I can still hear the voices of our neighbours on the jetty. From incredulous - "You're joking!" - to stunned - everything is represented. I had only casually mentioned that I had never sailed at night before. Not even at nightfall. And that I had therefore never seen a shooting star in my 59 years of life. Well, yes, on television, but not really in person. Such a glistening tail of fire in the black night sky. And yet I am romantically inclined. "Birds of Thorns", "Bridges on the River" and "Steel Magnolias" are among my favourite books and films. But you can't have everything in life.
More on the subject of "night driving":
"That you don't miss it!" said Frank. "Think about it. A shooting star like that is over four and a half billion years old and is made of cosmic material." And Michi added: "I think it's much worse that it has never sailed at night. A real sailor sails at night too." Then everyone started talking to me at once. "You have to do it!" (Claudi, energetically). "You won't regret it" (Frank, encouraging). "You have to know what you're not doing" (Michi again, almost philosophical).
And my husband? "I've told her all this a hundred times, to no avail," he reported resignedly. "She always wants to do a crossword puzzle, embroider, watch a film on her tablet and go to bed early."
What's so special about a night journey?
All that talk was annoying. Wasn't it enough that I've been sailing along bravely during the day for years and still get sick sometimes? That I'm still not entirely comfortable with high waves and leaning angles? And anyway, what's so special about sailing at night? Yes, well, a shooting star - really!
"You can only understand that if you've done it once," my husband explains to me. "It's completely different to during the day. Everything, everything is different! That's what the others say - but please." He says this as if the peace of the harbour is in danger.
And then comes the holiday. As always, my husband plans it meticulously. Which wind, where and where. Which harbours to head for or not, because there's too much hustle and bustle on the jetties here and there in summer. He loves his peace and quiet. "I have the following plan," I am finally told. "The wind is blowing favourably from the west, at 12 to 14 knots, which is ideal. Offshore, no waves, and we'll be travelling fast. We're sailing to Anholt, which is around 150 nautical miles. If we conservatively calculate with an average boat speed of six knots, we'll need around 25 hours. Because you don't want to be alone at the wheel, we'll either have to anchor en route or enter the harbour in Tunø and then sail on the next morning."
"Good," I agree.
So far, it's been business as usual. We cast off, our neighbours on the jetty wave after us as we cast off, and I'm very happy because the sun is shining, the Baltic Sea is smooth and we can make a berth. That's how I like it. You don't need darkness. Or do you?
Maybe I want to prove something to myself
We sail through the Little Belt at a good speed and later pass the bridges of Middelfart. And then dusk creeps in. I've already been steering for some time and am about to ask my husband to take over. Then I suddenly have the intuition to just drive on a little further. Into the sunset. My husband gives me a puzzled look from time to time. I ignore it and act as if nothing is wrong. But that's not true.
The sunset is amazing! Almost majestic. I've experienced sunsets before, but this one is different. Maybe because I'm steering, maybe because the idea of "sailing at night" is in my head. Maybe because I want to prove something to others or to myself. Maybe because I want to be a "real" sailor for once. "What course do I have to steer?" I hear myself ask. His gaze is worth its weight in gold.
As the night gradually takes over the sea, I stand there and drive into the soft darkness. There, the moon! Silver streaks glide slowly across the water, which knows what it has to do in a calming flow beneath me. There's not much to see, but the things that matter do: beacons, buoys, other ships.
My husband asks if I feel safe and if he can lie down, and I just nod and wonder where this calm inside me comes from. Simply beautiful, pleasant, it can stay like this. Yes. I feel safe. And safe. It's just like that.
Sometimes I steer, sometimes I use the autopilot, sometimes I correct the sheets. Apart from that, it's wonderfully quiet and my thoughts, which are always revolving around all sorts of things, shift down a few gears and take a break, only to go round and round in my head more slowly. Have I slowed down (that's what it's called now)? How old is the water underneath me? Is this still the original water in the Baltic Sea, where the Vikings set off on their raids? What has the water seen? Oh, the splashing is beautiful!
