Sailing, working with a boat and life between passages.
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DeelstuffFrom the logbook
Across the Skagerrak to Oslo and back
Plans for the North Sea have changed along with the forecast. Instead of Helgoland - Grön, Swedish skerries, Oslofjord and the long road home through Denmark. Passages, storm anchorages and work from on board.
The tides set the schedule, the boats remain dry, and the sea route continues through the Dutch canals. From the Kiel Canal to the Wadden Sea Islands - and back.
Sønderborg, Faaborg, Ørøskøbing and Bagenkop: a short trip between the Danish islands. Street walks give way to sails, and the last miles lead home to Lübeck.
Several boats, Danish harbors and food on board. Entering Sønderborg, Marstal and the Maritime Museum - a small exit with enough space for both passages and friends.
The first big haul of our own yacht. Kalmar, the southern coast of Sweden, Gedser and Lübeck: seven passages during which an unfamiliar boat gradually becomes its own.
Tidal waters, November weather and the life of a training crew. RYA Day Skipper practice diary: from a trip to England to night navigation and the latest exercises.
Back in the tidal waters - now for the practical Coastal Skipper course. Powered approaches, passage planning, currents and feedback from the instructor.
Practice at the Black Sea Yacht School: familiarization with the boat, crew duties, exercises and first training passages. The original chapters are accompanied by a video diary.
Vacation in Croatia, which led to yachting. Trogir, Milna, Palmizana, Hvar and Stari Grad: one story about the first week on a yacht and preserved tracks.
When I viewed her, it seemed there was hardly anything to do. Much of what I had planned to fit to Rassvet one day was already there: a windvane self-steering system, recent rigging, a comfortable galley, a fridge and a large table where I could actually work. All that remained was to collect the boat and set off.
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I’m pleased I moved to a new boat. Happy with her, even.
When I viewed her, it seemed there was hardly anything to do. Much of what I had planned to fit to Rassvet one day was already there: a windvane self-steering system, recent rigging, a comfortable galley, a fridge and a large table where I could actually work. All that remained was to collect the boat and set off.
In the first 160 miles, the jobs list grew considerably.
Almost two weeks afloat
From 1 to 11 September 2026, I sailed Aurora from Denmark to Kiel. The weather was thoroughly unhelpful: I spent days waiting in marinas, checking each new forecast for a chance to move on. Including the preparations before departure, I spent almost two weeks aboard.
I was underway for 36 hours. The rest of the time, I was properly living aboard: working, cooking and learning how the boat’s systems worked. Then a weather window would open and I would move on to the next marina.
I really enjoyed that unhurried way of living afloat. Of course, I didn’t always feel like sitting around waiting for the wind to drop. But being able to live on the boat and change my surroundings from time to time turned out to be rather lovely.
Over the whole route, I covered 160 nautical miles at an average of 4.4 knots. What stayed with me most was the gentle motion. Into the waves, Aurora lifted and lowered me smoothly. That was exactly the sort of comfort I had hoped for.
What still needs doing
The main concern is still diesel consumption. I found myself filling up far too often, with just one thought: don’t run out. We’ve already found some leaks. I’m hoping new copper sealing washers and hose clips will improve matters.
Speed worries me too. On Rassvet, I was used to sailing faster under genoa alone, and so far it feels as though I’ve traded some performance for comfort. But I’ll reserve judgement until next season, after giving the bottom some proper attention. For now, I still want to believe it’s simply fouling.
I also need to learn to berth all over again. The manoeuvres that came naturally on Rassvet don’t work on long-keeled Aurora. Three attempts to get into my own berth made it particularly clear how much practice I still need. I’m comfortable with her at sea; alongside, I’m still rather nervous.
There is certainly plenty to do to make the boat my own. And it isn’t just her systems I need to get used to, but the way she moves and responds to what I do.
People who help
It’s a wonderful thing to have people around who are willing to offer advice or lend a hand. Grisha met me in Kiel and noticed that I was unconsciously reducing the tiller angle. Then he gave me a whole workshop on my own engine. We started it, watched it running and looked for leaks. Afterwards, I understood it much better.
I’m very grateful for that help. Getting to know a new boat together was a pleasure.
Aurora already feels like mine. She is exactly the boat I’ve always wanted. And now I know I’ll be keeping her for years to come.
P.S. Credit for the comic-strip idea goes to Captain Reggie. Should I keep it going and develop it further?
Grisha and I had only just relaxed after berthing in Kiel when he said he could smell hot diesel quite strongly. We lifted the cabin sole boards and started looking for the leak. We found oily trails running down from the sealing washers on the fuel connections at the injectors. We agreed to take a closer look a couple of days later.
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Hot diesel
Grisha and I had only just relaxed after berthing in Kiel when he said he could smell hot diesel quite strongly. We lifted the cabin sole boards and started looking for the leak. We found oily trails running down from the sealing washers on the fuel connections at the injectors. We agreed to take a closer look a couple of days later.
On Sunday, I had a proper workshop on the fuel system. On my own engine, which made it all the more useful. We started it, varied the revs and stopped it using the levers on the engine itself, without touching the remote controls. We also tensioned the belts by moving the alternator and the raw-water pump.
Diesel was seeping from the connections at the second and third injectors. The copper sealing washers under the bolts need replacing. We found another leak at the fuel-filter outlet. Tightening the hose clip helped, but both the clip and the hose would be better replaced.
A little water was leaking from an exhaust-pipe joint. The hose clip was too large; it needs a smaller one. Gases were also escaping from under the crankcase breather cover, so that gasket needs replacing. While I’m at it, the throttle and gear control could do with a little lubrication.
The oil level was exactly halfway between the two marks on the dipstick. Next season, I’ll keep a close eye on how it changes from one engine run to the next.
I also learnt that my 3GM30 has indirect cooling. Coolant circulates through the engine, while seawater cools it through a heat exchanger.
It was time very well spent. An unfamiliar engine suddenly made much more sense to me. I’m very grateful for the help.
Afterwards, we packed up about ten bags of assorted gear that had come with the boat and took them back to my place.
Two end stops at €20 each
There was one more problem to sort out. Before the final passage, I had wanted to try Aurora with both mainsail and genoa set at last. But one of the end stops on the mainsheet traveller was broken, so I had to abandon that idea. The traveller lets you move the mainsheet’s attachment point across the boat.
At home, I measured the track, end stop and car with a vernier caliper. It’s an old Ronstan RF1293 system with an I-section track about 27 mm wide. It looks exceptionally solid; I hadn’t seen anything like it in the shops. None of the modern alternatives I found matched the dimensions. I was already considering replacing the car just so I could make some use of the mainsail next season.
Then, quite by chance, an Austrian distributor turned out to have three Ronstan RF1287 end stops left for my system. They put me in touch with a German shop that deals with them. Two new end stops are now sitting on my desk.
The pleasant part: just €20 apiece. And, to look at them, about three times as much metal as in their modern equivalents.
On 6 September 2026, I waited until two in the afternoon, when the forecast said the gusts should ease to 25 knots, and left Klintholm. On starting, the engine produced a huge white cloud. Under full genoa, I was making about 4.5 knots. But the wind began to shift awkwardly, and for roughly half the passage, about four hours, I motor-sailed at 1,400 rpm.
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Aurora. Part 4. Comfort at sea and nerves in harbour
Back to the fuel berth
On 6 September 2026, I waited until two in the afternoon, when the forecast said the gusts should ease to 25 knots, and left Klintholm. On starting, the engine produced a huge white cloud.
Under full genoa, I was making about 4.5 knots. But the wind began to shift awkwardly, and for roughly half the passage, about four hours, I motor-sailed at 1,400 rpm.
Having to start the engine so early was already making me anxious. A light headwind was forecast for the night, which would mean more motoring. I decided to stop in Gedser on the way and arrived around midnight.
A boat was already occupying the fuel berth, with everyone aboard asleep. I was annoyed at first, then remembered I had done exactly the same in Klintholm. I rafted alongside, passed the fuel nozzle across and topped up with 6.5 litres. Consumption at low revs seemed more encouraging.
The forecast was for no wind until morning. I decided to get five hours’ sleep. On 7 September, I left at 06:30.
Performance or comfort
It took ten hours to cover the 39 miles to Heiligenhafen: sailing as close to the wind as I could, with the engine helping for most of the way. It felt as though I had traded Rassvet’s sailing performance for Aurora’s comfort.
In waves of a metre to a metre and a half, I rose and fell gently, almost as though we were in a swell. Rassvet would have been slamming and bouncing around in those conditions.
Even in 20 knots of wind with the genoa fully unfurled, the heel stayed steady at no more than 20 degrees. On Rassvet, I would have expected about 30 degrees, with another five degrees of movement either way. I would have been seriously considering rolling away some genoa. Here, the thought never arose. If anything, it felt as though I needed more sail.
In that wind, Rassvet would make 5.5–6.5 knots under her 140% genoa alone, which was why I didn’t use the mainsail very often. The boats and their sails are similar in size. On Aurora, I was delighted whenever the GPS showed even 4.8 knots. It felt as though I had lost up to a knot and a half. That is far too much. I hope the bottom is simply fouled; we’ll see when she comes out in the autumn. I still need to try the mainsail.
Two rudders
The tiller feels less responsive, but the boat holds her course better. The electric tiller pilot spends long stretches holding it amidships, making only small corrections. In short head seas, though, when a wave knocks the boat off course, it struggles to keep up. Aurora is slow to respond to the helm.
It also feels as though the tiller pilot runs out of travel. I’ll need to get the tape measure out and check the installation. When a steady helm angle is needed to hold the course, it has a hard time. I suspect sail balance plays a part too: I’m sailing under one large genoa.
But Aurora has a useful trick. Her windvane steering has its own rudder blade. I secure that at a slight angle, and the main tiller can come back amidships. That makes life easier for the electric tiller pilot. The two-rudder arrangement works very well.
Three attempts
After a working week in Heiligenhafen, there was still the passage to Kiel, another 40 miles or so. First, I filled up. By then, it felt as though I was refuelling Aurora in every marina, just to be sure I wouldn’t run out.
I wanted to hoist the mainsail at last, but found a broken end stop on the mainsheet traveller. So it was genoa alone again. Early in the passage, I reached 5.5 knots and was absurdly pleased.
Off Putlos, a naval vessel drew level and told me over its loudspeaker to alter course north: there was live firing until 12:30. About halfway through the passage, the wind died. I started the engine again.
Grigory met me in Kiel. Just as well: I couldn’t get into the berth between the piles on the first, second or third attempt. I couldn’t turn tightly enough, while a light crosswind quietly berthed the boat against the pier for me. Rassvet could spin on the spot like a ballerina. I need to get used to this. Right now, berthing is what frightens me most about Aurora.
Grisha assured me it wasn’t as bad as it felt. He pointed out how much momentum the boat carries and noticed that whenever I looked towards the bow, I reduced the tiller angle. He joked that the nerve from my head to my hand was short and pulled my hand round after my head. I’m grateful he noticed. I hope that really is the reason. I’ll practise.
On 2 September 2026, I got up at five in the morning. I had berthed at the fuel station in Klintholm the night before and now needed to clear the berth. I started the engine. The wind was blowing from astern and pinning the boat against the pontoon. The proper manoeuvre would have been to use a bow spring to swing the stern clear.
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Aurora. Part 3. Aground, a hundred litres of water and diesel in the bilge
Morning at the fuel berth
On 2 September 2026, I got up at five in the morning. I had berthed at the fuel station in Klintholm the night before and now needed to clear the berth.
I started the engine. The wind was blowing from astern and pinning the boat against the pontoon. The proper manoeuvre would have been to use a bow spring to swing the stern clear. But I didn’t want to risk scratching the bow. I was also alone aboard and worried I wouldn’t be able to get to the bow and back in time.
So I tried to turn using the engine alone. While I was watching the stern, I missed the wind carrying us towards the rocks. They were only about five metres away. The keel bumped onto a rock, leaving the boat firmly aground.
The boat wouldn’t move in any direction. The shore was out of reach, so I couldn’t take a line ashore and winch myself off. I stood helplessly in the cockpit, wondering what to do.
On another pontoon, three boats were getting ready to leave. I tried shouting and waving my arms in a distress signal. I even got out my whistle. Nobody on any of the three boats looked my way.
About fifteen minutes later, the wind swung the boat round. I gave her some throttle astern and managed to get off without help. After that, I berthed uneventfully. The weather meant I would be staying here for at least four days.
The jobs list
The very first passage had already given me plenty to think about: what was missing from the boat?
The domestic batteries aren’t charging from the engine. I’m planning to fit an Orion-Tr DC–DC charger, but it is rated at 30 A. First, I need to work out how much charging current the alternator can handle. I may need a lower-current charger or a more powerful alternator.
Water is getting into the cabin below the forward port-side window. I need to find the leak, reach it, which looks like the hardest part, and seal it.
There’s no electronic wind instrument. I want to fit a masthead wind sensor and run the cable inside. While I’m at it, I’ll put together an NMEA 2000 network.
The engine produces a white cloud of smoke when started from cold. The manual lists several possible causes, including burning oil. Every item comes with the same recommendation: contact a service centre.
I couldn’t get the gas cooker to light either. The previous owner said the cylinder was half full, but the gauge showed empty. I swapped it for the spare and apparently managed to boil some water.
This is my first gas cooker. As I understand it, cylinders here can be exchanged at dedicated outlets: hand over the empty one, take a full one and pay only for the gas.
The tank with a rubber cap
On 3 September, I tried to fill the freshwater tank. As usual, I left the hose in the deck filler. Some time later, I discovered water in the cabin.
It turned out that the top of the tank was covered by a rubber cap that wasn’t secured to it in any way. The water had gone into the bilge.
I also discovered that the automatic bilge pump wasn’t working. It was getting power and making a noise, but not pumping any water. I still don’t know whether it needs cleaning, replacing or mounting lower down.
