The Atlantic Ocean between Portugal and the Azores is in a foul mood this Wednesday. It is 23 June 1937. As dusk falls, the north wind veers east, picks up in strength, and a rough sea begins to form. On the foredeck of a small yacht sailing westwards under the German flag, a sixty-year-old pensioner is struggling, swearing under his breath, with the flapping wooden profile of his furling jib system.
No one can hear him. The man is sailing alone. Four days earlier, retired merchant ship captain Ludwig Schlimbach had set off for Newport on the American east coast, becoming the first German to do so. But now a loose bolt threatens to bring the expedition to a premature end. “It had fallen out, and now the over-nine-metre-long mast was banging about with the sail flapping,” the captain later wrote in his logbook.
Schlimbach battles on and takes it in his stride: “Rudder locked in place, the ‘monkey line’ round my waist, and off I went to battle the dragon! It must have made for a cracking bit of film footage, as working whilst standing was impossible. So down onto the seat, with my legs hanging over the side – and then up there at the bow of the ship, bobbing up and down several metres at the pace of a New York express lift – plunging into the Atlantic up to my navel, then back up into the fresh air; but never long enough to dry off. After a battle that may have lasted about an hour, I retreated victoriously to the stern.”
Why does this man put himself through this? Ludwig Schlimbach is no adventurer. On the contrary, over the past six years he has made offshore sailing socially acceptable in Germany. His name is on everyone’s lips; last year’s feeder regatta to the Olympic Games, with eight German yachts on the starting line, was his triumph – the man is among the country’s sailing elite. In short, he no longer has anything to prove to anyone as he sets out on this voyage. Yet he wants to do it anyway. Schlimbach is inspired by the idea that, having sparked enthusiasm for blue-water sailing, he can now also spark interest in Single-handed sailing in Germany.
We know the outcome. He succeeds. The journey during which the scene described takes place brings him that Crown Compass one which, after his death, would go on to become the most prized trophy in ocean sailing.
From merchant ship captain to sailor
Ludwig Schlimbach the man is less well known today. The bachelor left no descendants, and his close circle of friends – his old sailing companions – are no longer with us. What remains are records: written by Schlimbach himself and by contemporary witnesses, all of whom held him in high regard – as a sailor, a sportsman and a man of character.
Schlimbach’s birthplace, Munich, where he was born on 18 September 1876, lies on the River Isar but is a long way from the water. Nothing is known about his reasons for leaving his middle-class family home – his father, Schlimbach, was a bank manager. The only certainty is that, after passing his A-levels at the prestigious Luitpold-Gymnasium, he went to sea. His decision to sign on to English and American sailing ships is particularly noteworthy. During his seven-year apprenticeship, Schlimbach was, amongst other things, entered on the crew list of the ‘Cutty Sark’; in 1900, having obtained both his qualifications, he joined Hapag for the high seas. He was only 35 years old when he was entrusted with the command of the prestigious passenger ship ‘Oceana’.
During this time, whilst the steamer was sailing between New York and the Bermudas, Schlimbach was introduced to sailing. American friends, who would later prove useful to the captain as influential figures in politics and business, took him aboard their yachts in the Caribbean.
The First World War shaped Schlimbach’s fate, as it did for so many. The captain was seconded to support a German cruiser in the South Atlantic, and when America entered the war, Schlimbach was taken prisoner of war. “Playing music, drawing, carving and pondering the meaning of life at length, Ludwig Schlimbach spent those agonising years behind barbed wire with his old comrades and many young ones,” wrote Georg Lauritzen, a friend he would later make, in his memoir in 1959.
At the end of the war, Schlimbach was 40 years old. He bought a three-masted schooner and sailed on his own account until the Great Depression caught up with him too, and the freight earnings were barely enough to cover his wages. In 1930, Schlimbach moved into a flat in Hamburg-Othmarschen and retired – with his very own idea of what retirement meant.
