It’s just a few steps from the Stickenhörn pier into another world. Prieser Strand 12b in Kiel: those who live here have the water beneath them as their foundation. And every day, over their first morning coffee, they can watch the sun rise over the pier. Perhaps ducks are quacking or young swans are chirping, their parents nesting on the jetty. Living and working permanently on a boat – a dream for many. The residents of the Schwentine fleet are living that dream.
The coolness of the morning still hangs over the harbour. It smells of salt water, wood and damp greenery. On the shore, the first flowers are blooming in a small garden with a birdhouse and an insect hotel; behind it, ropes creak against the bollards. Fresh planks are currently being laid on one of the jetties, as usual by the residents themselves, but today there is a shadow over the work: the night before, the Schwentine fleet learnt that their oasis is in danger.
Uwe Stahl, vice-chairman of the Schwentineflotte association, cycles along the pier. A ring of white hair peeks out from under his cap, and his blue outdoor jacket shields him from the chilly wind. He points to the 50 boats moored side by side at two jetties. Some are immaculately maintained and ready to sail, others a bit ‘shaky’, as he calls those covered in verdigris, or those on whose decks what looks like half a household’s belongings are stored.
A port as a place of residence
Twenty-seven people are officially registered as living here – a rarity, given that permanent residence is prohibited in most German harbours. The Schwentine fleet is a rare exception; formerly based at Kiel’s fish market at the mouth of the Schwentine, it is now moored in Plüschow Harbour. In one corner lies a homemade houseboat with a bathtub behind glass; further back on the jetty, a Chinese junk; in between, yachts made of fibreglass or wood. Some are ready to sail; others would need a bit of tidying up before setting off, until the houseboat becomes a sailing boat.
Some berths therefore hold two boats: one for living in, the other for sailing. Further out, a few boats—some of them in a state of disrepair—are moored. “If one of the boats is in danger of sinking, we take care of it to prevent any potential environmental damage,” explains Uwe. But “they cause us problems, because people immediately associate them with us, even though they don’t belong to us,” he explains. The image of the fleet as a haven for dropouts is a persistent prejudice, explains former sailing blogger Kim Pack: “Outsiders think that, but it’s not true.”
More than just dropouts: those who live on the Schwentine fleet
Right now, she’s dashing after her young son on the pier, taking care of work calls in between. “The people who live here include entrepreneurs, the self-employed, employees and skilled professionals from all sorts of fields.” Some go ashore to do their jobs, others are pensioners or bon vivants who have consciously turned their backs on what they call ‘the system’. Freedom and imagination instead of a full-time job and a building society savings plan.
From the cosy wheelhouse of her “Vrij” – Dutch for “Free” – club chairwoman Vera Fichtner describes the Schwentine fleet as a housing project, a club and a way of life. “It’s a microcosm that works,” she says, “but it’s not an easy one.” As she speaks, her hands and arms gesticulate animatedly to emphasise her words. The Schwentine fleet is not a “we all love one another” community, says Fichtner; it experiences friction and conflict. “There are plenty of cockerels,” she says with a laugh. “As chairwoman, you can’t shy away from conflict.” She takes out the Schwentineflotte’s flag and holds it up to the light: a sun and its rays throughout the course of a day, from the fresh yellow of sunrise to the soft blue of evening. Just like the view from east to west from the window of her 98-year-old Dutch tjalk.
In the corner of the living area stands a stove that heats the boat to ‘almost too warm’ in winter. Large water tanks and a mini sewage treatment plant also make life on board relatively comfortable. Others have to go to the washhouse whatever the weather. The teacher was seriously ill and, together with her husband and son, swapped their house in Cologne for life on board. “I’m sure this keeps me healthy,” she says candidly.
Openness about weakness and making a fresh start
She’s not alone in that. One of them has been sober for 25 years. “The community has kept me going; I wouldn’t have managed it without them,” he says, taking a drag on his hand-rolled cigarette. “Here, I don’t have to drink beer to be cool.”