I had to pump the water out by hand. A lot of diesel came out of the bilge with it, spreading a slick around the hull. My own little environmental incident in the marina. I hoped nobody would notice and come over to tell me off.
I got the hose out and started washing the boat, spraying water around her as I went to disperse the diesel farther away.
After the first passage, I had been worried about how quickly the fuel was disappearing. Now I had another thought: perhaps some of it had been ending up in the bilge. Where that diesel was coming from was still a mystery.
Kiel had been 160 miles away when I started. So far, I had covered only 40. Windy was forecasting stormy weather for the rest of the week. All I could do was check the forecast every day and hope for a weather window.
I arrived aboard Aurora on 29 August 2026, my first visit since buying her. The forecast left little choice: leave soon, or wait. I decided to get the boat ready first. The next day went on unpacking, cleaning, buying provisions, replacing the GPSMAP 521s with an ECHOMAP Plus 72sv and fitting AIS.
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Aurora. Part 2. First sail: delight and panic
Ten centimetres short of departure
I arrived aboard Aurora on 29 August 2026, my first visit since buying her. The forecast left little choice: leave soon, or wait. I decided to get the boat ready first.
The next day went on unpacking, cleaning, buying provisions, replacing the GPSMAP 521s with an ECHOMAP Plus 72sv and fitting AIS. That last job was particularly important: AIS makes it easier for me to keep track of ships when crossing a traffic separation scheme.
On 31 August, I planned to leave overnight and cover the 80 miles to Gedser while I still had a day’s weather window. But at the last moment, I discovered that the tiller-pilot ram was about 10 cm too short. Using a folded napkin to gauge the distances, I worked out that it could hardly turn the boat to port at all. Departure cancelled.
Fortunately, I was in a big city. The next day, I found an extension. A ten-centimetre threaded stainless-steel tube cost me €50. Anything labelled ‘marine’ automatically becomes expensive. I fitted it and left immediately.
Narrower on paper, roomier in practice
On 1 September, I left at 15:15 and berthed in Klintholm at 23:45: 45 miles in eight and a half hours.
Leaving and berthing both felt quite manageable. I had expected the handling to be much worse.
There were hardly any waves for most of the passage, so it was too early to judge what difference the long keel made. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the boat was cutting through the water rather than bouncing over it. The motion was very gentle. Close-hauled, the apparent wind reached 24 knots. I had the full genoa set and no desire to reef.
To help the sail along, I started the Yanmar 3GM30 and kept it at about 2,200 rpm. My fear that the boat would be slow proved unfounded: we were making at least as much speed as on Rassvet.
There is so much room in the cockpit. I had never felt so free to move around. The boat is narrower, yet somehow feels wider. The cabin is extremely comfortable too. I set a repeating twenty-minute timer on my watch. When it went off, I had a look around, then went below to eat.
How much diesel is left?
There are T-pieces in the fuel supply and return lines, connected by a transparent hose. I was trying to judge the tank level from the fuel visible in it.
I didn’t yet know the consumption, so I checked the hose regularly. When the boat was heeled, the reading made little sense, but the diesel seemed to be disappearing much faster than I was used to. My first estimate was about 15 litres in eight hours: almost two litres an hour, compared with one on Rassvet. At that rate, even the full 40-litre tank wouldn’t last a day under engine.
A few miles short of Klintholm, there was only a 1–2 cm column of fuel left in the hose. To make matters worse, the wind headed us. I had to beat into metre-high waves in the dark.
I ran through the options in my head. If the engine stopped, I would have to enter under sail. But without enough speed, a wave could throw us onto the rocks. I might need help from the rescue service. The VHF wasn’t installed yet, so that would mean calling 112 on my phone.
While I was still thinking it through, I entered the marina and berthed alongside at the fuel station.
How do I stop this thing?
All that remained was to stop the engine. On Rassvet, turning the key had been enough. Here, the key switched off the instrument panel, but the engine kept running.
I started frantically looking for levers and buttons. I found a handle in the locker by the fuel tank and pulled it up. The engine stopped.
I put in 25 litres and worked out that the tank must still have been almost half full. I put the scare down to the hose reading while heeled. A memorable lesson.
For now, Aurora seems to be a boat with character. Or perhaps ‘quirks’ is the word. But I’m more delighted with her every day.
That was enough adventure for one day. I decided to stay at the diesel berth until six in the morning, hoping nobody would urgently need fuel in the middle of the night.
My reasons for choosing the Great Dane had been fairly superficial: an old Danish yacht, a long keel, four tonnes of displacement and plenty of lead down below. Suitable for longer passages. That was it. I wanted to learn more about the boat and what she could do. The more I read, the more interesting my own choice became.
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My reasons for choosing the Great Dane had been fairly superficial: an old Danish yacht, a long keel, four tonnes of displacement and plenty of lead down below. Suitable for longer passages. That was it.
I wanted to learn more about the boat and what she could do. The more I read, the more interesting my own choice became.
A boat whose time had passed
The Great Dane appeared in Denmark in the mid-1960s. Behind her were Klaus Baess, an Olympic sailor involved in building and exporting boats, and Aage Utzon, who had spent decades designing Danish spidsgatter. He was also the father of Jørn Utzon, the architect of the Sydney Opera House.
They brought their experience of traditional northern boats to fibreglass, still a fashionable new material at the time. The result was 8.5 metres long, with a beam of 2.5 metres, a draught of 1.4 metres and a displacement of four tonnes, including 1.8 tonnes of ballast. A long keel, and a static waterline of just 6.5 metres.
In 1969, the Great Dane won the 25–30 ft class at the Yachting World One-of-a-Kind Rally. The boats were judged on their suitability for cruising, not just speed.
That caught my interest. Here was a boat that had won a comparison of cruising yachts, yet only about 250 were ever built. Why did production stop?
It turned out that in 1980, Klaus Baess decided the Great Dane 28’s time had passed. The production moulds were burnt. I read that detail twice. You can debate whether a boat is outdated, but her creator had put a fairly decisive end to the argument.
Decades later, the very things he had decided to leave behind were what drew me to her.
Among familiar Swedish boats
I find Swedish boats easier to get my head around, so I started with those and then added the British Contessa 32. The similarly sized Albin Vega is much lighter, at just 2.3 tonnes. The Hallberg-Rassy Monsun 31, Marieholm 32E and Contessa 32 are all slightly heavier, at 4.2 tonnes each.
This was where the displacement-to-length ratio, D/L, came in handy: a way to compare boats’ weight in relation to their waterline length. The Albin Vega is around 186, the Monsun 31 around 277, and both the Contessa 32 and my previous boat, the 3.2-tonne Ohlson 29, around 300. The Marieholm 32E comes in at 314, the Storfidra 25 at about 345, and the Great Dane at 391.
That is roughly a third more than Rassvet and the Contessa, and 40% more than the Monsun. Even among these familiar heavyweights, the Dane turned out to carry a lot of weight for her waterline length.
Her ballast ratio sits between the Monsun’s and the Contessa’s: 47% of displacement, against 45% and 48%. In tonnes, that is 1.8 against 1.9 and 2 respectively. In other words, my 28-footer carries almost as much ballast as those 31- and 32-foot yachts.
The price of the trade-off
That high D/L helps explain why I expect less speed in light winds: the sails have to move a lot of weight on a short waterline. After a tack, regaining the speed we’ve lost will take more patience too.
With eight knots of wind, I could get five knots out of Rassvet. For Aurora, I mentally pencilled in twelve knots of wind for the same five knots of boat speed. That is my working guess before getting to know her.
The difference will be even more apparent in the marina. A long keel, more momentum and less freedom to turn in a confined space. I doubt I’ll be doing the pirouettes between pontoons that I was used to on the Ohlson 29.
What I hope to gain
With that same mass, I expect to lose less speed on each crest when heading into waves. The motion comfort ratio, MCR, also favours the Dane: about 34, against 27 for the Monsun and 26 for the Marieholm 32E. Here, the higher figure suggests less abrupt motion. That is exactly what I want on a long passage: to be less worn out by the constant movement.
For short summer outings, that trade-off may still need justifying. For the North Sea and the Atlantic, it makes sense to me. From the Great Dane, I’m hoping for comfort in uncomfortable conditions.
With those thoughts in mind, after selling Rassvet, I bought a FlixBus ticket to Copenhagen and set off to see my new boat.
I wanted to understand the new boat properly. Selling Rassvet had taught me to document a yacht’s maintenance history and specifications in detail. So for Aurora, I put together a separate website in three languages, with more detail about my particular boat.
Back in Kiel, I faced a new challenge. I needed to sell Rassvet as quickly as possible so I could transfer the summer berth and winter storage to Aurora, and sort out her ship radio licence and German registration. I'd already bought the new boat and agreed to collect her by 20 September.
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Back in Kiel, I faced a new challenge. I needed to sell Rassvet as quickly as possible so I could transfer the summer berth and winter storage to Aurora, and sort out her ship radio licence and German registration. I'd already bought the new boat and agreed to collect her by 20 September.
It seemed there was only one thing left to do: show Rassvet to as many people as possible. More platforms meant a better chance of finding a new owner quickly.
Secretly, I wanted about €12,000. But at that price I might spend years waiting for someone who appreciated the work done and the boat's condition. For a quick sale, I listed her at €6,900 straight away.
Waiting
The advert went on my own website, in two of Vadim Luppo's Telegram chats, and on Boat24, Kleinanzeigen, Scanboat, Marktplaats, Botentekoop, Facebook, Instagram and YouTube. Listings and promotion cost about €350. Then all I could do was cross my fingers, refresh the statistics and fret about how little I could do to speed things up.
The figures illustrated that helplessness best. A video on Vadim Luppo's English-language Instagram account received 274,000 views, 4,781 likes and 102 comments. People asked for the seller's contact details. One of them actually wrote to me.
On YouTube there were 1,114 views and one comment. Six people opened the Facebook listing. Huge reach created a sense of activity, but hardly any buyers.
The two dullest platforms did the work. On Kleinanzeigen the listing had 2,743 views, 121 people saved it and eight wrote to me. Boat24 brought 1,310 views, 12 saves and five messages. All three viewings came from those two sites.
People
Even a message didn't necessarily mean interest in buying. Two people asked what a yacht costs to keep. I honestly set out my German expenses: about €4,000 a year for berthing, lifting out and launching, mast handling, engine servicing, antifouling and insurance. Both disappeared. Perhaps I shouldn't have given my own figures: you can do much of it yourself and find a cheaper berth.
Another person asked whether, with no experience, he could sail this boat to Malaysia the following summer. I talked him out of buying her. An Italian asked for a list of safety equipment, then requested half off the price and disappeared too.
The sale
One weekend a young couple from Kleinanzeigen called me. They viewed the boat, then asked to go sailing the following morning. In three hours the wind ranged from 5 to 25 knots, so I was able to show Rassvet in different conditions.
That evening they wrote to say their budget was €4,500. I was furious. I replied that the boat was already discounted and I'd only come down to €6,500. A few days later they'd ‘shaken out their piggy banks’ and offered €6,000, hoping I'd meet them there.
That made me stop and think.
It was nothing like what I'd wanted. But it was the first real offer. I'd already spent about €350 on advertising, and Aurora's delivery was less than a month away. Refusing could mean renewing the listings and paying for Rassvet's winter berth: about €500 afloat or €1,500 ashore. To try to sell her for more, I'd first have to put more time and money into her.
I decided to accept a lower price rather than keep carrying a second yacht, and agreed to €6,000.
In hindsight I'd have used only Kleinanzeigen and Boat24. At their initial rates, they'd have cost about €70 together. Starting negotiations at my minimum price was another mistake. An extra two thousand on the listing would have left room to negotiate. Perhaps I'd have got my €6,900 and the buyers would have been happy with the discount they'd secured.
Overall
Rassvet sold in twenty days. The adverts and videos attracted about 280,000 views. There were three actual viewings. The buyer came from Kleinanzeigen.
In the first part of the epilogue I counted miles, money and breakdowns. That answers the question of what a voyage like this costs quite well. But it says almost nothing about the experience you bring home. The plan that barely survived Originally I intended to reach Norway via the North Sea. It soon became clear that this season the forecast would constrain us more than before. Instead of Helgoland we went via Grenå; instead of Stavanger we reached Oslo.
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In the first part of the epilogue I counted miles, money and breakdowns. That answers the question of what a voyage like this costs quite well.
But it says almost nothing about the experience you bring home.
The plan that barely survived
Originally I intended to reach Norway via the North Sea. It soon became clear that this season the forecast would constrain us more than before. Instead of Helgoland we went via Grenå; instead of Stavanger we reached Oslo. And so it continued.
Sometimes we had to wait. Sometimes a direct 20 miles became 54 through the skerries, sheltered from wind and waves. Sometimes the forecast promised an unpleasant headwind that never appeared. In Hamburgsund it was the reverse: I left after the storm, expecting the promised two-metre seas, and soon remembered the neighbour who'd advised me to stay.
The main lesson about the route was that the original plan stopped being an obligation. What mattered more was keeping enough time, fuel and energy in reserve to change it. My inner perfectionist backed off considerably and learnt to sail with the wind we had.
Two aboard
When Nastya and I agreed to sail together, I thought mainly about the practical side. Four-hour night watches instead of twenty-minute naps when alone sounded convincing.
For some reason I hadn't considered sharing a few square metres of personal space with another person for almost two months.
In hindsight that seems no less of a risk than the weather. On a boat you can't retreat to separate rooms, and tiredness soon strips unnecessary diplomacy from a conversation. It works as long as both people are willing to respect each other's space, give way and avoid turning every disagreement into a matter of principle. Most of the time, at least.
But travelling together also turned out to be quite different.
It's easier to commit to a long passage when you know someone will relieve you in four hours. Less tiredness builds up. In a difficult situation there's someone beside you to check your own perceptions against.
