In the "Sailors confess" series, we confess our stupidest sailing mistakes. But we are also keen to hear your confessions. Send us your text, if possible with pictures, to mail@yacht.dekeyword "sailor's confession". If desired, publication will be anonymised.
An eight-metre English chine keeler was my second boat of my own. Purchased with deep pink glasses in autumn on the East Frisian island of Langeoog. During the winter, we gave it a makeshift refit in the shed there and checked everything relevant to safety to the best of our, albeit meagre, knowledge. The refit was to take place on the mainland. Before the purchase, I had bent over the open companionway with the seller, an older islander, and looked at the 19 hp built-in diesel, which I thought looked quite passable. "You could tell me anything about this engine, I'd have to believe you, because I don't know anything about it," I admitted. "Oh," replied the gentleman who had owned the boat for 25 years, "I don't either. But it always ran smoothly." The situation was similar at many other points in the old boat. The little chine keeler was soon to be nicknamed "the English patient" by me. It was to go to Hooksiel for maintenance.
The first trip on the mudflats
To do this, he had to sail from Langeoog to Bensersiel and from there, the next day, across four mudflats into the Jade. At only about 23 nautical miles, it wasn't a particularly long trip, but four Wadden Highs had to be passed in one tide; I had spent ages meticulously calculating that this was possible. The crew consisted of myself and a friend of the family, a pensioner and very experienced sailor, whose home area was the Baltic Sea. I'll call him Knud. He came to the conclusion that we should set off early in the morning, the water would come then. Full stop. He had taken a closer look at the boat - without the rose-coloured glasses - and had obviously decided to get this trip over with as quickly as possible.
A sailing dream with initial clouding
On the outside, the day was pretty close to a sailor's dream, with a crisp wind from the north-west and sunshine from a fleecy cloudy sky. We chugged along the causeway towards the mudflats and set course for the east. Under mainsail and engine - Knud demanded maximum speed - we followed the buoy line towards Prickenweg. We were travelling at a pleasingly fast pace, my heart was soaring with joy! Until the mainsail tore with a loud HISS, ten centimetres above the foot, horizontally from front to back. Sighing, I wrote it down on my purchase list, which wasn't short anyway, and got up.
The genoa remained furled; it had suffered storm damage on Langeoog and was only provisionally mended. We motored for hours, passing Spiekeroog and Wangerooge. To starboard, the light-coloured beach of the uninhabited island of Minsener Oog was almost within reach, seabirds chattered and the backs of seals glistened in the sun. Just this one more bend and we would have made it, reached the deep fairway and soon Hooksiel!
Water in the ship!
Knud had to pee. "It smells of exhaust fumes down there," he realised as he came up the companionway. I wasn't sure whether and, above all, how we should pay attention to this. We set the genoa after all and took out some thrust to relieve the engine a little.
I went below deck to check on him - and found myself standing on floating floorboards. Water in the ship! At the same moment, a quiet, final splutter from the engine compartment. The marvellous calm that surrounded us after the hours of rattling could not detract from the overall picture: no engine, only one sail - that didn't have to be a drama. But the water!
In distress at sea! Or not?
After the initial scare, let's take stock: we didn't have a radio on board to call for help. Just a mobile phone, which at least had reception at times and still had a hint of battery power. It was not yet clear whether the water was still rising. However, we didn't want to declare a sea emergency yet; if in doubt, we could anchor close to the island or fall dry, which is what bilge keels were built for.
A new curse from the cockpit: the makeshift foresail was torn again. However, we only slowed down slightly, because a little draught no longer had a significant effect on the performance - a big word in this context - of the old sail. I scooped up bucket after bucket of water, nothing ran out. Another six miles to the finish. We kept close to the edge of the mudflats and slowly approached the approach to Hooksiel, but without any further incidents.
Unexpected help
A motorboat kindly took the helplessly waving crew on the hook and took us through the lock. For the last few metres we tried to get the striking engine going - and lo and behold: it started. The cause was a leak at the bottom of the exhaust hose, through which the exhaust fumes and water were leaking into the boat. Nothing dramatic in itself, but given the combination of time and circumstances, it was certainly avoidable. Above all, it was avoidable, provided the boat was properly inspected.