Another man talks about the sailing trips he used to go on – the North Sea, the Baltic Sea, the Atlantic. They came to an abrupt end when he was diagnosed with cancer. He only just survived; long voyages are no longer an option. “I can keep going for a while, then I have to lie down again. My symbiont needs a rest then.” He briefly lifts his T-shirt and points to a urostomy bag. “I call him Schnulli.” This openness with which illness, weakness, failure and recovery are discussed here is rarely found outside the harbour gates.
Nothing feels staged; everything feels genuine. It takes a firm hand to keep the crew together. Their voyage isn’t through rough seas, but when the world and attitudes change, this community too must adjust course – and sometimes weather the storm.
They have converted two containers at the top of the jetty into communal areas, complete with a shower and toilet, a kitchen and a washing machine. In front of these is a long, narrow room with sofas, postboxes, toys and all sorts of boating equipment. Bed linen is drying on a washing line. Large windows offer an unobstructed view across the whole harbour.
Schwentineflotte offers Help, before anyone has to ask
Frank Sebesse has been living on the fleet for decades. He squints against the sunlight and proudly points to a sauna with a roof terrace and harbour views, which they have built in the wheelhouse of a decommissioned cutter. In the communal kitchen stands a large basket of bread rolls. A nearby petrol station gives them the unsold pastries that would otherwise end up in the bin. On the wall hangs a gallery of black-and-white and colour photographs, some of which have already faded. People who lived here and died here. “There are quite a few of them hanging there,” he says.
Sebesse remembers every single one of them. Especially the man who was seriously ill, for whom, when she was just under forty, they made his final wish come true on his boat one very last night. They built him a staircase so he could get on board, and looked after him all night long. Two days later, he died, back in hospital. “Yes, people live here, and people die here too.”
As he walks across the jetty, Uwe Stahl taps gently on a boat and climbs aboard. “The owner can barely move, but he won’t go to the doctor,” he says as he climbs back down. “But you can’t just leave people to suffer on their own.”
The handrail of the ladder leading up to the jetty is polished smooth from so many hands gripping it. Toni is over seventy and can barely make it up to the jetty anymore. “We’re building him a gangway this weekend,” explains Stahl. “Around here, people look out for one another before anyone has to ask for help.” Frank Sebesse experienced this himself many years ago, when he was in a very bad way. He doubts he would have managed elsewhere. Today, as a pensioner, he can afford a life on board that he wouldn’t have with a flat on land. “What I get here in this oasis, I give back through my work and my commitment,” he explains.
From an almost empty bank account to the backbone of the club
His job as a volunteer treasurer was no easy task. He started in 2012 with an account that was almost completely empty. The club had to take out a loan for new dolphins because the old ones had been eaten away by shipworms. Sebesse, who had no formal business training, taught himself bookkeeping, hired an accountant and chased up outstanding payments. “Within a year, we went from a balance of 2,000 to 75,000 euros,” he says, not without pride.
The Oase has clear rules. “We have to be on the same wavelength,” explains Uwe Stahl. The club’s constitution prohibits racism and fascism. That is non-negotiable. Members are required to carry out 15 hours of voluntary work per year and must have boat insurance. Anyone wishing to become a member is placed on a waiting list and, later, provided a three-quarters majority is achieved, on the vessel list for a berth. Around 100 people are paying members even without any ambition to secure a berth, simply out of conviction, but perhaps also because of the traditions that have developed over the years. Harbour festivals with a music marquee, a fish market regatta and a rum-and-duck regatta, where there’s more laughter than sailing. The spring sailing season, a Christmas party and a kale dinner in winter. Picnics on the jetty, litter-picking on the pier. In winter, the group erects a large teepee made of beams and old sails at the top of the pier, furnished inside with pallet furniture, a samovar and a stove.
