It's a dream come true for me," says Frank, beaming with joy and happiness. The first boat. A brand new one at that. A project close to his heart that is now becoming a reality. Frank is beside himself with excitement. I can understand that. Memories come flooding back.
We sit on our boat and Frank tells us where he wants to go with his family and that his wife is already looking for pots and pans and bed linen. And I, I still remember what it was like back then, in 2004, 20 years ago. We were just as excited and euphoric, because buying a boat for the first time, as many sailors told me at the time, is not the same as buying a house. After all, a boat has a soul - something I also had to learn first. You have to look after it and, at least that's what my husband does, you have to talk to it.
Also interesting:
I remember exactly where the decision to buy our first boat was made: in a restaurant in Flensburg harbour, over plaice with fried potatoes, beer and sunshine. We sat there with one of my husband's colleagues and discussed it. What are the pros and cons? Is it worth it and can we even afford it? I have to say that I knew next to nothing about sailing. I come from Frankfurt, where there's the River Main and bathing lakes, but no sea like the Baltic. Sailing had never been an issue for me. Until I met my husband. And now: a boat of my own. The first one at that!
From then on, almost everything revolved around the ship
We did the maths for a while and then it was clear: we can, yes, we can! From then on, almost everything revolved around the ship. We were due to take over in April, but there was a lot to do before then. My husband planned on deck, I planned below deck. He spent hours thinking about what halyards, spinnaker gear and electronics it should have. I thought about mattress protectors, cushion covers, oilskins, shoes and plates. He "absolutely" needed certain sails "because otherwise you might as well not bother". I gasped at the additional costs. But: "When, if not now?" We spent evenings planning, thinking about which pots we should order. Which cutlery. Which wellies. Which oilskins. A salad spinner? Absolutely! A boat without such a slingshot was unthinkable. My husband, on the other hand, fancied a stern anchor because we wanted to sail into the Swedish archipelago as soon as possible.
We ordered nautical charts for all possible areas. He insisted on a steamer because the boat would already be in the water during the asparagus season. Of course he got it! Then he made the bold suggestion of buying an ice cube maker. The boat would have a fridge, but no ice compartment. And being on the boat without ice cubes - we both still agree on that today - is not an option. Imagine having to enjoy a lukewarm gin and tonic: a disaster!
We discussed winch cranks and the colour the cushions should have at the top and bottom. Sand? White? Nope. Blue? Green? Green is good, but dark green? Nah, makes everything too dark. But dark green is super pretty. Fine, dark green it is. The material? It should be soft. Easy to wash too. Should we buy an autopilot? Or should we wait? Come on, it's fine for now.
Oh, it was marvellous! 20 years ago, I didn't even care that the boat didn't have a shower. The new boat won't have a proper loo either, you'll have to make do with "Cactus". "Cactus" is a dry toilet with disposable lidded bags, yes, really! You put it in, close it up and then take it to the bin. My panic was always that the thing might open on the way - which happened once. Later on, we had a proper toilet installed.
All reason had left us - a good feeling
And so it went on. My husband was already thinking up sailing routes while I was googling break-proof crockery and looking for parasols. Finally, the visit to the boatyard - it was like being in a maternity ward: "When will it be ready? When will it be home? Is it healthy?"
At the time, it was hard for us to imagine that this creature, this beautiful boat, this second home, would soon be with us. Like a baby that needed to be cared for. However, it would not grow! But I didn't think about that at the time.
When the equipment we ordered for the boat arrived, it was like Christmas every time. We carefully unpacked the things and could stare at a stacked cooking set for minutes on end. We imagined how a delicious soup or goulash would simmer in it while a Café del Mar CD played and we lay in a pretty anchorage. The new sails were already spread out in the living room. The boat would only be equipped with a two-burner spirit cooker and there would be no hot water. But we were grateful to have running water at all. Unfortunately, there was no water tank. Instead, there were two large plastic containers that had to be filled with a hose. To prevent them from spilling over, the person at the bottom had to wave a landing net through the front hatch. No matter. "You can't have everything," was my husband's credo, and I agreed with him.
