Glossary: Backwards instead of forwards - and the peace and quiet is over

My boating life changed because of a single sentence. Really true. I remember exactly when and where I said it: in Ebeltoft, Denmark, after a mooring manoeuvre that went completely wrong in an estimated 20-strong wind, heavy rain, my husband shouting and me in agony. Our "old lady" threatens to touch the two neighbouring boats, no one is there to help, and I stand shaking with a line at the front after I've managed to secure a stern post by the skin of my teeth, realising that the bow was very high after all and the slippery jetty in front of it was very far down. "Jump! Now jump!" My husband, who was standing at the back of the tiller, shouted the request.

Jump! The footbridge is right underneath you!"

Of course it's not. Somehow we dock and I sprain my ankle in the process.

Bloody hell! How many times have I asked that we moor stern-to, as pretty much all sensible people do. Mooring stern-to is much easier, less stressful and less dangerous. But no: "I don't let tourists stare at my drink from the jetty," my husband explained time and time again. "I hate it when people look down on you from above, they're always chatting at you, you can't rest." And so on. There's no getting to him, and I've given in for decades.

Palpating my aching ankle, I indulge in revenge fantasies for the thousandth time: that I will tie my husband to the mast and then cut up the new gennaker in front of his horrified eyes. That I'll spray the teak deck with pink varnish while he bangs desperately against the companionway hatch.

Then this sentence comes up:

But now the time has come. I've reached the end of my patience. So I finally say this one sentence. Very calmly. Instead of shouting, threatening divorce or worse, I say to him:

If you carry on like this, you risk me never coming on the ship again!"

He just looks at me. And he seems to understand that I really mean it. I feel a bit like I've won a long-standing war. Shortly afterwards, the time has come. We sail back to Sønderborg, head for our berth and he makes it happen: we moor with the stern. Our jetty neighbours poke their heads out of their cabins in amazement and watch the procedure in bewilderment.

"That I can still experience this," Michi says almost reverently. And: "Now we can drink Prosecco together really quickly," says Sunny happily. "Above all, you don't have to climb onto your 'old lady' anymore."

"You can see straight away whether you're on board," says Claudi happily. And Heiner beams: "Josie is happy too, now she can sunbathe on the bathing platform with you, she'll have a change." Josie is Sunny and Heiner's dog.

"Yes, I'm sure it will be lovely," says my husband, who loves Josie but hates dog hair like the devil hates holy water.

Going backwards is a waste of time

"I'm only doing this for you", he will now regularly rub my nose in it. No matter, I'm the happiest person in the world. Mooring backwards is rubbish compared to forwards. How could I have been denied this for so long? In the best of moods, I realise that it's easy to get on and off the boat in any weather. And I no longer have to drag my luggage all over the foredeck. I always got tangled up in the lines and even fell a few times. I don't even want to talk about the bruises you get when you squeeze yourself backwards with full bags between the railing, shrouds and sprayhood.

Now we simply lower the bathing platform. You can sit on it and talk to the neighbours at a normal volume. No more "Hello, are you there? Are you there?" any more. And no more "Grüselfulliduddiknuppelmu", no more "I didn't understand that". Oh, a wonderful time begins! I'm just in a good mood, also because we now have direct social contacts and are no longer sitting alone in our cockpit and are only visited now and again by our neighbours Frank and Melina.

The skipper is unhappy

My husband, on the other hand, finds it hard to get excited about the new situation. Not at all, actually. Whenever people stop at the jetty in front of our boat and wish us bon appétit, he growls out imprecations. The same goes for when strangers stare at us like monkeys in a zoo.

I'm only doing this for you, don't forget that!"

That's what I get to hear once again. It gets dangerous when someone climbs onto the "old lady" without being asked to take a selfie for Insta. "One more time, then it's off!" my husband threatens. I calm him down: "Let people live, they're not doing anything", while I drink Prosecco from cans with Claudi, Heide and Sunny and Josie lies in front of us and gnaws on one of my husband's shoes.

As far as I'm concerned, we don't even have to sail any more. It's nice to be with the others here on the jetty. There's always contact - marvellous! In fact, as soon as we arrive, we are immediately taken in. You hardly get a chance to unpack. I feel better than ever. I always wanted it to be like this. Being right in the middle of the action, seeing everything.

"I'm only doing this for you," says my husband, now very resigned. Because someone always asks: "Shall we go out for dinner today?" We now go to the restaurant together every day and nobody goes out anymore. People also come by during the day who are also moored in the harbour, but not at our jetty. They are happy to see us and like to stay longer.

My husband, I realise inwardly, seems to be gradually coming to terms with the situation. "Shall we go to the DIY store?", "Can you pull me up the mast?" or "Come on, let's have a beer" are phrases that suddenly surround him. He and the men from the other boats love standing on the jetty together, talking shop about winch cranks or patting each other on the back for not giving up on the very dangerous crossing from Marstal to Middelfart or vice versa.

It seems to be paradise

Meanwhile, I swap salad recipes and the latest gossip with Sunny, Claudi, Melina and Heide, or we sit together and giggle. That's exactly how I wanted it, yes! Talking to people, barbecuing, celebrating, having fun. I don't even get round to reading a book or flicking through a fashion magazine any more.

As soon as we dock at the jetty, the first person is already there. As soon as we get on board on Friday afternoon, someone calls. My husband's old friends, who are in Sønderborg with their boat for two days, also come by without being asked. Big hello, that's great, come on board. Yes, of course.

I catch myself muttering about folding up the bathing platform to create at least a small barrier. But: "Are you crazy?" my husband asks. "Where is Josie supposed to sunbathe? Besides, that's what you wanted. I only did it for you, don't forget that."

His attitude has completely changed. He suddenly really comes to life, no, he blossoms. Does anyone need a Phillips screwdriver or is interested in the story of when the little seal suddenly appeared next to the "old lady"? Anyone want a bratwurst? And of course I've got plasters, wait. I'll come over to your place. Are you going into town to get some barbecue stuff?

The mood changes

My husband is in his element. But it's slowly getting too much for me. "Shall we go sailing to Flensburg?" I ask him one Friday. He thinks for a moment, then: "Wait, I'll ask the others." Damn, I curse silently, that's not what I meant! But it's too late. We sail to Flensburg with six boats, all of them moored stern-to, of course. "Come and join us, we're having Aperol Spritz!" Sunny shouts cheerfully, while Josie jumps onto my lap and demands to be stroked.

As my hand runs through Josie's admittedly wonderfully soft fur, I think back to the times when I used to sit alone in the cockpit with just a good book and a glass of wine. I had peace and comfort. How long ago was that?

Now I hardly ever see my husband, even in the harbour, and when I do, it's usually in the company of one or more neighbours on the dock. He's just beaming and happy, while I grind my teeth a little. Just one weekend of silence, that would be nice.

In a quiet second, and these are now rare, I take my husband aside. "Well," I start, "we can turn the boat round again for all I care. I don't have to do this permanently with the stern mooring. I really don't." He looks at me. "I'm only doing this for you," I add patronisingly. But he just replies: "Oh, that's not necessary."

And now? I go to the bow and sit on the foredeck. At least I can have a little time to myself. "There you are!" shout Sunny and Claudi. "Wait, we're coming over! Then you won't have to sit there all alone."

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