Blown in at the harbour: Bizarre things that sailors experience in the harbour in bad weather

The sailor from the berth next door, a certain Mr Kolle, sticks his nose out from under the tarpaulin. He asks if I want to play skat. His words are torn apart by the wind. I can't play skat. I don't like card games in general. I don't want to. Then I shout back through the storm: "I'd love to!"

Playing skat? I'm here to sail! To make miles. To breathe in holidays, freedom, wind and space. And now I agree, the devil take me, to play skat - it has to get that far first. Mr Kolle nods and calls out, pressing the edge of his hand to his mouth as a windbreak: "Great! On board in half an hour!" Then he crawls back under his rain-soaked, wind-swept tarpaulin, his back bulging.

It's July. High summer. And on Drejø, the small island in the South Fyn archipelago, the world is coming to an end. Yet it is actually made for wonderful hours on a summer cruise, with pretty thatched-roof houses under a holiday-blue sky and flowers glowing in the sun - instead, storm-tossed fields, cloudy distance, penetrating wetness, autumnal coolness. And no escape.

The whole island is blown in. The sailors are, as are the farmers, two of whom are manoeuvring their tractors into the sheds. Even the dog from the bike hire shop has gone into hiding. The Danish South Sea. There's no denying that sometimes the most beautiful geographical names carry the bitterest irony. And I'm off to play skat! Yet this is only day one in the storm and constant rain, hour ten, second Tuborg, first rum.

A day in the harbour, that happens sometimes

In the cabin of my little Winga cruiser there is a bucket on the bunk where it has been leaking for hours. The paraffin lamp in the forepeak hangs crooked and wobbles, even the rumble in the glass is leaning, even though the boat is well moored. Outside, the storm hisses in terrifying octaves. The wind is pushing on the mast, northeast seven, gusting eight, forcing the old wooden boat onto its side. We are heeling! In the harbour! Sailing is out of the question.

What have I already done today? Doubled the windward lines. Made coffee twice. Read for three hours. Took a nap. Woke up. Checked the lines again. Tied down the tarpaulin. Changed wet socks twice. Another nap. Fell asleep again somewhere on page 496. Wiped the floor. Then used a break in the rain to walk to the Købmand: a litre of milk, two packets of cigarettes, a little chat, a quick

Tuborg in front of the shop, protected from wind and weather. The walk to Købmand was undoubtedly by far the outstanding event of the day. The verb to blow is actually a very nice word. The wind blows. Flags are waving. It smacks of life. But even in purely linguistic terms, strange things happen when you add the simple prefix "ein" to the verb. The verb suddenly no longer refers to the wind and the flags. It declares the sailor to be the object of reference! He is blown in. That doesn't taste of life at all, but of forced passivity. He is condemned by the wind to the Ohmnacht. And to do things he doesn't want to do. A situation that confronts him not only with the rigours of the weather - but above all with himself.

Most people are still taking heart. Oh well, half as bad. A day in the harbour, that happens sometimes, the sailing plan can cope with that. We have enough of a buffer. Let's just make the best of it and have a good rest.

Shore leave - A change on hopeless harbour days

The best part? Even disembarking has little to do with the usual procedure of light-heartedly leaving the boat. I'm wearing oilskins, take another close look at the mooring lines, hold on to the boom, hood pulled low over my face, stooped over in an undignified manner. As I stride across the deck, the tarpaulin twitches and fidgets as if it wants to smack me. A quick glance up the mast. The halyards, although braced to the side, vibrate in the storm like the vocal chords of an opera diva performing at the highest pitch. Whistling, howling, screaming.

A cautious step over the moving bow onto the slippery jetty. Shore leave, a change of scenery. Despite the oil with water on my skin, I study boards on the island's history and ornithology in the little wooden hut.

Five boats are moored in the small old harbour of Dreijø. Over there, they want to move the steel yacht two metres aft. The water in the harbour has risen a good metre and the yacht is pushing against the jetty. Three men tug at the lines like a tug-of-war, the skipper bends over the sea railing, hastily adjusts the fenders and runs back to the stern, accompanied by shouting in the wind.

"Stop! Release the bow line first!"

"I do!"

"Watch out for the dinghy!"

"Cover the winch!"

"Another half a metre!"

"What?"

"Keep it tight! Shut up!"