And experiences become more vivid when someone else saw the same thing. Later you can recall a particular wave, an odd berthing manoeuvre or a chance evening without having to explain half the context.
There's less time to get lost in your own head too. Alone on passage, you can stew in your thoughts for hours. With two aboard there's always a world around you: the watch, food, the route, conversation, someone else's mood. That proved useful.
Perhaps that's why we spoke almost daily with Grigory, who spent about three months sailing alone. Sometimes the call was brief, but for the first time I understood how much even that contact with the outside can mean when your world shrinks to a boat, a forecast and the next port for weeks on end.
Dorinda
The biggest change is hard to put into figures.
I left Kiel on an Ohlson 29 that I'd spent four seasons gradually adapting to my needs. Continuing seemed logical: a little more equipment, greater self-sufficiency, windvane steering one day.
Then the weather-beaten Dorinda berthed beside us in Göteborg. Edvard had lived aboard for three years and crossed the Atlantic there and back twice. She looked noticeably worse than Rassvet, but every detail served life at sea.
That raised a question: was I finishing my boat, or trying to adapt her to a job she'd never been designed for?
A few days later in Copenhagen, I opened Scanboat ‘just to look’ and bought the Great Dane 28 Aurora.
Perhaps that's the voyage's most important result. It began as an attempt to discover how far I could go on Rassvet. It ended with an understanding of which boat I wanted to take further.
In that time Rassvet covered 905 nautical miles. Twenty-five days were spent on passage. We visited Denmark, Norway and Sweden, crossed the Skagerrak, sailed at night, waited out storms, worked from the boat and, at one point, quite accidentally bought another yacht. Here are the practical results: how working aboard went, what broke and what it all cost. Remote work The three weeks of remote work were the part I had most doubts about.
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I left Kiel on 11 June and returned fifty days later.
In that time Rassvet covered 905 nautical miles. Twenty-five days were spent on passage. We visited Denmark, Norway and Sweden, crossed the Skagerrak, sailed at night, waited out storms, worked from the boat and, at one point, quite accidentally bought another yacht.
Here are the practical results: how working aboard went, what broke and what it all cost.
Remote work
The three weeks of remote work were the part I had most doubts about.
The arrangement looked questionable: sit at a laptop until four or five, then close it, cast off and cover another 10–25 miles.
But it worked.
Starlink let me attend ordinary meetings from almost anywhere, and when tiredness began to build, we simply skipped a passage. We used about 100 GB a week, so Roam Unlimited at €100 a month fully justified itself.
Long passages as a pair worked unexpectedly well too. On the day-long legs we shared watches, and several consecutive hours of sleep, rather than a series of twenty-minute naps, completely change your perception of distance.
What broke
In Oslo the genoa car fell apart. I couldn't find a direct replacement locally, so I bought another for €100, adapted it with a Dremel and added a Harken block for another €100. The same car cost €50 at SVB in Germany, with no filing or new block required.
In heavy seas the ST2000+ fuse blew because it was underrated, and the main battery switch also started losing contact: €35 for the switch and about €15 for an inline blade-fuse holder and fuse. On the final passage the autopilot overheated beneath its protective cover. The cure was taking the cover off, rather than a repair.
When the boat heeled, a mixture of water, oil and diesel found its way from beneath the engine straight to the tools under my berth. That cost a couple of rolls of toilet paper, half a bottle of Fairy, a rubbish bag and a couple of hours' sleep.
I'd renewed the window sealant in spring, but water still found a way in: another tin, €25. A leak appeared at the raw-water pump. First I replaced the impeller for €60, then bought an €80 overhaul kit and changed the shaft seal. I sealed the threads on the fuel pre-filter fittings with Plastic Padding Gasket.
There were less spectacular things too: constantly watching for fishing gear, twenty centimetres beneath the keel in Bogø, four litres of drinking water aboard before a day-long passage, and expensive Dockspot berths in Swedish marinas that turned out to have been empty for a reason.
None of these failures stopped the trip. Almost everything could be dealt with on the spot using tools, a spare part, a change of route or a couple of hours' tinkering. My conclusion: carry tools, spares, sealant and money for the occasion when none of those works.
Dates: 11 June – 30 July 2026 Distance: 905 nautical miles Duration: 50 days Days on passage: 25 Passages: 3 to 26 hours Average speed: 4.8 knots Weather: Beaufort force 1 to 7
Expenses: • fuel: ~€200 over five refuellings • marinas: ~€1,120 for 21 stops • groceries: ~€820 • repairs: ~€440 • Starlink: ~€200
A total of €2,780 for two months, excluding personal spending, museums and transport.
I was curious to see the financial total myself. It had felt like a voyage of small payments, until Hamburgsund, Oslo or the next spare part reminded me that ‘small’ is relative.
We tried three berths in Bogø. At each one the depth sounder showed about 1.8 metres. I didn't fancy leaving twenty centimetres beneath the keel. Only when we went alongside the town quay did I see 2.1 metres. Half a metre was more like it. Bogø Beside the quay is the Danish-Italian bakery Bogø Brød, run by an Italian who moved to the island. It's one of Bogø's main attractions.
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26 July 2026.
We tried three berths in Bogø. At each one the depth sounder showed about 1.8 metres. I didn't fancy leaving twenty centimetres beneath the keel.
Only when we went alongside the town quay did I see 2.1 metres.
Half a metre was more like it.
Bogø
Beside the quay is the Danish-Italian bakery Bogø Brød, run by an Italian who moved to the island. It's one of Bogø's main attractions. I'd been missing that sort of place since Copenhagen's Lille Bakery; this filled the gap. Both the pastries and the pizza were beyond praise.
In the centre of the island there's a settlement with a windmill, church and beautiful cemetery. In the east there's a small wood, and in it a stone. Its inscription tells how, about two hundred years ago, the islanders bought the island from the Danish Crown and freed themselves from serfdom. The money came from the forest: they felled and sold almost all of it, leaving the very patch where the stone now stands. The marks on the stone look like runes, but they're bomærker: the family marks of those who contributed to the purchase.
At the edge of the wood stands a box that looks like a beehive. Inside are jars of local honey and a request to leave the money if you take one.
Across the sound is Stubbekøbing: a ferry for 55 kroner, a motorcycle museum with about a hundred and fifty machines, including a replica of the very first one, and cutaway engines.
And so a couple of days on Bogø slipped by.
Vejrø
On 28 July we headed for Vejrø. Another recommendation from Grigory.
The island is privately owned and has effectively become a small resort. A berth cost about €50. After Oslo, Hamburgsund and Göteborg, that price barely raised an eyebrow.
Everything was immaculately maintained, though. Hot showers without a meter, a washing machine and tumble dryer, and firewood and charcoal laid out by the shore.
We arrived late. I gathered some wood, revived a fire someone had left smouldering, and sat by the water for a long time beneath a bright moon.
One of those rare occasions when a place someone recommended to me becomes somewhere I'd happily recommend to anyone.
The last passage
On the morning of 30 July we set off towards Kiel.
It was hot and sunny. Everything went perfectly normally until Langeland, where the ST2000+ suddenly stopped holding a proper course.
The unit was new, so I considered everything except the hardware. Then I touched the casing and burnt my hand. Beneath the cover, which I'd removed, the plastic had warped slightly: it had become seriously hot.
I'd fitted a protective cover I'd bought to keep spray off. It had never occurred to me that it might also prevent heat escaping. I removed it and let the autopilot cool while I hand-steered. After a while it started working again as though nothing had happened. Without the cover, the problem didn't recur.
My conclusion in hindsight: in hot weather this unit needs shade and airflow rather than wrapping up. Save the cover for rain and spray. And remember that overheating can look like an electronics fault.
Kiel
Fifty days after leaving, I saw the familiar shores again.
We'd covered 900 nautical miles. Of those fifty days, twenty-five had been passage days. Denmark, Norway, Sweden, the Kattegat, the Skagerrak, skerries, night watches, repairs, storms and a great many marinas.
I looked at Kiel and couldn't work out which of two things was real: the familiar city around me, or the previous two months.
For the first few days I felt slightly out of step with my own life.
Then it became stranger still. A week had passed, and I still didn't need to check the forecast, prepare the boat or leave for the next marina in the evening. Nothing at home rocked. It was too quiet. The bed felt unusually large. My sleep was out of rhythm.
But gradually it passed, and those two months settled into experience and memory.
23 July 2026. After ten days in Copenhagen it was time to move. We cast off at 16:00 and headed south, 32 miles to Rødvig. I'd had this place on my list for two years: Grigory had spoken so enthusiastically about its museum that I couldn't sail past. The smell of smoked fish greeted us before we reached the harbour. I'd only experienced anything similar at Marstal. Here they smoke fish all night so it's ready for the counter in the morning.
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23 July 2026. After ten days in Copenhagen it was time to move. We cast off at 16:00 and headed south, 32 miles to Rødvig. I'd had this place on my list for two years: Grigory had spoken so enthusiastically about its museum that I couldn't sail past.
The smell of smoked fish greeted us before we reached the harbour. I'd only experienced anything similar at Marstal. Here they smoke fish all night so it's ready for the counter in the morning.
Two hours and 66 million years
The museum is about a kilometre east of the harbour. It's small, but two hours disappear without your noticing: it's devoted to the asteroid impact that wiped out the dinosaurs.
What makes Stevns Klint special is that you can literally see the boundary between two eras of Earth's history in its cliffs. Below is chalk formed while dinosaurs still lived. Above begins limestone from the next geological period. Between them runs a thin, dark, iridium-rich layer of clay.
Layers like this were among the key pieces of evidence that a huge asteroid struck Earth about 66 million years ago, causing a mass extinction. The boundary at Stevns is so well preserved that the entire cliff is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
The museum begins with what is practically a cross-section of the ground. Then come animations, meteorites, the story of the search for the crater, and a half-hour film tracing the development of life on Earth from its beginnings.
I stayed until closing time.
After two hours encompassing billions of years, it felt odd to walk back to the boat and start thinking about tomorrow's forecast again. White limestone cliffs stretched along the way, and now I saw their thin bands of rock quite differently.
Really, we should have stayed another day. Nearby are the underground Cold War fortress Stevnsfort, the old Højerup church and Stevns Fyr lighthouse. But you have to leave something for next time.
Beneath the white cliffs
On 25 July we sailed another 28 miles south to Klintholm.
What I really wanted was to anchor beneath the huge white cliffs of Møns Klint, a little to the north-east, rather than go into the marina. The chalk forms almost sheer walls, white beaches and water so blue that the place looks slightly unreal.
The wind wasn't in favour.
So we had to go into the little village of Klintholm. There's just one shop, in the marina, with a modest selection. We bought meat and had a barbecue: at a stop like this, that's the entire evening's programme.
Bogø
That morning I couldn't decide whether to leave. Headwinds and rain were forecast: the sort of passage you don't make for pleasure. We were rafted three out, alongside our neighbour, and the initial decision was simply to move into a berth that had become free.
We cast off.
But weather always looks worse from the pontoon than from the water. As we moved away and turned, Nastya, who'd wanted to stay, said she was ready to carry on. So we did.
That's how carefully prepared navigational decisions are sometimes made.
The funniest thing was that the forecast turned out to be almost completely wrong. The wind vanished.
We hoisted the main to ease the rolling a little, started the engine and quietly covered another 20 miles to Bogø.
Over two days, first the wind denied me the anchorage beneath the white cliffs, then I prepared to fight a headwind that never materialised.
There's a trick that costs little on any boat: if you're unsure, leave the berth and spend ten minutes on the water. The decision feels quite different out there, and you can always come back.
On 13 July we covered the last 22 miles to Copenhagen. Five hours under engine: there were only 5–7 knots of following wind, while the adverse current reached about a knot. We berthed in the eastern marina opposite CopenHill, the famous waste-to-energy plant with a ski slope on its roof. A week cost 890 Danish kroner, about €100. At that price it was hard to leave the capital in a hurry. Besides, Nastya was already complaining of accumulated tiredness.
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On 13 July we covered the last 22 miles to Copenhagen. Five hours under engine: there were only 5–7 knots of following wind, while the adverse current reached about a knot.
We berthed in the eastern marina opposite CopenHill, the famous waste-to-energy plant with a ski slope on its roof. A week cost 890 Danish kroner, about €100. At that price it was hard to leave the capital in a hurry. Besides, Nastya was already complaining of accumulated tiredness.
In the end we lived in Copenhagen for about ten days.
Not travelling
I'd spent a week here a couple of years earlier and visited almost every museum on my list: Glyptotek, SMK, DAC, Designmuseum. At first I was even a little disappointed. Where was I supposed to get my cultural nourishment now?
The answer was unexpectedly simple: nowhere.
We cooked on the marina's gas barbecue, took bikes round the city, sat on benches by Nyhavn, and visited the botanical glasshouses and the zoo. In the butterfly house I was simultaneously amazed by how many were flying around and afraid of accidentally brushing one with my shoulder.
On Grigory's recommendation I visited Home of Carlsberg. I expected a beer museum and came away respecting a company that had established a research laboratory, isolated a pure yeast culture and developed the pH scale in pursuit of good lager.
We went up CopenHill too. The panorama of the city is excellent. A faint smell of waste incineration comes with it.
I also managed to meet Nikita from @whaleflysails. We wandered around the Copenhagen Contemporary area swapping sea stories, each sounding a little less sensible in the retelling than it had at the time.
Lille Bakery
Food is expensive in Denmark, so supermarkets and French Dogs from 7-Eleven kept us going most of the time.
But we discovered Lille Bakery near the marina. Every morning a queue formed outside, sometimes forty minutes long. The bakery had launched through Kickstarter with support from two hundred people, and the bread really did justify their collective faith.
There's so much butter in the pastries that some buns start oozing with the slightest squeeze.
