I was lying in the harbour with my boat and thinking about the sailing trip I had been on. Three months of just me, my thoughts, my boat and the sea. It had gone exactly as I had imagined. In the office, they had called my sailing trip a sabbatical. I had been working there for fifteen years and realised that my colleagues were getting younger and younger. I was getting older myself. Contrary to my original hopes, I had never been promoted. I had struggled with it for a while, then it no longer interested me. The time for ambition seemed to be over.
One afternoon, the HR manager called me in. He suggested I take a sabbatical. Three months, with full pay. The news spread quickly. They all knew that I had been dreaming of a sailing trip for years; I had talked about it often and in detail. "Let's go," said my colleagues. "You've earned it after fifteen years. Maybe you'll really blossom. Get away from it all for a while."
Start of the sabbatical
"Go ahead and do it," said Hagar. "You've wanted it for so long. I'll be fine. It'll be nice and quiet here when you're not here. You've been talking about a sailing trip for as long as I've known you. Now is the right time for it."
I sailed down the coast of England, past Ireland, past Scotland, across the Shetlands to Aberdeen. Along a string of pearls of islands and rocks and beaches. It was summer, but even in summer the waves were steep and high. You can get used to that, and I quickly got used to it.
"Maria was old enough to sail home with us. We took her sailing with us from birth."
The boat became friends with the sea. Sometimes I felt as if both had become a part of me. I made friends with being alone more and more. The nights, the lights, the cold hours between twelve and four in the morning. The dog watch. The anchor bays where no other ship was to be seen. The conversations I had with myself and my boat. I lost sight of the rest of my life more and more. Firstly the office. Especially the office and everything that was important there.
Highlight at the end of the trip
Maria is my daughter and my only child. She is seven. Only when she turns eight will I realise how small a seven-year-old girl really is. Mums don't want their children to get older, but dads do. Fathers can hardly wait for their children to finally be big enough to do father things with them. And Maria was old enough to sail home with me from Thyborøn. I had agreed this with Hagar.
We have been taking Maria sailing since she was born. She is used to the noise of the waves and the wind, to the boat moving under her feet like a fairground ride. Maria loves to look ahead while sailing, out over the deck. Sometimes she sits in the pulpit at the front of the boat and lets herself be rocked back and forth until she almost falls asleep. Maria can hoist and lower the sails. She also likes to stand at the tiller. I taught her all this myself. Once she even moored in a harbour. She was old enough now. I could rely on her.
Daughter and father crew
Off we went. The boat was ready to go. The sea had shaken off the storm. The waves no longer had whitecaps, but rolled leisurely towards the beach. I proudly walked across the deck with my daughter. I had put on my yellow sailing suit, Maria was wearing blue rain trousers. She looked gorgeous with her bright eyes. "Is it very wide?" she asked. "No, it's fine," I said.
For three months I had tried to calm down at sea. I hadn't been particularly successful. The people I met on the way reminded me of my colleagues in the office. Every harbour, every island was full of people. There was no escape. And what's more, with every nautical mile I travelled, I was getting closer to the world I had escaped from. I could feel myself getting more and more melancholy. Until the moment my daughter stood in front of me. My daughter, who loved me.
"For three months, I had tried to calm down at sea. I hadn't succeeded very well. Until the moment my daughter stood in front of me. My daughter, who loved me."
Other yachts were now casting off too. The harbour basin was gradually emptying. I started the engine. Every time I started the engine, I felt a tingling sensation all over my body. It was as if I had just come out of the sauna and jumped into a bath of ice-cold water. "Maria!" I called out. "We're ready, we're setting sail. Can you help me with the lines?" She came out of the cabin and ran to the foredeck. She was wearing a bright yellow lifejacket. "You have to put on a lifejacket too," she said. "If I have to put one on, so do you."
She carefully pulled in the lines with which the boat was moored to the jetty. I watched her. She shot the lines into neat bays, thoroughly and with concentration. Thyborøn became smaller and smaller. At first it looked like a Lego town, then the houses sank behind the horizon, only the chimneys and the wind turbines on their long masts were still visible.
Out to sea
I wanted to go far out to sea, as far as possible. I didn't want to see any more land. The sea was sometimes at its nastiest near the coast. There were sandbanks there that weren't marked on the map. And there were fishermen off the coast who had no regard for a small sailing boat. Nothing could happen to us further out. If a storm came up, the boat would dance a little on the waves until it calmed down again. Nothing would get in our way at sea. The further away, the safer.