Enno Doobe – with white hair and a white beard, a strong voice and a laugh that carries far across the jetty – talks about the benefits of life in the boating community: “You can swim here, go fishing, and the children learn to ride their bikes on the jetty. We’re also a hub for lots of people from Friedrichsort; we’re not outsiders.” He raised three children here, using a second boat as a bedroom, and took them on long sailing trips to Morocco and the Canary Islands. He does have a house, mind you, but he refers to it as “my camp, my base”; the harbour is his life. “The contact with the old and the young – it’s like one big family.”
The storm surge test: the Schwentine fleet in a state of emergency
They really had their work cut out for them during the 2023 Baltic Sea storm surge. The club members are almost tripping over each other as they tell their stories, each one finishing the other’s sentences. How they kept watch together all night long up in the clubhouse. How they rowed dinghies between the jetties to secure the lines and check that everything was in order. Until they received the news that Fiete’s boat had sunk next door in the Stickenhörn marina.
Of all people. Fiete-Christoph Eckert is something of the fleet’s favourite. He lives within walking distance, just a few minutes away, and, as he puts it, has spent “more time here than at home” since he was 14. Today, he is responsible for inspecting the lifeboats in the North Sea and Baltic Sea for the Sea Rescue Service. To do this, he had to complete a demanding training programme, as the older members recount with a kind of parental pride. During the storm surge, his boat sank in Schilksee marina whilst he was on duty. Vera Fichtner recounts: “Our dinghy was sent over straight away that morning. We brought over all the available pumps and generators, and anything that could serve as a flotation aid.” One man brought diving equipment and spent hours underwater. By the end of the day, the boat was afloat again, long before any of the others.
Eckert describes the way everyone here looks after one another and the boats as “a very special kind of seamanship that is exemplary in its own way”. This is probably one of the reasons why the Schwentine fleet is something of an insider’s tip in the sailing world. Guest moorings are welcome, but no advertising is done, because “we want to preserve our little microcosm”, says Frank Sebesse.
The future of the Schwentine fleet is uncertain
A pipe dream whose realisation now hangs in the balance. The city of Kiel is planning to hand over the entire site at Plüschow Harbour to the German Armed Forces. A naval battalion is set to take up position here; civilians are not welcome. Moving on, starting afresh – the long-standing residents are all too familiar with this from the 1990s. “Heide Simonis described us back then as a cultural asset,” recalls Enno Doobe. After 28 years of reassuring continuity, many questions now remain unanswered.
“Community needs space,” says Vera Fichtner. Space to live, to work, to grow old. No one knows yet whether they will be able to stay. So this morning, they carry on building, carry on living, with the tenacity of those who have had to move on before and start afresh. From a loudspeaker on the jetty, Bob Marley sings: “Every little thing is gonna be alright.”
The History of the Schwentine Fleet
- In the mid-1980s, the ‘Living and Working on Ships’ initiative was founded at the Fischmarktmole (mouth of the Schwentine).
- In 1990, the initiative gave rise to the “Schwentineflotte e. V.” association. Shortly afterwards, the fleet was required to move due to upcoming construction work at the fish market. Together with the City of Kiel, a search began for a new harbour.
- In 1998, the harbour at Stickenhörnmole (Plüschow Harbour) was built, funded by the state of Schleswig-Holstein, the city of Kiel and the association. The association signed a lease agreement with the city running until 2033. The fleet moved: around 30 vessels crossed diagonally across the inner fjords and took up residence at the two new floating jetties.
- In 2001, mooring posts were installed, new floating jetties were built and a canopy was erected over the pergola.
- In 2002/03, a basement was built beneath the car park and the pergola to provide additional storage space.
- In 2011, the containers were converted into communal areas featuring a shower, toilet, kitchen, washing machine and pergola.
- In 2014/15, the port needs new dolphins; the old ones have been eaten away by shipworms. The new ones are being financed by a loan and are expected to last 30 years.
- In 2023, the fleet will celebrate its 25th anniversary at Plüschow Harbour.
- In mid-April 2026, the city of Kiel announced that the Plüschow Basin was to be sold to the German Armed Forces. The plan is for a naval battalion to be stationed there. The future of the Schwentine fleet is once again uncertain.
Ursula Meer
Redakteurin Panorama und Reise