After a few days, going there became my morning ritual. On our last day, one of the owners already knew we were moving on, wished us a good passage and gave us a ten per cent discount.
I couldn't stop thinking about Dorinda
All this time, though, I kept thinking about Dorinda. I realised that her whole approach now felt much closer to what I wanted.
I could keep adding equipment to Rassvet too. But windvane steering, heavy ocean-going modifications and extended self-sufficiency weren't a particularly good match for the nature of my Ohlson 29. More and more often I found myself looking at long-keel boats in marinas and thinking about the next hull rather than the next modification.
One evening I couldn't resist opening Scanboat. Just to see what was on the market.
And there she was.
Great Dane 28. Aurora. €9,000.
A long keel, renewed standing rigging, new bronze seacocks, windvane steering, a recent mainsail and a 2003 Yanmar 3GM30. A proper expedition yacht. A miniature ocean-going tank. I read the advert several times and realised it looked far too good to simply close the tab.
I wrote to the seller. My hands were trembling slightly with excitement.
At ten the next morning we met at the marina, looked over the boat, shook hands and signed the purchase agreement.
I don't think I've ever made a more spontaneous purchase.
We agreed that Aurora would stay in her berth until the second half of September. First I needed to get back to Kiel and arrange the sale of Rassvet.
I couldn't work out what I felt after buying her. Not joy, fear or euphoria. More a sense that something too big had happened and my mind wasn't ready to process it.
I'd left Kiel with one yacht.
Now I'd be returning as the owner of two. Which meant I was no longer merely a skipper, but the admiral of a small fleet!
At noon on 10 July we were finally turfed out of Göteborg. After a week of remote work we'd barely gone anywhere, and at last we had a weekend ahead of us. I wanted some proper sailing rather than moving the boat another 15 miles. I spent a long time studying the chart and forecast, and even wrote to friends who'd sailed along Sweden's south-west coast. In the end I decided to go straight to Helsingør. 115 nautical miles.
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At noon on 10 July we were finally turfed out of Göteborg. After a week of remote work we'd barely gone anywhere, and at last we had a weekend ahead of us. I wanted some proper sailing rather than moving the boat another 15 miles.
I spent a long time studying the chart and forecast, and even wrote to friends who'd sailed along Sweden's south-west coast. In the end I decided to go straight to Helsingør. 115 nautical miles.
The weather allowed it, the town was conveniently on our onward route to Copenhagen, and above all I simply wanted to spend another full day at sea.
We divided the passage into four-hour watches and set off.
Almost immediately, Nastya discovered that we had only four litres of drinking water left, and was quite rightly annoyed. I declared that it would be more than enough for a day. In truth, I just didn't want an intermediate stop. In the end we did use only one of the two bottles. The green flash
That evening I watched the setting sun particularly closely.
There's an atmospheric phenomenon called the green flash. In the final seconds of sunset, the upper edge of the sun can briefly turn bright green. More rarely, you can even see a short green ray above the horizon. It needs a clear, distant horizon and the right atmospheric conditions.
Grisha said he'd seen it twice already. I never had.
So whenever an overnight passage coincides with a clear sunset, I spend those last few minutes practically hypnotising the sun. This time it once again slipped quietly below the horizon without showing me anything. The morning watch
In the morning I came up for my watch, clipped on and sat in the cockpit for a while.
Small clouds covered the sky, lit by the rising sun. The sea had almost flattened out and reflected it all so well that at times the boundary between water and sky disappeared.
There was no urge to hurry. The boat was sailing, the previous watch was asleep, and we still had a few hours to go.
It was for hours like these that I'd wanted to sail a little further.
A day after setting off, we arrived in Helsingør. Helsingør
The marina was large and convenient. Red and green signs on the berths made it immediately clear where visitors could go, and also gave each berth's width. The mooring arrangement was familiar: bow to the pontoon, stern between piles.
Helsingør itself was an excellent place for a couple of days off. A beach, the Øresund Aquarium with its touch pools, the maritime museum and the enormous Kronborg Castle were all a few minutes' walk away. The aquarium, incidentally, belongs to the University of Copenhagen and focuses on local marine life.
Kronborg stands at the narrowest part of the sound and once made it possible to control shipping through the Øresund. Later it became a royal castle and, thanks to Shakespeare, the Elsinore of Hamlet.
An enormous Holger Danske sits in its casemates. According to legend, he sleeps until Denmark is in real danger. Then he'll wake and defend the country.
About ten kilometres to the south is Louisiana, one of the best modern art museums in these parts. The easiest way there from Helsingør is by train to Humlebæk.
After a day at sea, I didn't feel like moving anywhere.
We'll rest here for a couple of days, then head for Copenhagen.
On 8 July the storm finally blew itself out. After work we left Marstrand for Göteborg. The passage was almost exemplary. We sailed mostly on a broad reach. In the narrow channels the wind occasionally rose to 26 knots, so I had to furl the genoa a little to stop the autopilot fighting the boat quite so hard. At times we reached seven knots. My first impressions of Göteborg were mixed. The architecture was a bit of everything. The marina was expensive.
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On 8 July the storm finally blew itself out. After work we left Marstrand for Göteborg.
The passage was almost exemplary. We sailed mostly on a broad reach. In the narrow channels the wind occasionally rose to 26 knots, so I had to furl the genoa a little to stop the autopilot fighting the boat quite so hard. At times we reached seven knots.
My first impressions of Göteborg were mixed.
The architecture was a bit of everything. The marina was expensive. The neighbours were odd. On the other hand, I liked the art museum enough to buy a poster of one of the paintings, and spent almost €400 on new running rigging in Biltema.
Things went less well with the marina.
All visitor berths were sold through Dockspot, which we'd already encountered in Hamburgsund. At first we weren't allowed to take an empty berth because it was reserved ‘for friends’. Then I found another free one and booked it until Friday.
On Thursday evening I tried to extend our stay, but the berth had already been booked by the next customer.
At about eleven on Friday morning, a German motorboat arrived whose crew informed us that it was time to vacate the pontoon.
After Hamburgsund and Göteborg, my enthusiasm for continuing a relationship with Dockspot had dwindled considerably.
But that isn't what I remember the city for.
Beside us lay an old 28-foot yacht called Dorinda.
She looked as though appearance had dropped off her owner's list of priorities long ago. In places, the quantity of sealant seemed to rival the quantity of gelcoat. What gelcoat remained was faded and worn. The sails had no covers.
Yet I couldn't stop looking at her.
Two furling headsails. A safety harness arrangement. All lines led aft to the cockpit. Large self-tailing winches. An electric windlass on the bow. A windvane self-steering system. A hard doghouse instead of the usual sprayhood. A stern arch, a bimini and another arch over the doghouse. The boom vang had been moved to free up the cockpit.
I walked round thinking I'd happily buy this ugly little boat.
Gelcoat can be restored. Leaks can be found. A hull can be repainted. But you can't buy decades of successful modifications, carefully chosen equipment and an understanding of what really matters at sea in a shop.
Her owner appeared that evening.
His name was Edvard.
In the previous three years he'd crossed the Atlantic twice. He'd lived aboard Dorinda and travelled all that time. Now he was finally home and planned to take a break from the boat.
Suddenly her appearance made perfect sense.
We talked for most of the evening. I asked about the boat and the Atlantic; he told me about the last few years of his life. At one point I realised I was a little envious.
This wasn't a neglected old yacht in front of me.
It was a boat that had spent three years doing exactly what she'd been built for.
Late that evening we wished each other goodnight and went back to our respective nine-metre yachts.
After our unscheduled return to Malmön, it was time to move on. We were beginning to fall behind schedule, and I really wanted to reach Marstrand, known here as Sweden's sailing capital. It was about 20 miles by the direct route. The problem was a yellow weather warning and winds of 14–17 m/s. So instead of going directly, I plotted a route through the inner channels among the skerries. It came to 54 miles.
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5 July 2026.
After our unscheduled return to Malmön, it was time to move on. We were beginning to fall behind schedule, and I really wanted to reach Marstrand, known here as Sweden's sailing capital.
It was about 20 miles by the direct route. The problem was a yellow weather warning and winds of 14–17 m/s.
So instead of going directly, I plotted a route through the inner channels among the skerries. It came to 54 miles.
It was one of those occasions when the track looks absurd on a map, but the passage itself feels almost like a holiday resort. For most of it the wind stayed around 15 knots, rising to 27 just a couple of times. It was behind us, the current added another half-knot or so, and the rocks sheltered us from the open sea.
In Marstrand I had a coffee, climbed up to the fortress and walked the path round the island. On one side lay the quiet marina. On the other, the sea raged where I'd sensibly decided not to go that day.
Everything was looking a little too good.
Back on the boat, I noticed a strong smell of diesel in the saloon.
While we were heeled, water mixed with oil and diesel from beneath the engine had spilled into the space under my berth. Which was, of course, where we kept the tools and drinking water.
Nastya and I spent until one in the morning cleaning the boat with Fairy and toilet paper. The sole, lockers, bottles, tools. There's something particularly delightful about scrubbing diesel off an adjustable spanner instead of having dinner after a 54-mile passage.
The cause was fairly simple. A drain hose ran down from the fridge compartment, and the opening around it hadn't been properly sealed. Normally the water ran downwards. With a good heel on, the system discovered it could work in reverse.
Once we'd finished cleaning, I sealed the gap around the hose.
The next day it became clear why we'd needed those 54 miles. Gusts of up to 45 knots were forecast offshore, and even inside the marina I saw 31. Waves formed between the pontoons.
While we were sitting inside, Grigory sent a photograph of a navigation warning from his NAVTEX: interference with GNSS, AIS, RADAR and DGPS had been observed in the Baltic.
At this rate, it looks as though we'll soon be back to navigating with paper charts and an ordinary compass.
Over those couple of stormy days I developed a ritual: go to a café, order coffee and a bun with blåbär, sit by the window and watch the wind whip the sea like cream.
On 3 July, the storm with winds of 35 knots and more that had kept us in Hamburgsund for the previous couple of days was supposed to end after 14:00. We were finishing work and preparing to leave. As I readied the boat, I got talking to our neighbour. He gently pointed out that it was still blowing hard at sea. I shrugged: the forecast had it dropping to 18–26 knots.
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A warning
On 3 July, the storm with winds of 35 knots and more that had kept us in Hamburgsund for the previous couple of days was supposed to end after 14:00. We were finishing work and preparing to leave.
As I readied the boat, I got talking to our neighbour. He gently pointed out that it was still blowing hard at sea. I shrugged: the forecast had it dropping to 18–26 knots.
He said there could be big waves between the rocks on the way out of Hamburgsund, but it would be calmer further out in open water. I'd seen about two metres in the forecast and simply thanked him.
For some reason the conversation wouldn't end. It was clear he was trying to tell me something without lecturing me.
Eventually he gave up:
‘If I were you, I wouldn't go anywhere today.’
I replied that 18 knots and two-metre waves sounded quite manageable. Besides, I really didn't want to pay another €50 for the night.
We smiled and wished each other luck.
Exactly where I didn't want to go
Between the rocks it was calm, with almost no wind. I'd begun to think our neighbour had simply been overcautious.
Before the next turn, a narrow gap appeared to starboard, with waves crashing against the rocks. A thought flashed through my mind:
‘Please, not that way.’
A hundred metres later, Navionics told me to turn precisely that way.
Rocks protruded on both sides. Waves smashed against them, throwing foam high into the air. I had to keep roughly in the middle of the passage and head straight into the approaching seas.
They looked nothing like the forecast two metres.
Every few seconds the depth sounder jumped from about 10 metres to 18 and back again. The boat climbed, her bow pointed at the sky for a while, then we dropped. Every cycle tightened my chest.
More than anything, I wanted to turn round.
But I wanted even less to be beam-on to those waves.
So I held our course, repeating our neighbour's words to myself: big waves first, then smaller ones.
In my memory that passage lasted about an hour. The Navionics track insists it was ten minutes. We haven't reached an agreement on that.
Nothing but waves and sky
It did get easier further out. But I soon noticed something else: whenever the route approached shallow water, the waves grew higher and steeper again. I had to rework the route as we went, avoiding the shallower patches.
Once we had about 50 metres beneath the keel, the sea eased noticeably.
After roughly an hour I began to get used to it. The boat felt steady. The waves reached about boom height. In the troughs there was nothing to see but water. On each crest, the shore, breaking surf and navigation marks appeared for a few seconds. Then there were only waves and sky again.
At some point I even began to enjoy it.
Failure
Then the autopilot slowly pushed the tiller hard to starboard, then hard to port, and switched off.
That was it.
Nastya and I began taking ten-minute turns at the tiller. After a few changes it was clear we couldn't keep that up for another five hours.
During my ten-minute breaks I considered the nearest places of refuge. I chose Malmön. It was relatively close, but above all we'd been there a couple of weeks earlier and knew the approach. I really didn't want to deal with a heavy sea, hand-steering and an unfamiliar marina all at once.
For the next two hours we changed over every ten minutes and gradually made our way to the familiar pier.
As soon as we were tied up, I went looking for the fault. If the ST2000+ itself had died, I had no idea where I'd quickly find a replacement.
Fortunately, the culprit was a fuse.
There was an 8-amp fuse in the circuit instead of the 12-amp one recommended for the ST2000+. Apparently several hours of constant work in a heavy sea had finished it off.
I fitted a new fuse.
The autopilot gave a short beep.
I think that was the loveliest sound of the entire day.
After three nights in Strömstad the storm ended, and the real test of my plan began. At 16:00 I closed the laptop, cast off and we headed for Havstenssund. Just 13 nautical miles, almost entirely under engine into the wind. North-western Sweden was stunning. You can spend hours winding between rocky islands and skerries, constantly changing course and studying the next passage, which a minute earlier wasn't visible at all.
