In the "Sailors confess" series, we confess our stupidest sailing mistakes. But we are also looking forward to your confession. Send us your text, if possible with pictures, to mail@yacht.dekeyword "sailor's confession". If desired, publication will be anonymised.
When mobo drivers learn to sail
Are "mobo pilots" actually allowed to make a "sailor's confession" here? Well, if it were up to me, I - and therefore you - would have been spared the following text. But my favourite colleagues from the pole boat faction would have it no other way. I confess...
Yes, motorboat drivers sail too. Perhaps not quite as passionately and certainly not quite as perfectly as our "well-heeled" colleagues, but anyone who - like me - comes to water sports through their father can't usually choose their floating vehicle. So it happened that I was allowed to have my first "sea experience" as a little boater in the musty-smelling cabin of a 15-metre dinghy cruiser - great. Thank you for that! And that's not all. Instead of sailing on a well-known and finely buoyed lake near home with a chip shop, bathing beach and ice cream vendor on the jetty, I went sailing - following family tradition - to the "old homeland" on the Masurian lakes.
The child learns to survive
What is sold to us today as "pure nature" was pure survival training back then - we're talking about the early 1970s - at least in the eyes of an eight-year-old at the time. No knowledge of the area or the language, no maps and my father's job was to get the 6.5 metre boat safely across the Eylau Lake District to Deutsch Eylau, Ilawa in Polish. I put on the heavy solid buoyancy aid, gave a friendly nudge seawards and set off on the wild ride. Around ten nautical miles solo in a wildly snarling 3 to 4 Beaufort. The jib remained packed, the 11-square-metre mainsail had to suffice. For me, that was the starting signal for what felt like an Atlantic crossing.
What you don't expect as a young sailor from northern Germany, however, is that you shouldn't get too close to the heavily wooded shores of the East Prussian lake district.
The disaster comes from above
While I was more concerned about the draught and therefore the centreboard, which I could have caught up with in an emergency, the real danger was more at treetop level. So it was that after a few miles, I narrowly skimmed round the tip of an island - Rasmus meant well with me - and what felt like a brisk ride came to an abrupt end with a full stop.
The masthead had become entangled in the lazily swaying branches of a gigantic weeping willow at a height of around eight metres. And anyone who knows this type of tree knows how expansive and elastic willow branches can be. All the clamour and tugging was of no avail. The wooden snare was stuck. There was no-one around and certainly no-one who could have understood my language.
Liberation on foot
However, being so close to the shore had one advantage: at a depth of 80 centimetres, even I dared to go overboard and try to free my "yacht" - there's that word again - from the clutches of the botanical, and at that time still communist, elemental force.
To cut a long story short: With a bit of effort, accompanied by a few expletives, chafed thighs and remaining willow branches in the top, I managed to get the boat clear, heave myself back in and continue my adventure, keeping a good distance from the shore.
The trouble at the end
But as soon as the harbour of destination was in sight, the next trouble announced itself. The willow branches in the masthead, which I initially ignored, blocked the main halyard so that I entered the harbour under full sail. There wasn't enough room for the rescue push and the wooden jetty caused me to brake hard.
And what remains? Well, even today - even when I'm travelling by motorboat - I still look sceptically at every bridge level and the resulting clearance height. Lesson learnt is lesson learned.
