The race is over for the first boats even before it really starts. Three boats are so close to each other at the starting line that they collide. All three are knocked out before the cannon is even fired.
The scene is not set at a championship, but at the start of MidsummerSail 2024. The long-distance race is described by its organisers as the longest and toughest Baltic Sea regatta, but this does not mean the battle with the opponents. This is because the offshore race runs from the southernmost to the northernmost point of the inland sea - over a distance of around 900 nautical miles.
"Totally superfluous," Robert Nowatzki will call the momentous ambition at the start after the regatta. "You can't win such a long distance at the start. But you can lose."
Robert is the boss here. He is organising the MidsummerSail for the ninth time. From Wismar to the yellow buoy in Töre. It doesn't get any longer than that on the Baltic Sea.
In the beginning, as is so often the case, it was just a crazy idea. In 2016, Robert and a friend sailed the route non-stop on a small Hallberg-Rassy 24. It took them eleven days and they had so much fun that they decided to expand on the idea and start a regatta the following year. So they put together a website, an online sailing magazine ran a report, but nobody got in touch. Christmas came and they were ready to call it a day when ASV Rostock suddenly wanted to know more and registered their "Universitas".
A total of five boats started, three arrived. That's how it started. And today Robert has to limit the number of participants to 100 boats, after that you go on the waiting list. Because some people have cancelled at short notice, there are 80 boats at the start this time. Only 52 will finish in the end. But more about that later.
Day 1, 20 June. The start
A queue in front of the showers right up to the front door. The last hot water for the next six days, at least. And the conversations this morning revolve around just one thing: what will the wind be like?
Is it really going to be that bad? After everything we heard last night, some people are trying to be gallows humour. "I hope we get across the start line at all!" And one joker thinks aloud about simply starting four hours earlier. Only the time penalty can stop him.
A meteorologist from Kiel had pretty much demotivated us in his weather briefing. Calm, and if there was any wind at all, then at most thermals just below the coast. A strong high pressure system over the Baltic region was to blame, shovelling hot air from the Mediterranean to Scandinavia. He predicts 28 degrees in Sweden.
They patted each other on the back: have a nice summer holiday. Robert also reports that last year, too, most of them gave up due to the persistent lack of wind. So the longest Baltic regatta, but also the toughest? We'll see.
Another cappuccino at "Windstärke 10" (that's the name of the café here in the Weiße Wiek marina), then we set off with the field of participants. We are sailing the "Lisa", a 59-foot Dykstra Pilot Cutter, which is the largest boat in the race. Geert is the owner and we are joined on board by Geert's wife Catarina and Florian, a friend of theirs.
The eight nautical miles from here to the starting line between the Swedish heads off Wismar are all covered under engine power, then the flotilla gathers south of the line so as not to hinder the first starters. With a booming cannon shot from on board the cog "Wissemara", group one is sent on its way at 1 pm.
Slowly, very slowly, the boats bob away northwards. 15 minutes later, the next group, and then it's our turn. No stress, keep out of everything as much as possible, is the motto on board.
Seven minutes to go. We cross the narrow fairway at one, at most two knots. Then it happens. Catarina, looking at the depth sounder, suddenly becomes frantic. "Turn immediately, it's getting shallow here," she shouts. Too late, we're already sitting down. You can literally hear the keel getting stuck in the mud. Every effort is in vain, we can only free ourselves with help from others. This is going well.
In the meantime, the last group, the multihulls, has also departed. A full 38 minutes too late, we are the 80th and very last boat to cross the line. But what does it matter, with 900 miles ahead of us. Let's just drive the whole field ahead of us. After just an hour we overtake the first boat. At 4 p.m. the wind is blowing at eight knots from the north-northeast, and the "Lisa" is pushing her 30 tonnes through the water at six knots. And at 6.30 pm, after the wind has shifted to the east and increased to force four, the tracker sees us in 54th place.
Day 2, 21 June, Midsummer
Change of watch at zero o'clock. 45 miles are on the log. The wind is light from the east, so far the forecast is correct. The lights of Rostock are bright to starboard, the ferry from Trelleborg crosses in front of our bow. Off Darßer Ort, some skippers continue to steer a northerly course. Perhaps they still have the weather expert's lecture in their ears, who recommended exactly that.
But a larger group tacked, and after a short deliberation we trusted the swarm intelligence and also went over stays. Only two and a half knots over ground. The skipper comments: "You don't usually have the urge to cross in one or two knots of wind. Switch on the engine and off we go." But now it's regatta time.
