Ursula Meer
· 09.06.2026
Anyone who has ever fancied mooring at their own island in the Baltic Sea recently had the chance to do so: the former military platform Ostervilm was put up for auction. But now it’s too late: on 4 June 2026, the artificially created island was sold for 60,000 euros to Oliver Pesendorfer, head of the Austrian company McCube, which specialises in modular prefabricated houses.
His vision sounds romantic: “For the time being, I want to create a small event venue for weddings,” he explained after the auction. He could also envisage hosting cultural events there.
Oliver Pesendorfer is no stranger to the world of unconventional construction projects. His company, McCube, develops modular prefabricated houses that can be erected and moved into within a single day. The idea of placing such modules on the dilapidated platform could well make technical sense – provided the necessary permits are granted.
This is because the situation in the South-East Rügen Biosphere Reserve, which is designated as a Site of Community Importance (SCI) and an EU Special Area of Conservation (SAC), places severe restrictions on ideas for its future use. Cormorants have covered the structure with a thick layer of guano and use it as their preferred resting place. During the breeding season from February to July, stricter nature conservation regulations may come into force. Obtaining approval for a wedding venue with regular boat traffic within the bird sanctuary could prove challenging.
Incidentally, the purchase only transfers ownership of the building itself, not the surrounding 710 square metres of water. These are leased from the Waterways and Shipping Authority (WSA) in Stralsund. The annual lease payment is just 75 euros.
The relatively low cost of purchasing the island and the annual lease are likely to be followed by significantly higher renovation costs: the platform stands on around 600 oak piles that have been exposed to the elements for over 70 years. Crumbling concrete, rusted-through steel structures and shattered windows characterise the state of the building. There is practically no infrastructure; electricity, water, sewage – everything must be installed from scratch, with materials brought in by boat. With wind and waves in the Bodden, even a single screw can become a luxury item.
The site has a remarkable track record: every proposed development plan to date has failed. After reunification, more or less serious prospective investors wanted to build a casino, a holiday and leisure complex, a base for anglers, a restaurant for water sports enthusiasts, a test site for wind turbines or even a brothel. The latter would undoubtedly have caused a stir – an entertainment venue on stilts in the biosphere reserve, with seagulls as onlookers.
In 2001, mechanical engineer Peer Wenmakers from Bergen and Düsseldorf-based architect and set designer Gerhard Benz bought the platform from the Federal Property Office for 10,001 DM. They wanted to establish a cultural and creative hub for artists, a “sanatorium for the mind”. Vast quantities of bird droppings were cleared away and a caravan was hoisted onto the plateau to serve as temporary accommodation. However, this project too foundered on the enormous costs and logistical hurdles.
On the island, alongside the aforementioned caravan, there still stands a freestanding sculpture by the architect: a ceramic bell weighing around 1.3 tonnes. It sits enthroned on the dilapidated platform like a stone memorial to failed dreams and has since become a popular photo opportunity for drone pilots and sea kayakers – but is not included in the purchase price.
For sailors in the Greifswald Bodden, the platform has been a familiar landmark for decades. The structure was originally built around 1954 for the National People’s Army of the GDR. Using cable loops on the seabed, the magnetic fields of ships were measured and reduced to protect them from magnetic mines and torpedoes with magnetic fuses. The platform consisted of a living quarters and an engine room. There were usually three soldiers at the station, each on duty for one or two weeks. Everything they needed was delivered by ship. A lonely outpost in the middle of the Bodden, surrounded by water, seagulls and military secrets.
After reunification, the German Navy had no use for the NVA facility – the station was left to the mercy of the wind, the weather, cormorants and looters.
Over the years, the platform has gained a remarkable media presence. Numerous reports and photo features document its gradual decline. In blogs and on YouTube, urban explorers recount their clandestine visits, whilst drone footage offers a bird’s-eye view of the rusting steel girders. The platform has long since achieved cult status – a symbol of GDR military technology, failed dreams of reunification and the power of nature.

Redakteurin Panorama und Reise