Here we go. At last. We’d been working towards this moment for half a year. We’d unveiled our Erria 25 ‘Slimöv’, trimmed the rig, adjusted the electrics and practised regatta manoeuvres. We’d looked into other low-budget projects and thought about what we could get out of an old boat using simple means. The “Slimöv” was ready; we were ready. Now there was just one thing missing: the Vegvisir Race itself. But it wasn’t meant to be.
Final rehearsal before the transfer
The crunch time began about a week and a half before the planned transfer from Schleswig to Nyborg. We had around 80 nautical miles ahead of us and still quite a few unresolved issues: What did we need to take with us? What safety equipment was mandatory, and what were we still missing? The ‘Notice of Race’ was there to help us with that. Mandatory items included, for example, lifejackets, lifebelts and distress signalling devices. We also needed towing ropes, for which we sourced Dyneema... We worked through the list point by point until every item was ticked off.
A week before we set sail, we had our final rehearsal. In force 4 winds, we took part in one of the club’s weekly regattas for the last time. The start went well, and our manoeuvres were spot on. We hoisted, shifted and struck the spinnaker, came second in our class and finished fourth overall. We were satisfied; the trial had been a success. The result was almost beside the point. What mattered more was the feeling: we worked well together as a crew – and the boat did exactly what we wanted it to.
After that, everything that wasn’t absolutely essential was thrown overboard: an unreliable autopilot, unnecessary crockery, surplus drinks. Perhaps 100 kilograms, perhaps more. After that, the ‘Slimöv’ was ready. Only the weather wasn’t.
More about the regatta project:
Difficult forecast for short-haul flights
After all, the initial forecasts didn’t bode well. The weather map showed several fronts set to sweep across the Danish islands during the regatta. Together with our colleague Hauke Schmidt, we ran a weather routing simulation to analyse the conditions. The result was not very encouraging. “This could be tough, especially if you have to sail into the wind,” he said.
We’d decided in advance to go for the short route. We thought we’d start small. The route was to take us around 100 nautical miles from Nyborg through the Great Belt into the Småland Channel and on to Guldborgsund. We would then have returned to the Great Belt between Femø and Fejø. Winds of force six to seven were forecast for the night.
Initially, the wind would still have been blowing from astern. After rounding the mark in the shallow, fast-flowing Guldborgsund, however, we would have had to sail on a close-hauled course through the archipelago, as our routing predicted. That would mean: into the wind. With short, steep waves. And all that on a 25-foot boat. We had plenty of respect for the conditions. Nevertheless, the decision was made straight away: we’d set off and see how things developed.
Water in the bilge
Our journey began three days before we set sail. Early in the morning, we drove to the ‘Slimöv’. We stowed our gear, topped up the diesel and cast off. We set off under engine power, heading along the Schlei towards the Baltic Sea. We caught the bridge opening at Lindaunis, hoisted the sails a little later and reached Kappeln on schedule. The wind was gusty, but the mood was good. For now.
Just past Kappeln, Ole decides to fetch a can of Coke. Instead, he notices the wet carpet. Beneath it lie the floorboards, and beneath those, the bilge. As he lifts the boards, it becomes immediately clear: something is very much wrong here. Every section was full of water. The planks were wet; some of them were already floating up.
How on earth is that possible? A hole? A broken seacock? We’d checked the bilge just a few days ago whilst emptying it. It had been bone dry. And now this!
Silence fell immediately on board. No long deliberations, no arguments. Ole began bailing, I took the buckets and emptied them over the side. At the same time, the electric bilge pump was running at full speed. Bucket after bucket. Twenty, thirty, forty, perhaps more. In the end, there must have been more than 200 litres of water in the boat.
Troubleshooting at the shipyard
But where had all that water come from? As we couldn’t rule out a major leak, we turned back. The Henningsen & Steckmest shipyard was the nearest one. We moored at the first available bollard – the main thing was to be close to the crane. Who knows what we might come across.
After about half an hour, the bilge was clear of water. As there appeared to be no further water coming in, we were able to begin the search. We checked the seacocks and through-hull fittings, the bilges and the deck-to-hull joint. Everything was dry. The engine’s coolant pipes also looked fine. We started the engine, engaged forward and reverse gear, and scanned every corner. Still nothing.
Only a little water had seeped in at the shaft seal. This meant it remained the only visible point of entry – and consequently our most likely lead. However, the amount was far too small to explain the full bilge. We cautiously continued our journey to Schleimünde. The bilge remained largely dry throughout. We moored at the ‘Giftbude’ and opened a can of beer in the cockpit. What now?
The decision in Schleimünde
A shower had just passed through. We were sitting in our wet oilskins on a wet boat. Above us, a grey sky; ahead of us, a difficult decision. On the one hand: half a year of preparation, the anticipation, the media coverage and our shared goal. On the other hand: an unexplained leak, a 54-year-old boat and winds of force 6 to 7 in the forecast. Added to that was our limited experience of offshore regattas and night-time sailing in such conditions.
Carry on to Nyborg and wait there? Not a good solution. The forecast low-pressure system might have left us stranded in Denmark for days – with a boat whose condition we couldn’t assess with any certainty. Back home in Schleswig, we’d have far better facilities for troubleshooting.
A tarte flambée from the food stall finally helped us make up our minds; by the time we’d finished the last slice, it was decided: we’re turning back. The Vegvisir Race will go ahead without us.
More about the Vegvisir:
- Vegvisir Race 2026: Strong winds and the prospect of new records
- Vegvisir Race 2026: Single-handed race cancelled
- Further information from the organiser can be found here.
Return to Schleswig
On the way back, a few litres of water had once again collected in the bilge. Far less than before, but enough to show that the problem hadn’t been sorted out.
We finally reached Schleswig without any further incidents. There, ‘Slimöv’ is now to be lifted out of the water and thoroughly inspected. The cause remains unclear. What is clear is that our attempt to compete in the Vegvisir Race has failed. There’s no other way to put it – and yet the project was not in vain.
We’ve learnt just how much a regatta changes the way you see your own boat. How quickly small mistakes in manoeuvres become apparent. What a difference a neatly trimmed rig makes. What demands a night-time sail places on the electrical system, equipment and crew. And just how much can be achieved even with an old boat and a modest budget. It also became clear just how many other exciting projects there are, where crews on a tight budget are achieving great things – such as the lads from ‘Sailing Generation’ or the Opti fathers taking part in the Fastnet Race.
The most important realisation only came right at the very end: seamanship isn’t just about carrying on in wind and waves. Sometimes it also means not setting sail in the first place. That was disappointing. But it wasn’t a complete waste. Although we didn’t manage to tick off the Vegvisir Race, we’ll certainly make up for it at a later date.
Fabian Boerger
Editor News & Panorama