A regrettable gap in German sailing
“Whilst I spent years observing our friends on the other side of the Channel and the Atlantic,” Schlimbach later wrote, “I realised that here in Germany, next to nothing was being done to develop this sport, to forge international ties, or to make it an excellent educational tool for our young people.”
He is referring to ocean sailing. The last time a German yacht took part in a transatlantic competition was the voyage of the ‘Hamburg’ in the race from America to England in 1905 – at that time, with a crew consisting exclusively of paid hands. During the austere post-war years, Germany had been unable to play a part in the development of ocean sailing as an amateur sport. “I saw a regrettable gap there and decided to fill it,” said Schlimbach.
The impetus came at the time from a letter from Herbert L. Stone overseas. It contained an invitation to the Cruising Club of America’s regatta in England. “I wouldn’t have been able to sit still for long anyway,” said Schlimbach. “So I set out to find a suitable boat.” To cut a long story short: Schlimbach not only had to find a boat, he also needed money and a crew. And he found neither. Instead, he was met with scepticism and ridicule. But Schlimbach remains undeterred: “If the world has reached a point where people hesitate to do something because it is inconvenient or difficult – or dangerous – then this world is no longer worth living in.”
Yet the venture is ill-fated. Although a ship is found quickly, the ketch-rigged fishing cutter is hardly a racing yacht. Instead of the eight-man crew he needs, Schlimbach finds only one amateur and hires two seamen at his own expense, one of whom drops out as early as Vigo – he is constantly feeling sick. The weather then ensures that the crew of the first ‘Störtebeker’ arrives too late for the start off Newport. They are celebrated by the Americans nonetheless – for a new east–west transatlantic record. Recognition in Germany, however, failed to materialise. The second deep-sea sailing venture did not take place until 1935. Schlimbach was still determined to take German youth out to sea beyond the triangular course. His mission was to harness the sport’s power to bring people together across nations.
Yet his participation in the Atlantic race from Newport to Bergen, to which his American friend Herbert L. Stone had invited him, met with a lack of understanding back home. People made fun of the old man. When members of the North German Regatta Club agreed to provide funding, they asked that the club’s name be kept out of it – they felt its reputation was at risk. But Schlimbach is ready to set sail. He buys a 15-metre-long yawl and enters the race with it as the ‘Störtebeker II’. Once again, time is too short, once again there are crew problems, and nobody has any experience with the vessel.
Schlimbach’s former shipping company, Hapag, charters the yacht to the start line. By steering an extreme southerly course, the captain aims to make use of the Gulf Stream and keep his distance from the drift ice boundary. The victorious ‘Stormy Weather’, by contrast, consistently follows a great circle route, thus employing the opposite tactic. It reaches the finish line after 19 days. The crew of the ‘Störtebeker II’, on the other hand, takes 34 days. A painfully long time. After 30 days, the press even reported the yacht as missing. Nevertheless, it was a success. For, upon arriving in Kiel, the men were finally accorded attention. However, what Schlimbach had intended as a promotion of international understanding was now being used for contemporary propaganda. The enthusiasm culminates in the decision to hold an ocean-going regatta as part of the Olympic sailing competitions.
Germany is caught up in the thrill of the high seas
Schlimbach has achieved his goal; Germany’s sailors are caught up in the thrill of the open sea. Overnight, attitudes towards this sport have changed. Just a year earlier, it had only been possible to raise funds for taking part in such a regatta under a veil of secrecy. In the 1936 Transatlantic Regatta, however, eight German yachts are now lining up at the start. The wave of euphoria is most clearly illustrated by the example of the “Peter of Danzig”, which the students of the Academic Sailing Club of Danzig had built in just 52 days, then loaded onto a freighter in a half-finished state to be completed en route. Germany’s sailors were now finally keen to set sail on the open sea.
