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.
So as not to give the impression that this was my only mishap, perhaps I should preface this one with a collective confession - and hope for general absolution: There is little that I have omitted in a good half century on the water.
Mistaken the gennaker tack for the clew? A classic! Guilty! Engine not switched to neutral after stopping? Another classic? Guilty! Switched on the boiler when it was still empty after winter storage, causing the fuse to blow? Guilty! Washed the deck with washing-up liquid due to a lack of suitable agents - and found it blooming green weeks later? Guilty!
But it was the short-lived, almost perfect spin-off that annoyed me the most and for the longest time. You have to imagine it like a world collapsing before your very eyes - as if someone had suspended the rules of physics for a split second. At least that's how it felt.
The first magical spring cruise
It was the end of April in Kappeln on the Schlei, about ten years ago. I had had my boat refitted over the winter at Mittelmann's shipyard. Two weeks of cumulative labour on the underwater hull, hull and deck. Everything was sparkling. Even in the ungracious light of a still grey, cloudy spring day, revealing every veil, every matting of microns of polishing paste left behind, everything looked sleek and beautiful.
I longed for this moment, as I do every year. Those first magical miles when no algae slime on the antifouling and no chalk plates on the folding propeller offer resistance to the water flowing past. When the feeling for the boat's reactions returns, as if you had sailed through the winter. Where the handles are just like they were six months earlier, at the end of the season, as if you had never been away.
Soon the north-west would push me towards Schleimünde, then south towards Kiel lighthouse and on to Heiligenhafen. A space wind cross in perfect conditions, 15 to 18 knots of wind. Even the sun should come through later. What could go wrong? The weather was fine, the boat was as good as new, the diesel tank was full, even the water tank and boiler were full this time. You learn as you go.
The first offshoot of the season
I was well aware that the Schlei has its pitfalls and sometimes a lot of current. So I had a plan for the harbour manoeuvre and, with the lady of my heart at the jetty, I also had a helping hand when lowering the fore line. The wheel effect would move the stern slightly to port when reversing out of the box and the rudder would support the turn towards the fairway.
That's how it happened. Without even touching the dolphins, my 35-foot boat glided from the mooring on the jetty into the pit lane in a smooth swing. Already euphoric at the prospect of a beautiful first long day of sailing, I waved briefly, reached for the control lever on the cockpit wall and increased the speed a little. The lady on the jetty waved back, first cheerfully, then with increasing vigour. "Must look good, our boat, so spick and span," I thought. The waving didn't stop, it turned into a two-armed dance. "Wow, what emotions!"
The disillusionment
Instead of looking aft, I kept looking at my companion, who would be driving the car to the home harbour this time. I orientated myself by the row of dolphins to my left. An even bigger wave on the jetty. Whilst I was already pulling up the mooring lines in my mind and stowing the fenders in the forecastle, I heard a call, but it didn't get through to me clearly enough - overlaid by the wind, the sound of the engine, the splashing of the Schlei under the stern...
And then I was already standing...!
From maybe three to zero knots in no time at all. And no, it wasn't a flat, nor was it a forgotten mooring line. A resilient thud had gone through the ship, accompanied by a dull rumble. I was so perplexed that at first I didn't want to realise what had caused me to stop. But it was so obvious...
The error
On my starboard side, the dolphins were offset two metres aft about halfway along the pit lane so that larger yachts could also moor here. I was well aware of this simple fact, but in the euphoria of the successful casting off manoeuvre I had simply forgotten, suppressed or at least completely ignored it. As a result, I had hit the first of these offset dolphins with the outside of my stern without braking.
The damage
Fortunately, I was spared public humiliation because there was only one eyewitness to my glorious failure, and she was a friend of mine. But the moment haunted me for the rest of the season - firstly because I had simply been too stupid, and secondly because my boat now had a scratch in the laminate on the freshly polished transom, which was in no way structural, but highly unsightly. Even my attempt to repair the damage from the open stern was only a temporary solution. It would be well into the winter before Mittelmann's composite and gelcoat artists would fill the scar invisibly for all time.
It still hurts today to recall this incident! Believe me: I can see this spot as if it were yesterday. Fortunately, a similar embarrassment hasn't happened to me since. But a few others. But I really should keep them to myself!