Dramatic commands, not shouted, mind you, while the boat is sailing through high seas, but in the harbour. Three sailors in rain gear stand in front of the little shack, stretching their legs. Every two hours, one of them, heavily hooded, shuffles to the toilet. Even this simple walk is entertaining once Homo nauticus has been blown in and pinned down below deck. And an invitation to skat becomes a highlight under such circumstances.

Cosiness: the benefits of being cosy

Dripping, I enter the Kolle crew's folk boat. Two paraffin lamps are burning, a small table has been set up with a bag of jelly babies, cigarettes and a bar of chocolate. Three cold beers are waiting. Oilskins hang around, jumpers and trousers dangle, hats and socks dry.

The storm even influences the mountain greeting vocabulary. The guest doesn't say "Hello, thank you for the invitation" or "Oh, it's nice to have you on board". No, he greets the crew with the simple and honest sentence: "What shitty weather!"

Oh no, counters Mr Kolle, there's something to be said for being caught in the harbour. You don't have to make any decisions, you have to bow to the forces of nature and fate. It's also good to surrender to the weather. Do nothing. Wait and see. Doze. Listen to the weather. Slip into the bunk. Forced deep sleep. Beer in broad daylight. Playing skat.

Somehow the man is right. It's cosy when you settle into this rigidity and soon you're just snoring and kissing your bunk. Oh, let the world be the world. I'm not going to do anything. I don't have to sail, reef, pull sheets or take bearings. And nobody accuses you of being lazy, it's not your fault. The stoic pausing on a windswept sailing boat becomes a forced meditation, truer than any yoga class.

A round of skat on board

After the first day at the latest, everyone who has been properly blown in has got the hang of it: the real sweet idleness, decreed from on high, by Mother Nature herself. Enjoy, without remorse, without atonement.

But the hour comes when the sailor, rattling, resting and staring at himself in the boat, craves a change. Every last nook and cranny of the forecastle is tidied up, even the oldest rope is rigged, the faulty reading lights are rewired and, and, and.

But what now?

Skat it is. Mr Kolle explains the rules, I'm afraid he's a terrible gambler, and we're already glued behind the cards with orange glowing faces. Hours later, day one ends in a storm after various beers, a bottle of rum, three bags of chips, ten rounds of skat, 15 euros lost - with the wind still howling.

The night comes. The next day. The waiting now takes on a new dimension. As the wind continues to pick up, existence slows down in a strange way. Time soon drips away like viscous tree resin. The sailor, forced into the harbour and into the boat, gains a new sense of time and space, nestling in a strange bell of forbearance and surrender. Finally, a god rages outside against which he can do nothing. The boat becomes a cocoon, a spaceship of waiting, drifting through the hours.

When the weather forecast spoils the trip planning

The weather forecast does not bode well. Once again east to north-east 6 to 7, gusting to 9, strong wind and storm warnings for almost all forecast areas. The weather situation: threatening. One low following another. A trough in the German Bight is expected to develop into its own low, which in turn will form a new trough. The trend for the next three days is also gloomy. Not a day without a seven in the programme, not to mention the squalls.

"A completely freaky weather situation," sums up an experienced boat builder on his yacht in the harbour at the other end of the island. "You can expect anything." A group of men in caps and boots stand on the jetty, looking grimly towards the horizon. A woman spreads her arms out like a bird and leans with all her weight into the blowing wind. The well-known little game means: Sailor, stay where you are!

On the boats, the wait becomes gruelling. Sailors surrender to the next day of non-sailing. The children from various yachts have gathered in a larger boat and start swapping the Donald Duck books they have read. A skipper crouches motionless in the cake stand, seemingly following traces of raindrops on his cockpit windscreen.

At this point at the latest, unpleasant questions start to creep through your mind. The trip planning threatens to tip over. Will we make it to Samsö if the wind keeps howling like this? And up into the Limfjord to meet up with the group from last summer? No way, this destination is long gone, we wouldn't make it back south in time. On the boats, the crews bend over the nautical charts. What else is possible on this holiday? And one question hangs leadenly in the air: when will the damn wind and the cursed rain finally stop? Everything depends on this point in time, the whole trip. "If it keeps blowing like this, we can write off the holiday completely," says one of them. "A really great summer! I soon drank more litres of coffee and beer than I did miles."