What is left for Schlimbach to do? Naturally, he is there in 1936 too – as skipper of the ‘Hamburg’. But he has fulfilled his mission. And so he comes up with something new. ‘That’s when I spotted a second gap in German sport: we had no single-handed sailors! When you were sitting amongst Americans and had to listen to them talking about the great achievements of a Joshua Slocum When people spoke of such things, one felt rather small and insignificant as a German sportsman. I wanted to fill this second gap. Old dreams from my youth were reawakened, and the ideal of all my desires seemed to me to be a small, manoeuvrable ship with which I wanted to take on the fierce ‘Okeanos’ all by myself.” With this mission in mind, he sought out Henry Rasmussen to discuss a suitable vessel. The result was the ‘Störtebeker III’. The letters he wrote home during the voyage formed the basis of his book *Ein Mann erobert den Atlantik* (*A Man Conquers the Atlantic*), which was published in the spring of 1938 and offers deep insights into Schlimbach’s soul.
Being on your own without getting bored
Two of his most outstanding character traits are already evident from the account of the night-time repair on the Atlantic. Schischbach is a true fighter and knows how to take life in his own hands with technical skill, physical fitness and an unshakeable sense of humour. Positive thinking, long before the term became popular.
His attitude towards solitude would also strike a chord today. Alongside the sporting challenge and his fascination with the old masters of the craft – he specifically names Slocum, Pidgeon, Gerbault, Voss and O’Brian as role models – he values the soothing effect of solitude from time to time: “People can cope quite well on their own. I’d say they should, from time to time, free themselves from all superfluous fuss, from all concessions and our so-called education, and spend some time out in solitude. You forget everything – greed and envy, stock market reports and tax returns – and are detached from everything that might weigh on your mind.”
Solitude? Not a chance: “Just how little boredom I felt is perhaps best illustrated by the fact that I’d taken various books in four languages with me and didn’t open a single one during that whole long period – apart from the Nautical Yearbook and the tables of logarithms.”
Safety, navigation and galley
The captain approaches the risks of single-handed sailing with the utmost care. He moves the start of his solo voyage in 1937 to Lisbon, as he considers the English Channel to be too busy. The third ‘Störtebeker’ is shipped there as deck cargo. En route, Schlimbach is constantly occupied with his “Monkey lead” He added: “I always wore this lanyard, even in the finest weather – there were no exceptions to this rule – otherwise I might have forgotten it just when it was most needed.” He took particular care to avoid other dangers: “I would sleep during the day and, in changeable weather, sail with caution.”
His reports on navigation provide evidence of the captain’s outstanding nautical skills. Thanks to a sextant, a simple watch – there is no chronometer on board – and a logbook that constantly gets cluttered, Schlimbach’s positions always match those of the commercial vessels he encounters along the way.
With plenty of humour, the bon vivant Schlimbach also tackles the subject of ship’s cooking: ‘I hate cooking and prefer the hardest physical labour to any task in the galley. But here I found myself on a rather peculiar vessel: if the captain didn’t cook, the cook got nothing to eat – and vice versa. So I devised 8 to 10 different menus, which were repeated every 8 to 10 days. For example, on the first day there was corned beef with potatoes and tinned vegetables. On the second – always following a hearty Maggi or Knorr soup – something like macaroni with ham; on the third, rice with curry, until the weekly menu started all over again. For dessert, there was usually tinned fruit. But at 12.20 pm, once the ship’s position had been established, there was always a cocktail, mixed as well as any in the most upmarket bar. Then the soup was served.”
Schlimbach is enjoying the voyage and is using his stay in the USA to visit old friends. Upon his return, the city of Kiel awards him the Kronenkompass and his book is published – Schlimbach is at the zenith of his sailing career.
The big dream remains unfulfilled
However, his life and career following his award-winning voyage in 1937 took a rather tragic turn. According to Schlimbach, for forty years he had kept the voyage of his role model, Slocum, in mind. Yet the lifelong dream of a single-handed circumnavigation of the globe remained out of reach for the tireless captain, even after he had laid the groundwork for it. He worked hard towards his goal. Schlimbach made three attempts. The first was aboard the ‘Störtebeker IV’ in 1938. From Kiel via Hamburg, Schlimbach sailed to England and on to Lisbon, with the aim of crossing the Atlantic single-handed once more. Following a collision with flotsam, the boat – a ten-metre-long wooden Spitzgatter – took on so much water that Schlimbach was forced to abandon the attempt and return home.