Those were weeks and months that I remember as one big rush of happiness. Every evening we sat together and thought about what else we would or could need and, above all, where we would sail to. All reason had left us, and that was a damn good, albeit daring, feeling. When the ice cube machine arrived, we humbly unpacked it and welcomed it into the family.
Many wonderful first times followed
Then the special day arrived. The boat was brought to Sonderborg by land. We stood at the harbour crane like a couple of parents waiting for their child to return from a school trip. Hopefully nothing had happened, hopefully there were no scratches, hopefully all was well. Finally, it slowly arrived on the trailer and we held hands in happiness. Our ship was there! It was there!
We watched as it was lowered into the water and then many wonderful firsts followed: stepping over the railing fence for the first time. Unlocking the companionway for the first time and going below. Setting sail for the first time, tacking for the first time. How wonderful it all looked and smelled. So new, so marvellous.
Then we switched on the ice cube machine for the first time, heard the finished cubes clacking and had our first drink. On this first evening as boat owners, we were both happier than we had been for a long time. It was a special kind of happiness. The best way to describe it is "like having arrived". Or like being painted with happiness from the inside. Everything had fallen into place wonderfully. As if it was meant to be.
I had to go to the 'Cactus' loo at night and met my husband in the lounge. He was swaying to the beat with a glass of wine; when he saw me, he simply said: "I'm afraid I'm dancing!" He, who would never normally think of dancing, looked so happy. And he was.
The next few days were filled with organising, rearranging, stowing and re-stowing. Should I put the sherry glasses here or back there? Oh, the bed linen with the anchors on it matches the wood beautifully. The mattress is so cosy. And it rocks so lightly and gently when you lie down and doze off.
Everything has its time and with this, demands grew
I will never forget the first night on our first boat, the feeling of gently drifting off to sleep and feeling safe in a memorable way. Yes, safe. I suppose going down the companionway and then standing in the belly of the boat is a bit like being in a womb. You feel good and safe, welcome and loved. Some people may find that strange, but boat owners understand it.
So our time with the first ship began. It was to last 14 years. If I had been told that I would be sick to my stomach, that I would complain about the lack of an oven, that I would demand a new, proper toilet - it didn't matter. I would have done it again anyway. Even though I no longer go to a harbour shower, I didn't care back then. "The main thing is that we're on the boat," was my husband's favourite phrase. The strange thing was that we hardly ever got into each other's hair on the boat, even though we were together in a very confined space - I'm talking about eight metres of hull length - and sometimes for long periods of time.
We sailed wonderful tours, our season lasted from February to November. We travelled the entire Kattegat and sailed all the way up to Sweden. It was heavenly! When I think back, I can always see this cosy little boat, which could of course bitch like a poisonous manatee in wind and waves. But it was our boat and I loved it very much.
But as is the case, there is a time for everything, and demands and wishes have grown with it. You want it bigger, more comfortable and safer. Many things had become more important to me that weren't important at the beginning: a proper bathroom on board, for example. Hot water from the tap. Not having to clear everything away to get to something. Or more speed, more height, a larger range and space for guests.
At some point, the points piled up and then we reached the point where we had to get a bigger boat! How good it was that we then had the opportunity to form an owners' association. Together we thought long and hard about which model it should be, and in the end it was clear that it had to have 38 feet.
Does the new boat create the old feeling?
My husband was happy and jubilant with anticipation. He said: "There are two high points in an owner's life - the moment when he buys the boat and the moment when the boat is sold." And then the new one was bought and the little one was sold. He was even more jubilant.
And me: crying as we cleared out our first ship, our baby, our everything. Taking the glasses off the shelf for the last time, sleeping in my "cave" for the last time, having a drink with the homemade ice cubes for the last time! I was devastated. Would the new boat be able to do what our little one had done?
It remained to be seen. And so it all started all over again, only this time in XXL. I still remember today, when I was at home and my husband was alone on the new boat for the first evening: he sent me a WhatsApp message from on board. It contained just this one sentence: "I'm afraid I'm dancing!"
