Anchoring is a wonderful thing. Usually, anyway. I’m a big fan of it, and so is my husband. It’s just that, unfortunately, it doesn’t always go as smoothly for us as it should, or as it normally does, or as it does for other people – it’s just us it doesn’t work for, which is because … I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Shall we drop anchor?” How I love that phrase. Once you’ve reached the point where you can drop anchor. The thing is, there are quite a few hurdles to overcome before you can say: “Engine off, ice-cube machine on!” That one glorious moment when everything falls silent – including us.
My husband and I have just one little problem: he mumbles away non-stop, and I don’t hear very well anymore; I do wear a hearing aid, but I don’t wear it on the boat because the wind whistles so loudly that I end up suffering from what feels like tinnitus all the time. What’s more – and please don’t forget this – I, sitting at the helm, am in an absolutely dreadful situation, because the engine noise comes between my husband and me, and it’s not exactly quiet. In other words, several tragic factors all come together before we can even begin to enjoy the anchorage.
When nobody between the cockpit and the bow can make head nor tail of anything
“Larüwens!” – “What?” – “Larüwens!” – “Is there something over there?” He bares his teeth and looks like a stone-biter seething with rage. “La-rü-wens damoma!” It’s enough to drive you to despair. “I can’t understand you!” Now his hand clenches into a fist and the stone loach’s fury doubles. His teeth are on full display. And then what happens next is the sort of thing that generally drives me absolutely mad: He turns away from me and shouts – commands, instructions and who knows what else – that are now completely incomprehensible to me. You don’t need to have studied physics or, for that matter, linguistics, to realise that there’s now absolutely nothing left to understand.
“Wilauuuuuuuuuuuuuuf!” is what I hear, sounding slightly choppy. I don’t know what to do; all I know is that I can now make out the bottom of the anchorage, and that, it seems to me, isn’t a good sign, because if you can see the seabed and maybe even little crabs scuttling about, it means it’s shallow and might even get shallower still. And I still don’t know what to do! “Just tell me what to do!” I shout desperately towards the bow. “What?” comes the reply. What else? He doesn’t wait for an answer, but stomps back here in a foul mood, whilst I’m still desperately waiting for some clear instructions.
And then the worst part: Dusch! We’re running into something! “Aaaaargh! I told you: back up a bit! And we’re running into it, I told you!” someone shouts. “I didn’t understand that,” I defend myself. “The wind, the engine, and you’re mumbling and not speaking in my direction, even though I …”
“Full ahead now and steer to port, go!” In my desperation, I steer to starboard. “Port!” At least I understood that, even if I didn’t act on it. “This can’t be happening. How long have we been sailing together? 25 years? That’s right, 25 years! Why don’t you ever know what you’re supposed to do?” – “Because it’s always different.” – “I’m telling you, it works for everyone else, just not for you. Because you don’t listen.” – “And you speak unclearly and in the wrong direction.” – “Let me take the wheel!” Gratefully, I step aside, and somehow he manages to free the boat again. “Now do what I tell you.” He stomps back to the front. “It’s only like this with us,” I hear him grumbling as he goes.
The boat next to us has exactly the same problem
“Slowly to starboard!” Thanks, I’ve got that. Here comes another sailing boat. Same as here: a man at the helm, the woman at the back, waiting to see what happens. He shouts something over the back: “I’m dropping anchor now!” – “Are there jellyfish? Well, if they’re fire jellyfish, count me out!” – “No, no beer just yet.”
Oh. I listen as I steer to starboard. Suddenly, I no longer feel alone. How lovely that is. “Jemäpdjeäelldoooooooos!”, I hear from the front – that is, from my husband – but I don’t care. I find it far more interesting that the man is now shouting, “You splashing cow!”, whilst the woman is screaming loudly and clearly that she’s demanding a post-marital contract. “And I want it tomorrow!” she yells. “Yes indeed, a prenup!” – “Jever? We don’t have any Jever. We’ve got Astra beer,” the man shouts back, and I conclude that the word ‘prenup’ has been completely misunderstood. I don’t know why that makes me happy right now. It’s not exactly nice of me.
“Hello!” My husband is standing in front of me again; I didn’t hear him come in at all. “This isn’t going to work – yet again. You never put your hearing aids in.” – “And you’re always mumbling in the wrong direction!”
“For once, just do something right!” shouts the man from the neighbouring boat, and my husband gives him a thumbs-up, which the woman spots, however, and she now floors it. “Stooooop!” The neighbour stumbles and nearly falls into the water, then he goes to the back and shouts something about irresponsibility. The woman points at my husband and says, “You said that a thumbs-up means to go fast!” – “Yes! But you’ve got to get that command from me, not from that clown on the neighbouring boat.”
“Waaah!” cries the woman. I sense something terrible is about to happen. “I’m no wimp!” screams my husband. “That’s an insult like no other!” – “Wimp!” shouts my husband, and then – I don’t know why or how or what for – both men jump into the water at the same time. A scuffle breaks out. The men’s behaviour reminds me of the film *Jaws*. People are thrashing about in the water there too.
In the end, it’s those who don’t understand anything who end up helping
I move closer to the woman, who’s just as lost as the rest of us. “It’s a nightmare, isn’t it? It’s the same every time.” – “Same here.” – “Is it his ‘left’ or my ‘left’? What’s right, what’s wrong? And above all, it would be nice if we could actually understand it.” We nod at the same time. “It’s different every time, too,” the woman complains. “Sometimes he makes circular movements with his arms, and that means: Everything’s fine! But the next time it means: You’re heading straight for a rock. We had that in the archipelago.” I nod in agreement, whilst our husbands are playing something akin to ‘Who can hold their breath longer?’
“I jumped into the water once too,” I say. “Because he was supposed to sort his own stuff out. I’m telling you, he dropped the anchor. Just a centimetre from my head. That was attempted murder. Or at least, he was prepared to risk it. Apparently, he didn’t understand me and thought I was still on board.”
“We’ll have a go,” we agree, and finally introduce ourselves to one another. “Let’s just tie up the lines and head over to the two buoys,” suggests the friendly woman. And that’s exactly what we do. The two men swim over, exhausted. “Why are there buoys here?” they ask us. “We’ve been saying that all along,” I say, inwardly rejoicing. “But you weren’t really listening.” The two of them stay in the water for a bit longer. And later on, they have a cold Jever together. With us. Because they’ve only got Astra, after all.
Steffi von Wolff
Freie Autorin