At 9 o'clock, the sky above us is grey. Only in the distance are there holes in the ceiling. The chalk cliffs of Møn glow white in the morning sun. In front of them, as if on a string, the freighters in the Kadet channel. At twelve o'clock the rest of the sky clears, and by 2 p.m., after 24 hours, we already have 115 miles in the wake.
A radio message: "'Kairos' for 'MimiElectra' - you've sat right in front of us, we can even smell your fried potatoes." Answer: "They're not fried potatoes, we're having coq au vin today!"
Then everything changes in the evening. It's already blowing at 4 Beaufort, but it won't stay that way. Various forecast models are compared and everyone agrees. We have to reckon with gusts of up to 30 knots. We quote the weather forecast, not without mockery - so be it.
We pack away the gennaker, which was already lying on deck like a long sausage ready for use in anticipation of the balmy breeze. Instead, we put the second reef in the main for the night.
Off the port side, on the Swedish beaches, the midsummer night is now being celebrated, but we can't see any of it. The distance is too great.
Day 3, 22 June
Three o'clock in the morning, by now it's blowing at five to six, and then the gusts come too. Directly from the front, of course, and now also heavy rain showers.
Hanö Bay becomes a humpbacked track. Just off our bow, the "Windspiel" crosses our course. They don't look particularly happy either. In the second reef and with the cutter jib, the "Lisa" fights her way through the short, steep waves. Full concentration is required on the big wheel so that she doesn't get stuck with her 30 tonnes, but it's fun.
However, the ship's movements are so violent that some crew members' faces turn green. After all, the fish want to be fed. At 2 p.m., roughly at the height of Utklippan, things calm down enough for us to set sail and unfurl the genoa again. "North-west 3, heavy rain", says the logbook.
Others probably fared much worse. In the live tracker, we see that a whole series of boats have sought shelter in harbours on Bornholm, in Trelleborg, Ystad or Skillinge. And how the boats then move on again after a break. The rules allow this.
But we also see that more and more on the display suddenly turn grey, which means that they have abandoned the race. Too little wind will not have been the reason.
Day 4, 23 June
Pitch black darkness at midnight. The gusts are now reaching 35 knots, it's howling and whistling in the shrouds. To describe the waves as nasty would be to gloss over the whole thing. With two reefs in the main again, we fight our way through the wilderness of the water to the east of Öland.
At five o'clock, the "Orinoco" appears on the starboard side. Through the veil of rain, we see how she climbs the crests of the waves in a wild ride, only to fall deep into the valley each time.
Even on our high-sided ship, the bow shovels green water across the deck twice, which stupidly finds a mysterious way through the skylight, turning the saloon into a shower cubicle. Our clothes are now totally wet and clammy anyway. It's particularly unpleasant when you have to get back into your damp, cold clothes when changing watch.
The two leading boats, the "Luft" and the "Cheekytattoo", are already up to Stockholm by this time. Impressive. But we are not the only ones who have to fight hard here. Very close behind us is the "Addictif", a Pogo 30 with skipper Thomas Schrepffer. He is alone on board his racing flounder, one of four solo sailors in the race.
He has taken part in the Silverrudder twice and is now sailing such a long distance over several days for the first time. The biggest challenge, he thought beforehand, would be sleep management. Then came this storm.
At the moment, Thomas is seriously worried about his boat and is already thinking about giving up when he remembers his friend Lennart Burke, Mini-Transat participant 2021, and what he said to him before the race: "Before you think about quitting, give me a call first!"
Lennart is currently in the USA and it's a sunny afternoon when he answers the phone. A few tips on trimming, a few words to cheer him up, and Thomas sails on. At around the same time, Hajo Hensel, also alone on board, has just adjusted the sails of his Dehler 30 "Tutto Bene" and is making himself a coffee below deck.
The wind dies down in the afternoon. We pass Visby relatively close to the coast of Gotland. The town is hidden behind a wall of fog. But we have the "Kairos" in sight, a Swan 57 and therefore a natural rival for us.
We're constantly checking the course and speed of the others on the AIS and the tracker anyway, but now, in direct comparison, it's even more fun to tug at all the lines and sheets to possibly get a tiny bit faster.
Day 5, 24 June
Midsummer light, at last. The evening red doesn't disappear at all, but continues to move northwards off our bow until it turns into a morning red, out of which the sun emerges bright and shining.
It's just after three o'clock. Our appetite is also back, today we have breakfast together and in the morning we take our wet clothes on deck to dry. Now we start a game we have called wind lotto. Everyone is looking for the best wind.
On the AIS we observe interesting tacking manoeuvres around us, and when a blue gennaker appears astern, it gets busy for us too. The sea is as smooth as iron. Until around 1 p.m., when a lively nor'easter comes out of nowhere and puts glassy foam crowns on the waves.