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A voyage through the Skagerrak. Part 11. The first week of remote work
After work
After three nights in Strömstad the storm ended, and the real test of my plan began.
At 16:00 I closed the laptop, cast off and we headed for Havstenssund. Just 13 nautical miles, almost entirely under engine into the wind.
North-western Sweden was stunning. You can spend hours winding between rocky islands and skerries, constantly changing course and studying the next passage, which a minute earlier wasn't visible at all.
In Havstenssund we berthed alongside by a small fishing village. I'd have liked to stay longer, but another spell of strong wind was on its way, so there wasn't much room to relax the schedule.
Walking along the pier that evening, I noticed a splash. Then another. Fish were jumping clear of the water every few minutes.
I went back to the boat for my spinning rod and began casting a lure from the pier in the glow left by the setting sun. Twice I lifted a small herring, about twenty centimetres long, out of the water, and both times it came off almost immediately. The hook was probably too big. Still, it was the first fish I'd managed to get airborne in about twenty years. Let's call it a partial success.
The engine had also clocked up about 80 hours since I'd fitted the new propeller shaft seal. I added a little grease and entered the maintenance in the logbook. €110 for a good view
The next day, after work, we cast off again and headed for Hamburgsund.
The village sits in a narrow sound between rocky shores. It feels unusual: seagoing yachts, salt water and granite all around, yet the harbour itself feels more like a river.
We were going to wait out another storm here. Only all the visitor berths were full.
I spotted a completely empty pontoon by a restaurant and assumed sailors were avoiding the awkward arrangement with a stern mooring buoy.
Once €110 had left my card, it became apparent there might be another explanation. More expensive than a berth in central Oslo. Payment was through Dockspot. The spot itself was lovely, though. Sea fire
Out at sea I'd noticed long brownish-red streaks on the surface a few times. In the marinas they gathered by the shore, looking more like dirt or an algal bloom.
That evening it began to drizzle.
I went outside and saw each raindrop flash blue for an instant as it struck the water beside the boat. A glowing ring spread from it, then another drop fell, and another. Within seconds the whole surface in front of me had become a tiny cosmic scene.
That was my first sight of mareld, Sweden's ‘sea fire’.
I stood in the rain watching the water for quite a while. Sometimes plankton and bad weather are all you need for a good evening's entertainment.
The next day I took a ride on the local cable ferry. As it set off and slowed down, the steel cable tightened and rose out of the water in places. Afterwards I was particularly reluctant to imagine my own yacht directly above it at the wrong moment. Week one
And so the first week of remote work slowly came to an end.
Before starting the experiment, I'd worried about a rather mundane issue. In many marinas you have to leave your visitor berth around noon or pay for another night. I physically couldn't leave at twelve, because I'd be at my laptop until four or five.
It made for an odd way of travelling: work from the cabin in the morning, close the laptop in the afternoon, move 10–20 miles, berth somewhere new in the evening, then open the same laptop again the next morning.
During that first week, not one harbourmaster asked me to leave before the end of my working day or charged me an extra night for those few additional hours.
So, for now, the plan was working.
I also bought Coca-Cola-flavoured dates. If you come across them in Northern Europe, get some. This has nothing to do with working remotely on a yacht, but useful information doesn't always have to be about boats.
28 June 2026. We left Fredrikstad for Strömstad. Almost the whole passage was to windward, sailing close-hauled and tacking. There was hardly any sea, and the sun was hot, so despite the wind direction it was a surprisingly comfortable trip. The fishing gear hadn't gone away. Sometimes we passed four sets in a row, which made it hard to relax: spot one buoy, immediately look for the second, then work out where the net runs between them.
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Back in Sweden.
28 June 2026. We left Fredrikstad for Strömstad. Almost the whole passage was to windward, sailing close-hauled and tacking. There was hardly any sea, and the sun was hot, so despite the wind direction it was a surprisingly comfortable trip.
The fishing gear hadn't gone away. Sometimes we passed four sets in a row, which made it hard to relax: spot one buoy, immediately look for the second, then work out where the net runs between them.
At one point I needed to stand further out to sea to get a better wind angle and stay on one tack for as long as possible. Another yacht was sailing parallel to us, with her mainsail sheeted almost to the centreline and a self-tacking jib.
We overtook her. A little later her skipper tacked, made some distance off and headed back towards the shore. His boat couldn't point as high as Rassvet, so he bore away a little, picked up speed and crossed about fifty metres ahead of our bow.
Then he did it again.
On his third attempt, he tacked and came straight at us.
I'd already got the horn out. The distance was closing, while his intentions were becoming approximately no clearer at all. About fifteen metres away, he finally bore away sharply onto an almost downwind course and passed astern.
That day left me with a few prejudices against self-tacking jibs. Possibly entirely unfair ones. But when tacking every half-hour costs someone no effort, everyone around them has to keep an eye on the consequences.
A new routine
I'd happily have stayed another day in Fredrikstad, where berthing was free, but the forecast promised a sharp deterioration. We planned to spend three nights in Strömstad waiting out the strong winds. I also hoped Sweden might prove a little cheaper after Norway.
But wind wasn't going to be the main challenge over the coming days.
My holiday was over.
The original voyage plan revolved around a fairly dubious experiment. The first two weeks of leave were for getting a long way north. Then I'd work remotely for three weeks, gradually heading back in short hops. After that, another two weeks of leave would allow some proper sailing and a return to Kiel without racing the clock.
Those three weeks were now beginning.
I'd be working from 07:00 to 16:00. Then I could close the laptop, cast off and cover another 10–25 miles to the next harbour. Perhaps not every day: the prospect of ending every working day with a passage for several weeks soon loses some of its romance.
I was a little nervous. Until now the boat had been either transport or somewhere to relax. She was about to become my office too.
Starlink
It was for this part of the voyage that I'd bought Starlink. My unlimited plan cost €99 a month and meant work wouldn't tie me to any particular marina.
Over the following weeks I gathered a few figures:
• downloads were usually 100–150 Mbps; • uploads around 20 Mbps; • latency 30–50 ms; • a full working week used roughly 100 GB of data; • occasionally the connection froze for two or three seconds; • two simultaneous video calls could make it struggle, so Nastya and I started comparing our important meeting times beforehand.
Otherwise it worked so well that it soon stopped feeling unusual. In the morning I'd open my laptop in the cockpit or cabin and join work meetings much as I would from home.
I powered it from a 12-volt connection. I saw consumption reach roughly 5 A, making Starlink a significant item in the boat's energy budget. It wasn't something I could simply install and forget, particularly on cloudy days when the solar panels produced less.
We arrived in Strömstad as more than travellers waiting out another storm.
I felt calm about leaving Oslo after a hard day. Several reasons. The previous night, reading until three, I went out to brush my teeth: night hadn’t arrived. Orange twilight one side, pale blue the other, no stars. Late June at sixty north, darkness was a formality. Two people meant watches and short sleeps. Calm fjord overnight, southerly headwind in the morning. Better smooth-water motoring than fighting both wind and short chop.
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A voyage through the Skagerrak. Part 9. Leaving Oslo, finding unexpected shelter
Why at night
I felt calm about leaving Oslo after a hard day. Several reasons.
The previous night, reading until three, I went out to brush my teeth: night hadn’t arrived. Orange twilight one side, pale blue the other, no stars. Late June at sixty north, darkness was a formality.
Two people meant watches and short sleeps. Calm fjord overnight, southerly headwind in the morning. Better smooth-water motoring than fighting both wind and short chop.
Fishing gear also mattered less inside the fjord, after the blue cans on our northward route.
25 June, ten at night, Oslo towards Horten. An easy night indeed. Arrived at five. Three thousand miles
Horten grew around Karljohansvern, once Norway’s main naval base. Now naval museum, submarine, ships, turrets, marine equipment.
But the museum wasn’t the memorable event.
In Oslo, I’d jokingly boasted of three thousand logbook miles. A pleasant number to say. Nastya remembered.
In Horten, she went shopping alone for candles and a small Napoleon cake, then surprised me with a three-thousand-mile celebration aboard.
Completely unprepared. Laughed, then almost cried. After watches, repairs, forecasts, distance calculations, someone saw what the number meant and made an event of it.
Small cake, small candles. Enough. Football silence
26 June evening, Norway–France. Locals gathered at the marina bar with horns, drums and optimism.
Loud first, then deathly quiet, almost a cemetery. Unusual football crowd.
Phone out: 1–4 to France.
A funeral indeed. Felt sorry for Norway. Slept beautifully. A town from yacht adverts
27 June, eight, towards Fredrikstad by two.
I’d seen its name repeatedly in Norwegian yacht adverts. Curious about this sailing centre near Sweden. At the Glomma mouth, with a long river approach.
Expectations differed: one central visitors’ marina, no facilities. Bought stove alcohol, searched elsewhere.
Across the river, no visitors’ berths in one marina, no-visitor sign in the next.
Already turning away when an older gentleman approached by dinghy. What were we seeking? Berth beside them, facilities code available, no charge.
Three refusals in an hour, then someone came over by dinghy to offer free shelter and codes.
I hadn’t expected miracles still, or that they might arrive by dinghy.
Yesterday left me gloomy. A major destination reached: Skagerrak swell and traffic crossed, fifty-mile Oslofjord navigated, central-capital berth. Apparently all to tour the outskirts for a €200 car that wouldn’t fit its track. I decided to get my money’s worth from museums. Already visited National Museum, Munch and Astrup Fearnley years ago, so Bygdøy’s three museums this time.
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Yesterday left me gloomy. A major destination reached: Skagerrak swell and traffic crossed, fifty-mile Oslofjord navigated, central-capital berth.
Apparently all to tour the outskirts for a €200 car that wouldn’t fit its track.
I decided to get my money’s worth from museums. Already visited National Museum, Munch and Astrup Fearnley years ago, so Bygdøy’s three museums this time.
Norsk Folkemuseum was a little town within the city: houses and interiors through the ages, farm buildings to flats, shops, petrol stations and multi-storey outdoor toilets.
In the Fram Museum the real wooden polar ship of Nansen, Sverdrup and Amundsen stands inside. Go aboard, see how people travelled into so much blank map.
What affected me most was Kon-Tiki.
Grisha told me Thor Heyerdahl’s story only a month ago, on our Danish flotilla. A sea yarn allowed some implausibility. Now the raft before me.
His theory: Polynesia might have settlers from South America as well as the west. Little scientific enthusiasm. One objection: ancient vessels couldn’t cross the Pacific.
His reply went beyond ordinary debate: build a raft and test it.
Five companions, US military radios and rations, Peru’s presidential support, balsa-log raft. Callao departure in 1947, square sail, little shelter, parrot. Raroia in French Polynesia 101 days later.
A full-size Kon-Tiki reconstruction lay in the museum. Logs, tiny hut, sail. Six people for over three Pacific months, storms, sharks, problems never covered by the design.
I wanted his book for daily life more than theory. When did people predicted to die horribly stop seeing a scientific experiment and realise they simply had to get across?
An aged Heyerdahl waxwork at the end. Usually awkward things; after raft, photos and story, I stood looking for a long time at that extraordinary mixture of academic science and courageous adventure.
Back aboard Rassvet, tired and drained.
Nastya looked at me: ‘I’m fed up here. Want to get away.’ ‘Leave now?’ ‘Yes. Let’s.’
23 June, a high and almost no wind forecast. Prepared for eight hours motoring to Oslo. A gift instead: following wind almost throughout, Rassvet sometimes reaching six knots. Rocky ridges both sides, surprisingly little large traffic. Thirty-five miles, one ferry, one cargo ship, one liner. Kiel or Solent would bring dozens. Local yachts comfortably near mid-channel. Natural that day, but I watched AIS and astern.
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A voyage through the Skagerrak. Part 7. Fuglevik → Oslo
A different forecast
23 June, a high and almost no wind forecast. Prepared for eight hours motoring to Oslo.
A gift instead: following wind almost throughout, Rassvet sometimes reaching six knots. Rocky ridges both sides, surprisingly little large traffic. Thirty-five miles, one ferry, one cargo ship, one liner. Kiel or Solent would bring dozens.
Local yachts comfortably near mid-channel. Natural that day, but I watched AIS and astern. A helicopter rescue exercise, someone lowered to a boat. In the centre
Eight hours to central Oslo marina. A staff member met us on the pontoon: after buoys, rings and fingers, almost service.
Eighteen NOK per foot, about €50 a night for twenty-nine feet. Excessive at first; then suburban transport, free showers and laundry, nearby shop, ten minutes to museums. Perhaps cheaper overall.
Norwegian essentials sampled: Solo like Fanta with fizzy vitamin C; Kvikk close to KitKat; brunost like caramelised condensed milk, best with Polarbrød. By slice three, I understood thin slicing. The car
Next morning, the starboard genoa car’s locking pin had torn out. No fixing to the track, no reliable sheet-block positioning.
Calliper first: rail width and profile, hole diameters, car dimensions, sent to sellers. Several conversations found an 800 NOK J/70 car.
It didn’t fit.
Careful Dremel removal of metal at the edges. Sunglasses stopped big particles; proper enclosed goggles and a mask would have been right. Original block incompatible too. Another trip across Oslo’s outskirts for a Harken block.
About six hours and €200: half the city, metal shavings, two shop trips, two petrol-station hot dogs and Cokes.
An adapted compromise, beyond a standard replacement. Checked free travel, full pin engagement, block and fixings moving under load without binding.
About 380 miles from Germany to Oslo, first full day hunting a genoa car: perfectly consistent travel. Another small failure solved the usual way: money, time, a tool previously considered optional.
For 22 June, Koster to Fuglevik on Norway’s Oslofjord coast, about thirty miles direct. Diesel and water there to replenish supplies. The forecast offered little clarity: wind adverse, easing, briefly useful. So leave in the morning, main up, motor into it. About 3–3.5 knots. Tacking without engine was possible, but substantially longer in distance and time. I saw no benefit. The ferry Before the fjord, AIS warned of a close approach by a large ferry.
