back to today's Padibasts.
"I'm not making a fuss, I'm just facing the facts. There's nothing left here, just that little space over there next to the Dehler."
"Well, we can take that one." Roland shifts into reverse.
"It's tiny, we can't get in there."
"Oh Antje. Don't always look so black. You're so fundamentally negative. You make a drama out of everything. Out of the smallest things. Out ofnothing you make a disaster."
Antje gasps. "Oh yeah? Give me an example."
"That the dog supposedly always has to. That everything is too small or too big or too sweet or too stupid or too salty or whatever."
"Too salty? What was ever too salty for me?"
Roland drives up to the supposedly too small space and simply doesn't answer. For many women, this is a mistake that can have fatal consequences.
"I asked what was too salty for me!" Antje's voice is now very loud.
"I have no idea. But speaking of savoury, you always season with too much salt."
Oh, oh!
"Says the man who pours a kilo of salt on every egg, in every soup and on every steak. And makes himself unpopular in restaurants. 'I still need salt'," she imitates him. "Even though you haven't even tasted it yet. Because that's how it is."
"Yes, yes, blah, blah." Roland accelerates and races towards the box, then gets stuck between the posts and Antje falls on her bum. The Labrador barks in fright, then lifts his leg and the beam hits Antje's jeans.
Oh, oh!
She stands up and now looks like an avenging angel on LSD.
"DIDN'T I TELL YOU THAT THE DOG HAD TO GO?" Roland is shouted at and is now red with anger because the ship can neither move forwards nor backwards. The roar of the engine could wake the dead.
"You with your damn arrogance, my mum always said, watch out with Roland, he knows everything better and everyone else is stupid, that's what she said. And she was right. Now look, the space is too small, you don't need to look like that."
"You're getting in line!"
"I stand upnot an. You always say that when you don't know what to do. You flirted with Britta at her birthday party the other day and said I was queuing. 'Oh, you have beautiful eyes, Britta, they're all blue. Your eyes will soon be blue too!" Antje's voice cracks as the Labrador howls and then does his big business. On the teak deck, as I can see.
Oh, oh!
Roland now seems desperate because nothing works any more.
"While we're at it!" he now calls forwards. "My Mum said that Britta is one of those women who are always stressed, even though there's nothing going on, and everything always turns into a drama. 'Oh, I didn't get any steaks, oh, everyone at nursery has head lice, oh, the Porsche has to be serviced, I'm going to get another embarrassing hire car, oh, oh, oh, oh! I DON'T CARE ANY MORE!" he shouts at Antje.
The Labrador has had enough and simply jumps into the water.
Oh, oh!
"NA BRAVO!" she screams, "Do something, Smurf will drown otherwise!"
I don't have the impression that Schlumpf is simply swimming away. He's had enough.
"Yes, what can I do!" Roland counters. "You can have an idea for once."
"Have an idea!" Antje mimics him. "What kind of ideas do you have? Just rubbish ones. And you ... you ... you can't even cook on the boat! You can't even do that!"
"What else am I supposed tocook? I'll do anything to make the lady happy!"
"You don't even cook stew with rice, even though you know I love it!"
"Then why don't you cook it yourself?" bleats Roland.
"It's best if I do everything on my own in future!" cries Antje. "That's better. That's what my mum says!"
"And my mum says you should throw Antje overboard if she's bitching like that!" Roland screeches.
"You always act like you can do everything better! But you're not!" Antje shrieks, her hair now standing on end. "You're stupid! You are stupid! Or who put the toilet brush in the dishwasher? Was it me? Was it me?"
Oh, oh!
She's about to go completely crazy. She straightens up and takes a strong step back towards her husband, probably to assassinate him with a well-aimed palm strike, but unfortunately slips on Smurf's legacy, trips, stumbles and falls into the harbour basin.
Roland shifts into reverse and suddenly the boat shoots backwards. I get up and check on Antje first. She swims after Smurf, looking angry. There are ladders back there.
Oh, oh!
My husband comes back from the shops.
"I've brought veal schnitzel," he says. "I'll cook for you tonight. Sliced veal with rice, that's what you like."
I am very, very grateful.
Have a nice weekend!