The world has decided to be quiet for once
There is a new feeling. What is it? Satisfaction, I suppose. Yes, I am content. "Night black" is a nice word. But so is "night-black silver". All I can see is the sea and the moon. No horizon, no shore, just darkness interspersed with the light of the moon. I hear the water and the wind - nothing else.
The world has decided to be quiet for a change. It's a strange but pleasant feeling to stand there like this and everything is in a state of flux. I think slowly and about the past, about people who are no longer here and will never come back, and for the first time I don't have a sad feeling, but a close one. As if I'm closing the door. Who knows, maybe the souls are actually hovering above you.
The moon above me seems so close, and now I'm looking up at the sky, which is clearer than I've ever seen it before. Which, of course, is also due to the fact that I always disappear into my bunk so early. The term "close enough to touch" takes on new meaning. And then the stars!
Help, there are so many of them! Thousands - and in between the black, the deep, the satisfying. I look up again, marvelling at the stars, and then, suddenly, the sky opens up for a moment, a movement can be seen, something seems to explode. It must be a shooting star, moving at breakneck speed, a luminous streak through eternity. And another one. And another one.
Endorphins race through me. My neck aches, but I don't care. Why didn't anyone tell me before how beautiful a night under the open sky on a boat can be? And shooting stars. Yes, I know I was told, but they should all have been much more intense!
Prepare better next time - next time?
The boat saunters calmly and at medium speed through the smooth sea, the wind means well with me - it's as if the wind and the boat understand that I don't need a gust or a tack right now, I just want to put my head back and watch. I'm glad that I'm alone. That I only have myself to myself. Words would just get in the way. Then I look at the water and it sparkles somehow. As if there were stars under the surface. I want so much to pull them out of the sea, the stars, and take them with me. It's magical. Above me the universe, below me the depths, and me in between, carried by the wind and waves.
Time gets lost, it suddenly doesn't matter. It's not until later that I realise I'm freezing. I quickly go down the stairs to get my jacket from the wardrobe. And to put on my socks and shoes, because I'm still barefoot. And promptly stub my toes on the steps. Ouch! As nice as it is to just let yourself drift and enjoy the night ride - it's better to be a little prepared. I realise that now. But it was a spontaneous action. However, you should put on warm clothes and, above all, thick socks in good time. And have a scarf and oilskins ready just in case. Because we all know that the sea does what it wants, and God knows the weather forecast isn't always right. I fancy a hot coffee, but haven't prepared one. It's my own fault. Next time - next time? - I'll know better!
Nothing happens and yet so much
Meanwhile, my husband has actually fallen asleep. I can hardly believe it. What confidence! I hurry back up on deck because I don't want to miss anything of what awaits me: peace, quiet, shooting stars, stars, water, drifting along. Nothing happens and yet so much.
So many thoughts, so many feelings. I can see outlines on the moon. The night is crystal clear, the salty air beguiling. How could I have done without it all these years! And then a new feeling: I have arrived. Where? I don't know, but that's how I feel. Probably because I'm so content. Because beautiful feelings run through me in waves and I feel as if I've been painted with happiness from the inside.
I look at the chart plotter from time to time. We are on course, everything is fine. There's no other ship in the vicinity that could be dangerous. And the wind is still blowing gently and the sea is still calm. Thank you, dear wind and dear waves, for taking me along so favourably!
Magical and shooting star beautiful
This night is magical. I will never forget it. There - another shooting star. How old are stars anyway? I sail on, set a new course, then switch on the autopilot again and lie down in the cockpit. I look up at the twinkling stars and the moon shining down on me with stoic calm. And then: I am simply happy.
At some point, my husband comes on deck and I'm back at the wheel. "So, how is it?" he asks. "Magical and shooting star beautiful," I reply as the happiness hormones dance inside me. "I wish it would always stay like this." He comes up to me and puts his arm around me. Together we look up into the still dark sky. There - another shooting star! I am inspired. We are silent. Then he says: "We freeze the moment and hold on to it."