I set the sails, Maria switched off the engine and then all we could hear was the sea crashing against the sides of the boat. We had left more than just the mainland behind us. The further out we travelled, the more the world became ours. All we could hear were the sounds of our own boat, the water, the wind and the odd bird passing by. The sounds had a rhythm. We heard the creaking of the cabin. The wind in the backstay. The flapping of the Dutch flag at the stern. The boat swayed in the swell. It was impossible to get seasick. We sailed until we could no longer see land. Until the sea had become a big circle and we were the centre. Maria sat in the cabin. She was drawing. The autopilot steered the boat. I had set it to a course of 230 degrees and it didn't deviate one degree.
Sudden disappearance
Dog watch. One o'clock at night. The sun had sunk behind the horizon in a carnival of colours and everything had been black and white ever since. There was a bright moon in the sky. I had put Maria in her bunk. She fell asleep immediately. I sat with my back to the railing and drank coffee from a thermos flask. I had filled two bottles at once: one with coffee and one with tea. I also had food with me so that I didn't have to go back inside to get something during the dog watch. Maria should be able to sleep in peace. Not wake up from my banging.
I looked round once every ten minutes. A buoy was flashing on the starboard side. Behind it, presumably a fishing boat - the position lights were barely recognisable. Another ship lit up on the port side. It had to be a cruise ship en route to Esbjerg. Countless small windows. Hundreds, glowing dark yellow. A small town travelling across the sea. With bars and swimming pools on board. With several restaurants to choose from. I imagined how people walked around there, from one foyer to the next, as if they were walking through streets. How they talked to each other. Dressing up for the Captain's Dinner. How they cheated on each other, or at least imagined it. How they got drunk and fell asleep.
My boat steered itself, the sea slid effortlessly beneath it. All I had to do was look around once every ten minutes in a world whose centre was still my boat. It wasn't difficult to stay awake; in this clear circle, every light on the horizon, every shadow in the water was an attraction. It took three quarters of an hour for the cruise ship to disappear from my field of vision. I was the one overlooking everything.
Perhaps the journey is just beginning
I'm standing in the bunk under the foredeck like an idiot. The weather has changed. The boat is rocking. I can hear the waves crashing against the hull, I can hear the hail pelting the deck. I didn't realise that Maria had disappeared. I can't explain it. There must be a reason. But I can't think of one. I can't find her. I didn't see any of this coming. Suddenly everything has turned upside down. The journey is not over. Not yet. Maybe it's only just beginning.
I might have to put my survival suit back on before I go looking for Maria. But it's so warm. Too warm to stay here, in the empty bunk. I stumble through the boat and climb outside, into the cockpit. I don't know what to do. The hail has stopped. Now it's drizzling. The boat is shrouded in mist. It's as if I've sailed into a vapour bath. I'm afraid I won't be able to breathe in this fog. I can't see a thing. I have to pull myself together. I mustn't panic.
"I didn't realise that Maria had disappeared. I can't explain it. There must be a reason. But I can't think of one. I can't find her."
That's the most stupid thing you can do at sea: panic. You can no longer think in a panic.
She couldn't have just disappeared. I could still feel her warmth under the blanket. She couldn't be far away. I couldn't see anything in the bunk. I couldn't find the switch. Have I looked hard enough?
It's all just a joke
Maybe she's been hiding. That will be it. She's playing me for a fool. Playing a game with me. She often does that. You want to take her to school and she whizzes round the corner on her bike. Then she stops and waits for you to find her. I've never liked these games. They always scare me. If I find her straight away, I can't get angry. I have to be careful. She was just joking. I know she's not really gone, but the thought alone scares me.
I look into the cabin and call out. "Where are you?" I shout, but not too loudly. If you start shouting loudly, you're panicking. And that's not me.
She's just playing a game. Damn, why is she playing a game now when the weather has changed?
I climb back down into the cabin. I walk forwards. This time I find the light switch. I switch on the light.
There is just an empty mattress in the bunk. The blankets are on the floor. She is not there. Her polar bear isn't there either. The boat is rocking. I have to hold on tight. Catch my breath. My body is made of rubber. My head is made of ice. Everything I say or think is worthless. I took my daughter out to sea with me, and that's where I lost her. She is gone. She can't possibly be gone. I stayed up all night. I saw all the buoys, all the other ships, I was more alert than ever. My thoughts were crystal clear and focussed.