Blue sky, cumulus clouds over the land, reefed main, it can go on like this. 500 miles after 96 hours, always with wind from the front. But in the meantime we've moved up to eleventh place. Unfortunately, the fun is over at 9 pm, just as quickly as it started. Dead calm, how is that possible again?
Day 6, 25 June
We let ourselves drift until sunrise and make a nice curl on the plotter. We have hoisted all the sails to prevent the annoying flapping and can devote ourselves entirely to the beauty of the full moon, which is rapidly climbing the horizon.
Finally, at half past one, there is a relieving breeze. Even from the right direction! We now set the large gennaker under a cloudless summer sky.
Around us and with their coloured foresails, some of them easy to spot with binoculars: "Juniper" and "Grand Cru", "First Out", "Tutto Bene" and "Addictif" as well as "Tridefix", the last of five multihulls to start and the only one to finish later.
We leave the Åland Islands behind us at a roaring eight knots. Then suddenly we see something strange up ahead. "Susi Seepferdchen" radically changes course and heads straight for the Swedish coast. Until she disappears in Gävle harbour and shortly afterwards turns grey on the tracker. Out of the water. We wonder what could have happened.
Day 7, 26 June
Another bloody midnight red with an orange moon. At 2.36 a.m. the first ship, the "Luft", reaches its destination. We still have 270 miles to go. A nice south-easterly breeze pushes us along at a leisurely pace, but starts to weaken. The gennaker cloth crackles like sandwich paper when the luff occasionally collapses slightly.
A few boats switch to the Swedish side, but the majority of the field apparently believe the same forecast model and look for the wind in Finland. However, none of the models knew that the wind would suddenly switch to the north-east and pick up strongly. But that's exactly what happens. Off with the bubble, out with the genoa and off we go.
Next we see the "Kairos" turn and sail into Sundsvall harbour. But she leaves the harbour again after a short time and sails on to the finish. Someone on board had injured their hand and needed medical treatment.
Day 8, 27 June
Now it's so bright all night that you can sit in the deckhouse and write without a lamp. The wind is less reliable and constantly changes strength and direction.
The entrance to the archipelago off Töre looks 23 degrees ahead. If only it could continue like this. But unfortunately it only lasts a few minutes before the wind shifts to the north-northeast. That's not going to work.
The "Gjoa", a Pogo 30, crosses our course and then sails off to starboard directly under the big moon. It's amazing that we can keep up with her with our 30-tonne lady.
Day 9, 28 June, to the finish
Handover at zero o'clock. Geert and Catarina go below deck. At the change of watch, we want to know from Catarina what we need to watch out for. "Speed, speed, speed!" is the reply we get. To which Geert remarks dryly: "I don't recognise my wife."
Catarina has been suffering from regatta fever since yesterday. She sat mesmerised in front of the plotter for hours, constantly checking the course and speed and at some point said: "Do something!" Whereupon Florian shifted the sheet of the gennaker, which had been unfurled in the afternoon, by just a few centimetres, which meant that our speed suddenly increased by a good knot.
The skerries are now only 21 miles ahead, the wind is blowing at a constant ten knots from the south-east and the log is nailed down at seven knots. With two Pogos and the "Chimai", a Luffe 40 under a huge spinnaker, we can keep up well for a long time and even outpace them at times.
But when the wind drops, we have to let her go. Full of vigour, we even switch to the larger gennaker. Pointless, but fun, as Geert says. One and a half knots of wind are simply not enough for the heavy ship.
At 7.20 a.m. we pass the first archipelago. Four miles from our destination, one of these small islands disappears from view, revealing the silos in Töre harbour. Shortly afterwards, the yellow buoy can also be recognised. At 11.11 a.m., after seven days of sailing and 21 hours, with 946 nautical miles in our wake, we cross the finish line. That's enough for tenth place.
Epilogue
The parcels in the harbour grow, people from the town stroll along the shore, and the more crowded it gets, the better the finish for those who arrive. Everyone applauds, honks their horns and whistles for all they're worth. "Goosebumps moment," says one as he steps back onto solid ground.
Before they find their place, all the boats first moor at the famous buoy. The crews climb over and everyone gets their souvenir photo.
Of the 100 boats registered, 52 reached the finish line. Four sailors completed the route single-handed, including Marlene Brudek, the prizewinner for the smallest boat, a First 27. Two charter crews and several club teams took part. The very last boat to cross the finish line after 11 days and 6 hours was the "Helene".
Jens Weidling from Segelkameradschaft Buchholz, skipper of the "Heide Witzka", summarised the event as follows: "It was a huge party for us!" And that's probably how most people saw it.
