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.
In the summer of 2024, I spent two weeks alone on my boat in Denmark. My wife and child were at home and I had all the freedom in the world. The weather was changeable: sunny, warm hours without wind were regularly replaced by clouds, wind and cooling - a typical Danish summer! To avoid taking any risks, I checked the weather forecasts on my smartphone more than regularly. From my home harbour Marina Minde, I first sailed to the Ox Islands, where I spent two days in the shelter of the eastern island. Reading, listening to music, swimming or paddling with the dinghy to Annie's kiosk to pick up one of the legendary hot dogs.
Anchoring...
The next stop was Nybøl Noor, where a gusty wind from the SE initially worried me, but then boosted my confidence in the ground anchor. According to my anchor app and the bearings to landmarks, the anchor didn't budge. For the first time, I left my boat alone on the water in windy conditions and paddled ashore. New provisions were needed. It didn't feel really good, but on my return the boat was still in the same place. "Well done!" I congratulated myself.
Safety first...
With winds of 20 to 25 knots forecast and possible thunderstorms, I decided to make a stopover in my box in Minde. Moored up again, I phoned home and told them about my conscientious behaviour: "Don't worry, I'll take care of myself and let the weather pass before I set sail for Lyø." In the end, the weather was better than forecast and I was almost a little annoyed that I hadn't sailed on straight away. After all, there were other boats on the way. But safety first!
Or not...
Then the time has finally come: the journey towards the Danish South Sea can begin. According to the pro version of my weather app, a small thunderstorm front is on its way, but south of the fjord. The forecast for the 33-mile beat to Lyø is a cosy nine knots from the SW, gusting to 15 knots.
After rounding the south-eastern end of Als and turning into the southern foothills of the Little Belt, the wind unexpectedly comes from the NNW. Well, cross then. Shortly afterwards, it starts to pour like a bucket. My oilskin is ready to hand, and as the rain is warm, I stay barefoot. Then I see a dark grey wall approaching from the west. Strange, because according to all the weather apps, there's nothing to worry about, not even on the weather radar. "Just keep going," I think, "a bit more wind would be nice." The rain has already stopped again.
And it crashes...
About 45 minutes later, I realise how naïve and stupid this assessment is: unreefed, the boat is suddenly thrown to starboard, accompanied by heavy rain and a deafening thunderstorm directly above me. I quickly open the main and furl the jib. I don't dare touch the mast and boom because of the lightning, so I leave the main as it is. Engine on and diagonally against it, while the main flaps around wildly. As I'm still barefoot and the cockpit is correspondingly wet, I lift my feet in the hope that a lightning strike won't fry me completely. I remain in this ridiculous position for what feels like an eternity until the storm clears.
As you can see from these lines, I was not grilled.
This involuntary manoeuvre kept me shivering until I arrived on Lyø, despite the subsequent calm. How small you are in the midst of such a force of nature. But the worst thing was that I sailed into it with my eyes wide open without preparing the boat for it. The warning signs were clearly recognisable, but the apps had obviously clouded my senses. Residual instinct and a good dose of luck saved me from worse. As I was far enough away from land, there was no danger from Legerwall and there were no other ships in the immediate vicinity. I was lucky to be alone - my family would never have come on board again.