Completely exhausted
Two nights without sleep are quite doable. I've managed that before. I've never been so focussed when I've been out and about. Never as focussed as I am now. That's because of Maria. Anyone who has a child with them is as alert as an eagle.
As long as nobody knows that Maria has disappeared, she hasn't disappeared.
It's as simple as that. She could be anywhere. Maybe I'm just imagining that she's gone.
Perhaps tiredness has caught up with me. The tiredness. I'm sure of it. I know what it's like. You go nights without sleep and think you can cope with everything. You think you don't need to sleep at all. Without sleep, your body gets a strange adrenaline rush, you feel like you're on drugs: Everything is completely clear in front of your eyes, totally clear. But in reality, you can't see clearly at all. It just seems that way. Without realising it, you've gone blind. Half blind, anyway.
I'll pull myself together. I am the father. I think about the hatch that was open because of the fresh air. I left it open all bloody night. Maybe she climbed through it. Yes, that's how it must have been. She climbed on deck through the hatch. Sleepwalking, she fell overboard. Into the black water. I mustn't think about it now. For heaven's sake, don't think about her pale body in the black water.
I run forwards to the hatch. It's completely folded to the side, it's raining in. I search the deck. It's dark. Nothing she could hide behind. I can't see enough. I climb back into the cabin, get the head torch and tie it round my head with an elasticated strap. The beam of light whizzes wildly across the deck. I have to stay calm. With the lamp on my forehead, I stumble back into the cockpit.
Outside, I shine my light over the masses of water surrounding the boat, they are as dark as oil. It's hard to make out anything in it, and yet I see something. I squint my eyes to see more clearly. A headache shoots up from the back of my neck. There is a speck floating in the water, a pale speck, I point the spotlight at it and recognise two eyes; they reflect the light. They are the eyes of a seagull, floating on the waves with its wings folded, looking towards the boat and the skipper. "I'm looking for Maria," I say to the soaring seagull, "I'm looking for Maria, damn it!"
It floats in the water
Then I see her. It's floating in the water. I can see it very clearly. Again and again it disappears in a trough, but I see it. She floats in the water. The water is carrying her. Of course, I think, it's salt water and she's a child, she doesn't weigh much.
Relief. I'll get her out of the water, wrap her in a blanket, make her some cocoa and then we'll hoist the sails and head for Stortemelk, through the Wadden Sea to Harlingen. I pull the dinghy closer. I'll use the dinghy to get her out of the water. It's not easy. I have no time to lose. A buckle on the lifejacket has got caught behind the stay. I free myself, then pull so hard on the line that the dinghy hits the hull with full force. I swing over the railing and jump.
The boat is unstable, I come up wrong, my one leg is hanging in the water. But that doesn't bother me much any more. The water isn't particularly cold. I'm fine, the swim won't be too bad. Maria is very close. The first thing I have to do is get Maria. I pull her leg out of the water and release the paddles attached to the inside of the rubber boat with clamps. I put them in the cleats and row over to Maria.
Maria is floating in the water fifty metres away, maybe a hundred; it's difficult to estimate distances correctly at sea. I row backwards towards her, which gives me the most power. Every now and then I look round. To see if I can still see them between the waves. Rowing takes more effort than I would have thought. The boat is badly inflated, or the air is half out, it almost collapses under my weight. Rowing becomes increasingly difficult, then a wave hits the boat. I am now rowing all alone on the sea. When the waves are big, the rubber boat buckles in the middle and water pours in. The paddles bring green streaks to the surface.
The boat has got caught in a meadow of seaweed. The paddles get tangled, I pull up the seaweed, the devilish green strands are never-ending. I mustn't dip the paddles so deep, otherwise I won't be able to make any progress. I row. I row with aching hands. To the faded fishing buoy that I think is my daughter. I don't realise yet that it's a faded fishing buoy.
I only realise this after I've arrived and freed the paddles from the seaweed. Then I realise: there's no Maria here. There's just a weathered orange plastic ball with a dead tuft of seaweed caught on the line. The line is covered in barnacles.
No Maria. Maria is not here. It's a joke. A test. Someone is playing a terrible joke on me. I want it to stop.
Toine Heijmans' novel "Irrfahrt" was published in 2011, won awards, was made into a film and has been translated into eight languages. This year it will also be translated into German. Mairisch Verlag, 16 euros.