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No sailing heroics
For 22 June, Koster to Fuglevik on Norway’s Oslofjord coast, about thirty miles direct. Diesel and water there to replenish supplies.
The forecast offered little clarity: wind adverse, easing, briefly useful. So leave in the morning, main up, motor into it.
About 3–3.5 knots. Tacking without engine was possible, but substantially longer in distance and time. I saw no benefit.
The ferry
Before the fjord, AIS warned of a close approach by a large ferry. I considered altering to clarify our intentions, but she changed course early and passed astern.
With the engine running, we were a power-driven vessel despite the main. No expectation of being given way to as a sailing yacht. Why she altered, I don’t know; perhaps simply the clearest option.
Inside, waves vanished and speed rose to 4.5 knots. Blue mountain ridges along the west coast caught my eye at every turn.
Hard to see
Fishing gear caused the tension. Markers every half-mile, not all bright: dark-blue cans, little flags.
Find one, search for its partner, mentally draw the gear between. Two or three pairs nearby turned peaceful motoring into concentration practice.
Visible by day, perhaps; a blue can at night on an unfamiliar route, less so. My desire to sail here after dark diminished.
Fuglevik
Thirty-four miles, eight and a half hours. Finger berth, twenty litres of diesel immediately.
Then payment for berth, shower, power: no clear instructions, nobody to pay. Unlimited facilities in the end. Guilty, slightly pleased.
Another mismatch ashore: no shops, parks or museums. A small campsite settlement, Moss just two miles farther. Some regret.
In the evening, I stood on the slope above the sea. Towns lit up opposite: dark water, thousands of lights, the blue ridges that had followed us all day.
Still a remote marina. Just not necessarily a disadvantage.
20 June 2026. A yellow thunderstorm warning had been in every forecast since evening. Even in the morning, I wasn’t sure about leaving. Gusts to 35 knots after seven; not one yacht on AIS. Half an hour later, two boats appeared along the skerries. Proof of nothing, but another route option. I plotted inner passages, rocks sheltering most of the way from open seas and strong wind, though not the thunderstorm itself.
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Yellow warning
20 June 2026. A yellow thunderstorm warning had been in every forecast since evening. Even in the morning, I wasn’t sure about leaving. Gusts to 35 knots after seven; not one yacht on AIS.
Half an hour later, two boats appeared along the skerries. Proof of nothing, but another route option. I plotted inner passages, rocks sheltering most of the way from open seas and strong wind, though not the thunderstorm itself.
We slipped the buoy, unfurled the genoa and left without engine.
Slow counts too
For hours, I fought for every tenth of a knot. Below five, trim, alter course, sometimes engine. Then I realised I was maintaining a number on a screen rather than making a passage.
Lowered my threshold to four. Sometimes 3.5, but in the right direction, shelters ahead, enough time. Arrival time stopped mattering. We were sailing.
Five hours nearly silent, no engine or autopilot. Tiller in hand among stone islands. Once, wind to twenty, but the next sheltered passage was right there.
More turns, constant chartwork, no long distraction: the price. In return, five hours of skerries we’d otherwise see only on the plotter.
Towards Koster
Last hour, wind gone, motored to Koster, recommended by several people, including the Grenaa gentleman who lent his pilot book.
Alongside a short finger pontoon. After buoys, rock rings and granite negotiations, ordinary berthing felt futuristic.
Koster lies in Kosterhavet marine national park. Starfish and crabs visible by shore, paths over rocks along the water.
A threat ashore
Nastya stepped towards an information board and felt a prick at her ankle. Macro photography showed a tick. Aboard, we removed it and disinfected the bite. Two more ticks on her trousers, something suspicious on my T-shirt.
I asked ChatGPT about Swedish practice, then checked local recommendations. Surprisingly brief: remove promptly, wash, watch skin and health for several weeks. Preventive antibiotics after an ordinary bite aren’t recommended here.
A little early redness needn’t mean anything. Seek medical help for expanding redness one or several weeks later, particularly over five centimetres, or fever, headache or pronounced illness.
Vaccination protects against TBE, not Lyme disease, and needs doing beforehand, rather than after a bite. I found nothing on myself. Little comfort; keep watching.
Thunderstorm warning and shelter planning in the morning, tick-bite monitoring at night. The sea was more predictable than land this time.
In Grenaa, a neighbour listed twelve west-Swedish places and lent Hamnguiden 5 by Hanne and Jørn Engevik. Dangerous, in a good way. Aerial photos: skerries, approaches, depths, boats for scale, mooring rings in rock. Clear places to tie ashore or hold the boat off. I soon wanted a rocky-island berth. 19 June, a quiet sixteen-mile passage to Munkholmen. First attempt Northern rings first. Sheltered, still, beautiful: the picture selling rock mooring.
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A voyage through the Skagerrak. Part 4. Munkholmen and Dannemark
A tempting pilot book
In Grenaa, a neighbour listed twelve west-Swedish places and lent Hamnguiden 5 by Hanne and Jørn Engevik.
Dangerous, in a good way. Aerial photos: skerries, approaches, depths, boats for scale, mooring rings in rock. Clear places to tie ashore or hold the boat off. I soon wanted a rocky-island berth.
19 June, a quiet sixteen-mile passage to Munkholmen. First attempt
Northern rings first. Sheltered, still, beautiful: the picture selling rock mooring.
But southerly gusts to twenty overnight. Beauty second, safety first.
Ashore, bird droppings almost everywhere. Walking a minefield.
Bow and stern lines. Half a metre from rock, unable to pull closer. A small wave arrived; instead of rocking gently, the boat jerked upright. Halyards hit the mast.
An expensive sound.
Apparently, the keel’s side touched a granite ledge. Enough to rule out sleeping there. Second attempt
Southern rings, boat stretched between them. A hollow meant only bow and stern touched rock; fenders looked decorative. Acceptable in stillness, but not testing yellow hull against five-storey granite overnight.
A few hours, no night here. A daytime stop
Then what skerries are for: drone for me, sketching for Nastya, fruit-and-yoghurt salad, beginner fishing.
First time touching spinning rod, plug and spoon. Nastya, experienced, showed me casting and their differences. No catch, but I irritated some small fish. €35 AliExpress kit works. Fish holding their ground.
Sunset cooled the rock fast. Large armoured centipedes, a finger and a half wide, emerged from cracks. A psychological addition to the berth.
I imagined them crossing the lines aboard. Convincingly enough to suggest Dannemark Bay by Ulön instead. The night option
Five buoys, four occupied: Norwegian, Swedish, French, Danish flags. Our German one completed the little international gathering.
Free buoy taken. More trust after the rocks than anchoring on unknown ground. Anchor alarm still on.
A lively night’s wind. Several bearing checks to confirm we stayed put. Perhaps two lines to the buoy would have reassured me. Maybe overcautious.
Comfortable night.
Lesson: rings in a pilot book don’t replace inspecting the berth. Depth beneath keel, rock shape, overnight wind, fender contact, boat motion in an occasional wave, beyond perfect calm.
Westerly beam reach, fifteen to twenty-three knots in gusts. Second reef in main, full genoa. In hindsight, furl some genoa too: rounding up in gusts made extra speed less worthwhile than fighting the helm. Sixty-one miles in eleven hours. Respectable figures; eleven hours of constant rolling. Glad I’d taken seasickness medicine. Læsø West-side berth with a stern mooring line.
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From Grenaa
16 June, 5.30am, refuelled and north towards Læsø.
Westerly beam reach, fifteen to twenty-three knots in gusts. Second reef in main, full genoa. In hindsight, furl some genoa too: rounding up in gusts made extra speed less worthwhile than fighting the helm.
Sixty-one miles in eleven hours. Respectable figures; eleven hours of constant rolling. Glad I’d taken seasickness medicine. Læsø
West-side berth with a stern mooring line. After familiar German and Danish piles, a coordination test: approach, catch windward bow line, pick up dirty mooring line, haul aft, cleat, look as if planned.
We walked village and beach. Quiet, so quiet I didn’t want several days. Tomorrow, south-westerly ten to fifteen knots. After stagnation, don’t waste it.
Navily, Navionics, Windy. Next target: Bohus-Malmön, Sweden. Genoa alone
17 June, eight o’clock. Following wind, full 140% genoa. Main initially up, quickly down when almost running: blanketing the genoa, and no spinnaker pole aboard.
Often six knots. Briefly the advertising version of sailing: following wind, open water, yellow hull, Sweden ahead.
Halfway, two-metre waves: long ocean swell, slowly lifting and lowering us. Apparently leaving sheltered Kattegat for Skagerrak at last.
Busy shipping too. AIS made calculation possible: course, speed, CPA, TCPA, then choose a crossing gap. Its purpose is knowing where you shouldn’t be in time, beyond technological pride. Into Sweden
Malmön felt a different sea: granite, enormous smooth rocks, skerries. Suddenly northern after Denmark.
Alongside the visitors’ pontoon. After Læsø’s mooring line, almost hotel parking: approach, alongside, lines, no foredeck circus.
Four-by-two-kilometre island. Coastal loop marked blue and white. Surprisingly absorbing, searching for painted rocks, climbing occasional viewpoints over the majestic sea.
Surf below, granite around, Skagerrak ahead. Every earlier decision suddenly seems right, having brought you here.
Lessons from two passages
1. full genoa on a beam reach in fifteen to twenty-three knots may be too much, despite speed; 2. a large genoa works better alone downwind; 3. AIS turns shipping anxiety into calculations; 4. use good wind when boat and crew are ready.
For the island walk, take a Coop prawn sandwich. Not navigation information; equally important.
Two hours together as darkness covered Kiel Bay. I explained autopilot, instruments, course, speed, depth, watchkeeping. Nastya offered the first watch. Almost training conditions: no wind, engine, autopilot straight towards Denmark. Four hours of letting the boat do dull, important work. I slept in snatches, up every thirty minutes to check. First compromise.
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Night school
Two hours together as darkness covered Kiel Bay. I explained autopilot, instruments, course, speed, depth, watchkeeping. Nastya offered the first watch.
Almost training conditions: no wind, engine, autopilot straight towards Denmark. Four hours of letting the boat do dull, important work. I slept in snatches, up every thirty minutes to check.
First compromise. A watch formally covered; responsibility still the skipper’s, especially with someone’s first offshore night. Following wind
Morning watch, genoa unfurled. Plenty of commercial traffic, so outside main routes and avoiding unnecessary crossings.
Following wind throughout: eight knots initially, twenty-eight for hours near the end. Unfamiliar after three years mostly sailing close to the wind.
A useful downwind discovery: ease the genoa sheet further for more depth, and it’s less prone to flipping sides with rolling and shifts. When the clew loses drive, the filled sail pulls it forward, preventing a flop onto the other tack.
Twenty-six hours, about 140 miles. Under sail, Rassvet held five or six knots confidently only with about fifteen knots astern. Route decisions underway
Langeland surprised me: DW and Route H shipping routes leave small craft limited inshore room. Manageable, but not relaxing.
Watches: 1. four-hour shifts work; 2. keep the timetable strictly; 3. daytime, everyone in the cockpit, it slips; 4. night exacts the cost in attention.
Night never fully arrived. Sun down at ten, glow until four, then day emerged from it. Darkness supplied, but sparingly. Grenaa
Grenaa meant waiting out strong winds, replanning, tying up and exhaling. Then exploring.
Kattegatcentret, port, town centre. At the aquarium, straight through the shop, souvenirs bought, onward to fish, shark feeding, seals, coffee, most of the day inside.
Only leaving did I see ticket barriers opposite the shop, the exit. We’d entered through it and visited free. Awkward.
Lunch at Havets Bord: a mountain of fried, boiled and smoked fish, peeled prawns and little roe. Could fish alone fill me up? All later meals cancelled, including dinner. Experiment settled. Pause
Wind wasn’t the only delay. A strange illness struck: right-temple headache into the eye, nausea, confusion. About forty-eight hours, gradually easing. Nurofen and No-Spa didn’t help.
Pressure, dehydration, migraine, stress, seasickness, exhaust fumes, something else? Main thing: don’t sail with symptoms I don’t understand.
Choice: keep aiming for Stavanger and more long passages, or Oslofjord, then short coastal hops south along Sweden’s west coast.
The plan breaks. Safety must come first; resembling the dream comes afterwards.
I began planning Norway a year ago. Fjords had lived in my head since Douglas Adams’s ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’, where Norway is Slartibartfast’s work: ‘Lovely crinkly edges. Won an award, you know.’ Preparation Norway almanac bought, German and Danish sections reread, Grigory from the Meerbär blog questioned closely. He’d done a similar solo trip the year before: more valuable than any pilot book.
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A voyage through the Skagerrak. Part 1. Dreams and reality
The dream
I began planning Norway a year ago. Fjords had lived in my head since Douglas Adams’s ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’, where Norway is Slartibartfast’s work: ‘Lovely crinkly edges. Won an award, you know.’ Preparation
Norway almanac bought, German and Danish sections reread, Grigory from the Meerbär blog questioned closely. He’d done a similar solo trip the year before: more valuable than any pilot book. Books give depths, lights and ports, but not third-day fatigue or the quiet question of why you began.
The original, serious plan: north through the North Sea from Heligoland. I asked Norwegian sailors about weather windows. For «Rassvet»an Ohlson 29, still near the edge of sensible. Strong boat; a long North Sea crossing remains a long crossing.
Preparation turned technical: a separate chat for route options, refuges, distances, passage times and fallback stops. Explore with Imray for local knowledge. Crew
A Moscow woman contacted me through the blog in November or December. Nastya, planning Spain, keen to join.
We called. I explained: no leisurely coffee-and-sunset outing. Endurance, watches, little sleep, doing what’s necessary rather than pleasant. Agreed on that basis.