The following year, he set off in a newly built steel vessel. Designed by Ludwig Dinklage, this dream boat was intended to meet all the requirements for a circumnavigation of the globe. Just under eleven metres long, ketch-rigged and featuring a transom stern and a trailing rudder, it was a sturdy vessel – but the outbreak of war stood in its way. Schlimbach had only just reached Vigo. By the end of the war, Schlimbach – who had been seconded as captain of a submarine training vessel – was starving and physically exhausted, yet full of drive. He acquired a wreck from which the ‘Störtebeker VI’ was to be built. Every day, the emaciated man – now in his late seventies – dragged himself from Othmarschen to the Porath shipyard in Finkenwerder to work on his dream.
On 13 January 1949, friends found the captain in his bed, where he had peacefully passed away for the last time, his freshly filled pipe on the bedside table already prepared for his next adventures. At the funeral service, Dr Wolfgang Frank spoke these words on behalf of his former sailing companions: “We have lost a father in you, a role model whom we will never forget. Through your achievements and by setting an example, you made yourself a role model. You threw the doors wide open for all of us to venture out into the world.”
Ludwig Schlimbach’s achievements in offshore sailing
- 1931: With the decommissioned deep-sea fishing vessel ‘Störtebeker I’ and a crew of just two, Schlimbach sails across the Atlantic to take part in a transatlantic regatta, but arrives too late for the start.
- 1935: Participation in the transatlantic race from Newport to Bergen on the 15-metre yawl “Störtebeker II”. Once again, there were crew problems and the voyage took an unusually long time.
- 1936: Schlimbach took part in the feeder race to the 1936 Olympic sailing competitions in Kiel as the skipper of the ‘Hamburg’, owned by the Hamburg Maritime Association. It was his third Atlantic crossing under sail.
- 1937: On Henry ‘Jimmy’ Rasmussen’s 7-KR yacht, the ‘Störtebeker’ – which he calls ‘Störtebeker III’ – Schlimbach is sailing across the Atlantic for the fourth time, this time single-handed, from Lisbon to New York.
- 1938: Aboard his ‘Störtebeker IV’, a ten-metre-long oak double-ender built in Flensburg, Schlimbach set off on his fifth Atlantic crossing, which he was forced to abandon following a collision with a whale and subsequent flooding. He had previously had the boat converted into a yawl by J. Porath in Finkenwerder.
- 1939: A renewed attempt at a fifth Atlantic crossing is being made aboard the steel-hulled ‘Störtebeker V’, a 10.67-metre-long ketch. The outbreak of war takes the old captain by surprise whilst he is in Spain, and, on orders, he returns to the Elbe with his boat stowed as deck cargo on a merchant ship.
Book recommendations
The victory that was thrown away recounts Bernard Moitessier’s extraordinary single-handed, non-stop voyage round the three great capes during the 1968/69 Golden Globe Race. The focus is not only on the storms, the solitude and the struggle for survival in a small boat, but also on the sailor’s decision to give up a victory that seemed almost certain. The account contextualises the early benchmarks of single-handed ocean sailing from a personal perspective.
Stress-free sailing: a concise guide brings together 101 tips for cruising sailors who sail a boat alone or with a small crew. Illustrated guides cover topics including setting sails, reefing, anchoring, harbour manoeuvres, navigation and sailing in heavy weather. This book provides step-by-step procedures for preparing for and carrying out your own sailing trip – for use as a reference on board as well as for a refresher before setting sail.
Daring or stubbornness: how far should a sailor go to fulfil their big dream? Join the discussion and share your thoughts in the comments.
Lasse Johannsen
Deputy Editor in Chief YACHT