Dark grey clouds and rain all week long

The Baltic Sea laps incessantly around the island of Drejø in a sullen grey, with Avernakø, Ærø and Funen peeking out of the heavy sky. Whitecaps blow in front of the harbour basin, yesterday they even shut down the ferry from Fynshav. Nothing works. And certainly nothing sails. An initial rage creeps up in the sailors, and this is now the next phase of being caught in the wind. Anger and frustration and a quiet despair.

Day three, hour eight. The wind forecast is still good. Some are preparing for a possible small weather window, they want to set off at the slightest chance, over to Ærø as soon as the miserable blowing subsides. But then the new, old forecast: southeast, increasing seven!

There are now far too many colourful adhesive strips on the foreshores, the harbour master's daily stamps. An unsightly decoration - ribbons that speak volumes.

Inside, the damned of the island prepare themselves for more days of hanging around. The sea weather forecast has become a portent, the weather notices on the toilet block command: Stand still! On paper, the dreary truth is printed out in pretty colours: dark grey clouds and rain symbols all week, plus daily wind arrows with many, too many tick marks, no day above 17 degrees. The vocabulary of the sailing community has been enriched by a Danish word for some time now: "Kuling", strong wind.

The mood changes

What do people do with so much waiting time? A mixture of resignation and irritation can literally be felt under the tarpaulins and in the sealed-off yachts. The whole summer is at stake. All the cherished dreams of glorious sailing. Of gently drifting along, of anchoring in blue bays.

But the prospects remain the same: nothing but wind and rain flurries. And then, on the fourth day in the harbour, the owner of an old wooden yacht utters this one sentence for the first time, which documents a kind of final stage: "Sailing is a hobby for crazy people, you invest so much time and money and work all winter long, only to end up crammed into six square metres with the rain drumming on your head for days on end - damn it, I'd rather sell my boat and join a bowling club!"

The mood changes. Low pressure not only in the air, but also in the sailor's soul. This is the acid test, all motivational slogans have long since sounded like mockery. "Wait and see, tomorrow will be better" - "The high pressure in the Azores has to prevail at some point" - "We'll set sail tomorrow, no matter what!"

Really?

Some have been lounging around below deck non-stop for four days, stoically reading through thick novels, leafing through worn magazines for the umpteenth time. Their hand reaches into the box of sweets with a certain automatism. The big game, interrupted only by the sea weather reports. In the morning, in the evening. And still not the slightest trace of hope.

How long have we been staring at the sterns in the pit lane opposite and seeing the same picture over and over again? The boats are hanging in the ropes, reeling.

It's all reminiscent of the last summer holidays. The same story in different locations, Hjortø, Marstal. I guess it's all part of it somehow. We were stuck in four folk boats for six days, a strong wind marathon with force 8 and lashing rain from the east. The cabins, small and clammy, increasingly looked like prison cells.

With so much bad luck and adversity, morale is required. Don't despair. Four or five men want to get together and sail out on a boat for a few hours. Heavy weather training. But this plan also comes to nothing. The barometer is below 990 hectopascals this Sunday morning.

Sailors must be crazy

Next morning, day five: Wind, rain, as usual - and then it happens. Around midday the sky clears, the wind really dies down, and an hour later the Danish South Sea lies, miraculously, so peaceful and harmless under the sun, as if nothing had happened at all.

And now comes the proof that Homo nauticus is an incorrigible species. A creature hopelessly addicted to its activities and endeavours. In the harbour, the tarpaulins disappear, bang, from the cockpits, sails rattle, winches clack. The first ones head out, freed from their captivity, with fresh confidence towards new destinations. On the steel yacht, the skipper, who was still grumbling yesterday, stands proudly behind the wheel while Madame clears the fenders.

They greet you, "Have a good trip!", others wave to each other with a cheerful smile, children sit on deck, barefoot and in orange life jackets. Voyage, voyage, it can go that quickly.

I also got my cruiser ready immediately. And shortly afterwards I'm sailing through the summery Danish South Sea, under white clouds, past green islands in a blue sea. And quietly discover what is probably the most astonishing phenomenon about being a sailor. One hour of pleasurable sailing is enough to blow away even the most dreadful storm. How quickly all the annoyance is forgotten, how quickly and easily the stormy days are displaced, the anger, the irritability, even the skat game - shrunk to an episode on the sidelines.

It's true what the wooden boat owner said: sailors must be crazy.