First meeting, 8 June. Original departure, Friday morning the 12th. Forecast
‘Check weather’ sounds neutral. In practice, daily Windy on every model showed my careful route becoming a lesson in humility.
Strong wind after Friday lunch, then almost a week of gusts around forty knots or more. North Sea livelier still, fifty-plus in places.
Days before leaving, a full rethink. What happens to a dream when its North Sea window closes before departure? The solution
Thursday, I knew Friday was too late. Leave then, meet deterioration. Stay, lose nearly a week and the trip’s momentum.
Simple, uncomfortable answer: after-work departure, overnight straight north while possible. North Sea abandoned. First target Grenaa. Then actual forecast: Skagen, Limfjord, or another improvised option.
The practical plan: 1. leave Kiel in the evening; 2. about 140 nautical miles north; 3. Grenaa as the first replanning point; 4. decide by weather, rather than wishes.
Grigory visited with an enormous shawarma and good wishes. He’d leave a week later, solo in the Midsummer Sail from the southern Baltic far north. Our plan almost looked moderate. Almost. Departure
Thursday: aboard, provisions, gear stowed so no blind searching in night rain. Forecast checked again.
11 June, 9.30pm: cast off.
The journey began with compromise. Norway would depend on abandoning a beautiful idea at the right time, beyond drawing a line on a chart.
The last two passages and the coming Norway trip highlighted the boat’s condition. Almost ready, provided you didn’t look too closely. First, winter storage in Kiel secured. One big question gone; finish technical loose ends. Shrouds and a ruler Grigory stepped aboard and immediately saw the mast wasn’t straight and shrouds unevenly tensioned. Seldén’s method instead of guessing.
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The last two passages and the coming Norway trip highlighted the boat’s condition. Almost ready, provided you didn’t look too closely.
First, winter storage in Kiel secured. One big question gone; finish technical loose ends. Shrouds and a ruler
Grigory stepped aboard and immediately saw the mast wasn’t straight and shrouds unevenly tensioned. Seldén’s method instead of guessing.
Attach a two-metre ruler to the shroud, tighten both turnbuckles evenly, measure the ruler end’s movement relative to the turnbuckle with a calliper. Each millimetre over two metres means five per cent of wire breaking load. We needed three millimetres.
Professional on paper. Days later, realised we’d left the rubber covers on. Better to measure the wire, rather than its smart clothes.
By then, an €80 SVB tension gauge showed ten per cent. A tidy error, no disaster. A few turns each side to about fifteen. Straighter mast, more even loads. Small unfinished jobs
After cleaning the freshwater tank, litres in the bilge. Almost insulting: no sealing ring in the lid. Ordered, fitted, training pool avoided.
New extinguisher, Biltema turnbuckle covers, soft TPU-printed bathing-ladder pads where it rests against the hull.
The genoa furling line kept sharing the sheet winch. A new lead block finally sent it where it belonged. Power and communications
Solar panel clarified its intentions: voltage unloaded, collapsing near battery voltage on MPPT, virtually no charging. Replaced with two matching 100W panels, €100 the pair, parallel through Y connectors. My controller had the capacity.
Sergei visited Grigory and me to spot what owners stop seeing. Immediately found my VHF coax screen disconnected. New connector; AIS range from two miles to about fifteen. Life aboard
I reconsidered the forecabin. Guests called it cramped, low, cold, noisy with mooring lines. I spent several days there and found it comfortable.
Useful non-technical lesson: don’t design everything around visitors expecting a small hotel. Only a phone’s 12V socket missing. A day’s wiring and fitting solved that.
New acrylic mirror replaced the fallen old one. Nearly two months aboard ahead, so table redesigned for work and extending a berth. Steel leg replaced by a swivelling aluminium support. Less rigid; no leaning on it. Time will judge the compromise. Stopping point
Last major addition, Starlink: €200 antenna, €99 monthly roaming plan. I’ll describe real onboard use separately.
A million more ideas. Eventually, improvements compete with the sailing season. Enough repairs for now. Time to go to Norway.
Breakfast next day: flatbreads, butter, brie and Kalles roe paste. So intensely salty that sweet tea balanced it surprisingly well. Maritime museum afterwards. On Grigory’s advice, a novel covering 150 years of Marstal life. Centuries of maritime history: models, paintings, objects, films, people for whom the sea was work. He whetted my appetite with stories. Local sailors supposedly set off to capture Eckernförde.
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Breakfast next day: flatbreads, butter, brie and Kalles roe paste. So intensely salty that sweet tea balanced it surprisingly well.
Maritime museum afterwards. On Grigory’s advice, a novel covering 150 years of Marstal life. Centuries of maritime history: models, paintings, objects, films, people for whom the sea was work.
He whetted my appetite with stories. Local sailors supposedly set off to capture Eckernförde. Not quite as planned: defeated, captured, locked in the church for lack of prison space. Weeks later, told to sail themselves to Kiel, which definitely had a prison.
Prinsebroen afterwards, six lightly smoked seafoods. More town, evening pork steaks in two marinades. Waiting for wind became part of the route.
No rush
Sunday, 17 May 2026, return to Kiel. Southerly turning east only near noon; an early start pointless. Ten o’clock, avoiding an hour won then lost on a poor angle.
Ninety minutes refuelling. Offshore, sails up, wind now allowing Kiel directly. Waiting rewarded: no immediate extra tacks or bad angle.
Same destination, different courses
Differences showed immediately. I called Meerbär and suggested my course, 122. Later, Grigory explained waves prevented holding it; he needed about 140. Rassvet cut through more easily with her weight and length, while Meerbär needed a kinder angle.
We separated gradually. Same destination, different workable courses. Small on a chart, significant afloat: each boat chooses what it can hold without unnecessary struggle.
Two miles apart, Meerbär vanished from AIS, still visible to me. Antenna, settings or reception? Unknown. AIS is convenient while working; visual lookout remains essential.
A quiet finish
Steady, almost monotonous. Tea, book, periodic course, wind, sail and companion checks. The right ending after the previous days: a long, peaceful run home.
In seven hours, Rassvet covered thirty-five miles, berthing in Kiel’s golden sunset. Once stowed, Meerbär arrived and took me across the fjord. More discussion of decisions, different boat behaviour, and why one wind doesn’t make identical passages.
It began with Biltema. Became three days, two boats, changing winds, Danish food, a museum, supplies, and a rare view of my own sailing from another AIS track as well as my cockpit.
15 May 2026, 8.30am, east from Sønderborg to Marstal. Southerly to twenty-five knots. Genoa alone. If stronger, bear away, unload, furl a little, return to course with less sail. Less light-air speed, more calm in gusts: the day’s compromise. Grigory chose the same, but I pulled ahead. Rassvet easily reached six knots on course. Meerbär made 4.5 under genoa alone. Radio: he’d add a first-reef main. Ten or fifteen minutes later, AIS showed Meerbär at 6.4 under both.
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15 May 2026, 8.30am, east from Sønderborg to Marstal. Southerly to twenty-five knots. Genoa alone.
If stronger, bear away, unload, furl a little, return to course with less sail. Less light-air speed, more calm in gusts: the day’s compromise.
Grigory chose the same, but I pulled ahead. Rassvet easily reached six knots on course. Meerbär made 4.5 under genoa alone. Radio: he’d add a first-reef main. Ten or fifteen minutes later, AIS showed Meerbär at 6.4 under both. Yesterday’s comparison continued. The longer boat couldn’t lead yesterday, then sailed too well today until the other added a main.
Starboard tack, a free hand
A 1.5m beam sea quickly told my stomach it was participating fully. Face to wind, food temporarily uninteresting.
Close-hauled on starboard: port-tack yachts should give way. Ten approached along Ærø; hard to know whether they saw us or intended to. Free hand beside the autopilot. Right of way helps only when both understand it alike.
When the stern starts steering
At the island’s tip, north-east towards Marstal. Better wind, waves now astern swinging the bow. Autopilot managing less confidently. I took the tiller to work the waves and prevent yawing.
An autopilot helps within its limits. With the stern wandering, sometimes taking over is quicker than waiting for electronics to understand.
Golden rapeseed fields and huge turbines ashore in bright sun. Views snatched between waves, course and tiller.
A flotilla without formation
We’d agreed only departure time and destination. Each made decisions independently.
I regularly watched Meerbär on AIS: speed, wind angles, course changes, gust and wave responses. Tracks sometimes matched; different decisions sometimes produced almost identical outcomes.
More useful than speed comparisons. Another boat gives a live reference: lost speed, sail reduced early, or differences existing only in the owner’s mind.
Marstal and a pause
Thirty miles, five and a half hours. Two days in Marstal awaiting adverse southerlies to 34 knots. ‘Sail to the shop’ became Danish travel with a household excuse.
Straight to ice cream: three flavours in a cone, soft ice cream above, cinnamon on top. After the beam sea, almost medical rehabilitation.
Town, waterfront, rainbow, less-friendly waves, bagful of local food. Church and cemetery. Dinner: buckwheat, sausages, fresh tomatoes and biscuits supposedly supplied to the royal family.
After thirty miles, a legitimate form of royal participation in the voyage.
Ask sailors what takes most time: repairs. Remove that answer, and planning comes next. Grigory and I can plan. Two years planning a drive to Danish Biltema for affordable boat bits. By May, another failed car trip. Logical owners’ solution: sail to the shop. Thursday, 14 May 2026, four in the morning, Kiel towards Denmark. Textbook forecast: westerly eight to fourteen knots.
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Ask sailors what takes most time: repairs. Remove that answer, and planning comes next.
Grigory and I can plan. Two years planning a drive to Danish Biltema for affordable boat bits. By May, another failed car trip. Logical owners’ solution: sail to the shop.
Thursday, 14 May 2026, four in the morning, Kiel towards Denmark. Textbook forecast: westerly eight to fourteen knots.
Longer doesn’t always leave first
A quiet assumption: Rassvet is almost two metres longer than Meerbär so I might pull ahead. VHF sixty-nine; Grigory even suggested I could light the barbecue before he arrived.
Reality disagreed. Rather than ahead, slightly behind. No race, but I trimmed as carefully as I knew, at my best speed. Over twenty-four hours, perhaps an hour’s difference.
A useful lesson. Length matters, alongside displacement, hull shape, bottom condition, sails, wind angle and strength. Perhaps more performance to learn from my boat; perhaps three-tonne Rassvet needs more breeze.
Radio pleasures
Radio chatter sounded more S.T.A.L.K.E.R. expedition than hardware-store shopping.
‘Rassvet, Rassvet, this is Meerbär, over.’ ‘Meerbär, Rassvet, over.’ ‘Rassvet, an area to avoid begins in two miles, over.’ ‘Meerbär, understood, altering to three-five-zero, out.’
The fjord and a decision already obsolete
Inside Flensburg Fjord, farther west meant tacking. Wind died, large cloud ahead. Forty minutes at normal speed to the marina could become two and a half hours under sail.
I called Meerbär to say I’d furl and motor. Sensible until I furled the genoa, started, and met eighteen knots dead ahead.
Replan: a little north, some genoa again, nearly six knots. Best stretch instead of dreary motoring. Forty-two miles, nine hours, Sønderborg.
Biltema, Bøfsandwich and boat economics
Adjacent berths, walked to Biltema. First essential: Bøfsandwich, a Danish beef burger drowned in thick gravy. Neat eating impossible; I stopped pretending and accepted local rules.
Nearly €200 each shopping. A €150 bow platform particularly hurt; mine cost €300. Planning sometimes saves money, sometimes shows how much you overpaid.
Denmark means barbecue
Back with the satisfaction of a completed expedition. Grigory explained Denmark’s marina barbecue areas, marinated meat, fresh bread, vegetables and charcoal.
No more shopping: he’d brought charcoal and two beef steaks. Simple end: boats together, forty-two miles, purchases in cockpits, and dinner making the Biltema plan even more convincing.
7 May, after work: the mast was up. Running rigging and sails left, then home to Kiel tomorrow. Unexpected lesson on arrival. Claus next door showed me servicing the Seldén headsail-furler drum. Lubricated swivels turned almost silently. He spotted the spinnaker halyard catching the upper swivel and suggested repositioning it. Then his rig-tension gauge. The backstay seemed too long too. Only seven per cent of breaking load achievable.
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7 May, after work: the mast was up. Running rigging and sails left, then home to Kiel tomorrow.
Unexpected lesson on arrival. Claus next door showed me servicing the Seldén headsail-furler drum. Lubricated swivels turned almost silently. He spotted the spinnaker halyard catching the upper swivel and suggested repositioning it.
Then his rig-tension gauge. The backstay seemed too long too. Only seven per cent of breaking load achievable. Not enough for proper tuning, but I couldn’t wait another fortnight. First passage as post-repair test.
Forecast and Grömitz
Morning: kicker, mainsheet, battens and single-line reefing. DWD north-easterly force 3, half-metre waves. Windy added gusts near 27 knots. Second reef prepared.
Minimum Grömitz and fuel; maximum Orth if all well. North-easterly greeted me, the worst direction for the route. Little chance under sail. Grömitz it was.
Convenient self-service fuel. Memorable price: €3.15 a litre for GTL, €900 held on the card. Fuel gained, no sense of a bargain.
Five berthing attempts, finally helped by a neighbouring skipper. Fifteen knots in the marina from the bow quarter, no time to catch stern lines. The bow platform complicated it: a metal argument capable of explaining repair costs to two owners simultaneously.
Continuing
Morning forecast easterly force 3–4, half-metre seas. Windy showed Sunday calm. Fehmarn only, or farther while wind lasted, avoiding forty miles motoring tomorrow?
Ninety minutes almost head-on, then a little farther north possible. Close-hauled, five knots, no waves. Continuing looked right. Usually when the sea reminds me it never signed my plan.
Fehmarn’s narrow point
Wind stronger at Fehmarn’s channel. Starboard tack, 6.5 knots, AIS beeping as yachts converged. Quickly assess sails or engine, tack, escape options.
An outbound motoring yacht, sails down, turned straight at me. The helm seemed occupied hoisting. No room left, no wind angle right. Air horn, short blasts. He dropped the halyard, turned starboard, passed ten metres away.
Beyond the bridge, following wind. Goosewinged to 5.5 knots, then broad-reaching at four or five. Checked Todendorf and Putlos ranges. Putlos opened at two, ETA 1.50. Avoided a ten-mile detour. At the boundary, the patrol vessel was heading ashore.
Later, calm, solar-panel investigation. Connections checked: voltage unloaded, no current under load. More likely panel or internal connections than controller temperament.
Evening Kiel. A dolphin jumped three times beside the stern. Berthed at eight. A post-repair exam in rigging, weather, berthing, collision avoidance and solar panels. My first fifty-nine nautical miles this year.
Friday, seven: the yard resumed fitting the bow platform, welded the lift-pump lever back and retrieved their tools beneath the engine. Finished only at ten. Launch near noon. No admiring her afloat: tissues out, checking seacocks, keel bolts and shaft, pressing each joint to see whether it stayed dry. Five or ten minutes, then reassurance she wasn’t immediately trying to return ashore from inside. Mast crane booked for one.
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Friday, seven: the yard resumed fitting the bow platform, welded the lift-pump lever back and retrieved their tools beneath the engine. Finished only at ten.
Launch near noon. No admiring her afloat: tissues out, checking seacocks, keel bolts and shaft, pressing each joint to see whether it stayed dry. Five or ten minutes, then reassurance she wasn’t immediately trying to return ashore from inside. Mast crane booked for one. Original plan achieved in its artistic interpretation: still in the marina, at least afloat.
Mast and new shrouds before departure. After winter’s work, surely a formality. Ordered to the old ones’ pattern, mast aboard, crane ready. Just reassemble.
Mast ashore
At the appointed time, onto trestles ashore. They fitted shrouds; I installed wind sensor, VHF antenna, wind indicator and radar reflectors.
Unexpectedly, an aluminium shroud retainer at a spreader tip cracked. It keeps the wire correctly positioned where loads must run properly. They measured and cut a replacement from compressed plastic. Said it would hold as well.
I didn’t make a drama. Against everything else, almost routine: break, measure, replace, refit.
Almost ready
Around two, stepping the mast. I received it in the saloon, protecting furniture from the heel. Meanwhile: could I still reach Grömitz today?
Nearly in place, a voice above: «Andrei, probably we have a problem».
I asked, still holding it: «What kind of problem?»
A short answer: «It seems the new shrouds are too long».
Heel secured, I went on deck. Turnbuckles lay on it. Shrouds so long they reached the deck fittings without room for tensioning. Nowhere left to tighten.
When an error helps
The yard accepted responsibility: they’d ordered them. Remove, send back to manufacturer, refit and step again at their expense. Arrange free berthing with the harbourmaster until finished too.
I agreed. Honestly, a little relieved. Kiel cancelled for an unavoidable technical reason, beyond fear, forecast or doubts about the boat.
Launch, mast, eighty-mile departure: finally collapsed. So did the illusion of collecting a boat after major work like a car after servicing and simply driving away.
Critical work needs a short checking phase. Inspect afloat. Test the shaft seal under load. Check engine for fuel and air leaks. Tune rigging. See what changed before heading far.
Mast finally up two weeks later. The delay became a useful checking pause. After hull, shaft, engine and rigging work, a few marina days make sense before a long passage.
Back in November, I gave DavidsWerft a winter list. Workshop in my marina: convenient, reassuring in theory. Engine service, bow platform, new propeller-shaft seal and anode, shrouds and backstay, deck chain pipe into the forepeak.
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Back in November, I gave DavidsWerft a winter list. Workshop in my marina: convenient, reassuring in theory. Engine service, bow platform, new propeller-shaft seal and anode, shrouds and backstay, deck chain pipe into the forepeak.
Simple spring plan: Friday launch at eight, mast at ten, straight to Kiel. Neat on paper. In my head, reasons not to sleep all week.
Would the keel leak? Shaft seal? Fresh epoxy in the bulwark distort? Saturday’s forecast force 8 catch me? In autumn, I knew the boat’s weaknesses. After critical winter repairs, I no longer knew what would leave the marina.
Then the plan itself: launch, then eighty miles west alone, where wind often comes from the west. Pure optimism.
A day early
I arrived Thursday morning to work remotely, sleep aboard and check everything calmly. Calm ended when I saw the boat.
No bow platform, no shaft anode, no epoxy sealing the chain-pipe opening’s exposed sandwich core. Especially invigorating after five litres of water had been left beneath the engine over winter, freezing the pump solid.
At the workshop, I asked them to finish. No correct anode. Urgent platform cut-out marking. While one worker handled that, another changed the fuel pre-filter, broke the lift-pump lever, began removing the pump, dropped bolt and spanner beneath the engine, then said he had to go home.
Left with unfinished platform, missing anode and a fuel pump newly added to the list.
Small jobs, no longer small
I did what I could. My shaft anode was eighteen millimetres wide; space, fifteen. Sanded 1.5mm off each side. Forty minutes, four discs.
External sensors next. First season, unprotected log, fist-sized barnacles by July. Last year, marine grease kept readings reasonable almost to September, despite barnacles at lift-out.
This year, specialist transducer antifouling: Marlin Yacht Paint Eco Transducer Antifouling. Vinegar first, generously rinsed. Ten minutes softened shell remnants enough for a wet cloth. Clean plastic.
Finally, syringe-mixed epoxy brushed onto the chain-pipe opening’s raw edge. Minimum moisture protection, hardly pretty.
By evening, my list was finished. Couldn’t say the same for theirs.
Yacht woodwork became its own story. Two years ago, my first pressure wash stripped old exterior varnish. I chose to try teak oil instead of more varnish. Instantly lovely: deep colour, water beading like on ceramic, matt and not too slippery. First lesson: drops on gelcoat wouldn’t come off. A year of stains, until repainting the deck. Perhaps their quiet argument helped persuade me to paint the whole boat.
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Yacht woodwork became its own story. Two years ago, my first pressure wash stripped old exterior varnish. I chose to try teak oil instead of more varnish.
Instantly lovely: deep colour, water beading like on ceramic, matt and not too slippery. First lesson: drops on gelcoat wouldn’t come off. A year of stains, until repainting the deck. Perhaps their quiet argument helped persuade me to paint the whole boat.
Months later, oil’s lovely effect almost gone; gelcoat stains remained. Greying wood again. Regular oil maintenance meant more tins, rags and chances to spill something permanent. Inside
Back to varnish this year. Exterior restoration and some new interior pieces. A wooden mattress-retaining strip had broken.
Bought birch of the right width and thickness, multitool-cut to length, P240-rounded edges.
To blend pale birch with old mahogany, three coats of Epifanes Mahagoni Beize stain each side with a foam brush. Then three coats of semi-matt Epifanes Seidenglanzlack Klar interior varnish, lightly keyed between with Scotch-Brite P320.
Fitted, better than expected. Not real mahogany, but quietly belonged beside the original surfaces. Almost a compliment for a new part. Outside
Less decorative, more stubborn.
1. Removed removable parts; masked the rest. 2. Bonded cracks with syringe-dispensed two-part epoxy and clamped. 3. Tried teak cleaner and brightener. Unclear benefit: a whitish film that came off on fingers. 4. Back to sanding, P240 to fresh, even wood. Remove grey streaks: varnish makes them darker and more obvious. Little structural effect, poor appearance. 5. Epifanes Blanke Bootlak Vernis gloss yacht varnish with UV filter. One coat daily, lightly keyed before the next. Three coats. 6. Tiller hung separately for five coats: always in your hands.
I wasn’t after a resin-smooth surface. Sand every coat flat for a furniture finish if you like; I wanted the wood grain’s feel. Light keying, texture retained. What I learnt
Varnish should theoretically be easier to maintain than oil, lasting longer. Local damage can be keyed and recoated without starting over.
Not difficult or heavy work, but slow. Coat, day’s wait, light key, next coat. Varnish dislikes hurry.
Worth waiting. Fresh varnish changes how the boat feels: cared for, beyond merely repaired. Thin layers bring protection and a feeling of everything belonging together again.
After hull work, damaged paint almost everywhere I’d touched. Deck marks from sealant and primer. On the bulwark, exposed epoxy. Resin on non-slip, yellow hull scratches after the lock impact. Barnacles along the old waterline. On the keel, exposed metal. Something needed doing, at least to stop her looking like a workshop. A new waterline A yard worker showed me to lay tape in one confident movement, rather than short pieces.
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After hull work, damaged paint almost everywhere I’d touched. Deck marks from sealant and primer. On the bulwark, exposed epoxy. Resin on non-slip, yellow hull scratches after the lock impact . Barnacles along the old waterline. On the keel, exposed metal.
Something needed doing, at least to stop her looking like a workshop. A new waterline
A yard worker showed me to lay tape in one confident movement, rather than short pieces. Simple until facing nine metres of hull with tape in hand.
Aligned by eye, using the season’s highest barnacles as the new height. Unscientific, but if the sea has shown where it wants to live, take notice.
P80 on the sander removed yellow below the new line; the rest of the bottom sanded to grey primer too. Epoxy primer and antifouling
Five epoxy-primer coats for water protection. Roll, about eight hours, key with an abrasive pad, next coat. Alternating colours showed coverage.
Primer over the new waterline, over-sanded patches and rusty keel areas. On the keel, sanded to metal, rust converter, primer.
Two final antifouling coats over primer and sanded surfaces. Yellow topsides
Dirt, dried water tracks, scratches. Aggressive cleaning would turn gloss into uniform matt. Neutral-pH cleaner and soft sponge: Yachticon Black Streak Remover worked well.
Scratches levelled with P400, small yellow patches. First coat foam-rolled: a mistake, too thin with orange-peel texture.
Mohair roller for later coats. Fuller, smoother application, better coverage. Still no invisible blend: close up, the patch shows, fresh paint shinier.
From three metres, she looks new. Any closer to an old yacht, bring understanding. White deck
Same approach. Worn-to-base areas: Epifanes Multi Marine Primer, three Mono-urethane coats, P400 keying between.
Dirty areas and repair marks lightly sanded, covered with white patches. Tidy again. Non-slip
Epoxy spills and chips on KiwiGrip. P80, fresh KiwiGrip, texture restored by stippling with a brush.
Blended well. Most importantly, non-slip again, rather than a memorial to spilt resin. The result
Very pleased. Paint maintenance wasn’t as frightening as expected. No perfect blends on an old hull; local repairs remain visible. But the overall change was enormous.
People asked about the paint. Walking the marina, I saw passers-by stop and touch the hull.
Perhaps the best compliment. Or perhaps I watch too closely who touches my paint.
A year ago, storm-bound on Bornholm, a stanchion tore out. I made a repair to suit the moment: tapped M5 threads inside old M8 steel bolts remaining in the hull, and refitted it. This spring, torn out again. Apparently, wind on the tarpaulin had pulled it hard sideways. Time for a better repair, beyond repeating the compromise.
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A year ago, storm-bound on Bornholm, a stanchion tore out. I made a repair to suit the moment: tapped M5 threads inside old M8 steel bolts remaining in the hull, and refitted it.
This spring, torn out again. Apparently, wind on the tarpaulin had pulled it hard sideways. Time for a better repair, beyond repeating the compromise.
The plan before drilling
Enlarge old holes, remove weak surrounding material, fill with epoxy, drill through for M6 bolts, secure from inside the saloon.
A good plan until I picked up the drill.
Wet wood shavings came up the bit. A wooden backing insert beneath the stanchion, once spreading load, now waterlogged mush. Repairing the support itself, then, rather than holes.
Excavation
Screwdriver out, digging towards dry, strong material. First a cut smaller than the base. Then ten centimetres extra each side. Then ten more.
Wood only directly beneath the stanchion. Elsewhere, foam-like material, equally wet and crumbling.
I abandoned the local-repair idea and opened thirty-centimetre sections. No neat boundary where the boat became sound again. About two metres of bulwark exposed before reaching the neighbouring stanchion inserts.
Cleaned the channel as well as possible, left until next weekend to dry.
Filling again
A week later, reinforced tape over the openings below. Seal tightly: liquid epoxy finds the tiniest gap.
Mixed two-part epoxy, cotton fibres to thicken, chopped glass cloth to reduce brittleness. Packed the thick mixture firmly into the bulwark, avoiding voids and bubbles. About a litre and a half.
Structural filling, but hard to finish smooth. Next day, sanded the top and applied epoxy filler, thick as sour cream, mixed on cardboard and levelled with a filling knife.
Then sanding, primer, three paint coats, as I’d done last year. Drilled two M6 through-holes, bedded the fixings in marine sealant, refitted with proper backing inside.
Two more repairs
Two other jobs surfaced alongside it.
Broken hatch hinges, no exact replacements. Old hinges off, holes epoxy-filled, sanded, painted, new hinges fitted.
The second followed the impact in last summer’s lock. Bent stainless bow-rail mounting plate, a chip at the bow. Epoxy filler beneath the plate closed the water gap and spread the load; same filler repaired the chip.
One torn stanchion became bulwark, hatch and bow-rail repairs. Moisture round deck fixings means checking the whole area. You arrive to refit a stanchion and change the mounting design. Maintenance: one defect brings a related jobs list, delivered with wet shavings.
In autumn, cracked window sealant began leaking. I’d applied Sikaflex 591 eighteen months earlier, after accidentally pressure-washing the previous seal away. More thorough this time. My acrylic windows sit in rubber glazing seals with locking strips, rather than being bonded directly into the hull. The rubber holds them mechanically; sealant adds water protection. Simple plan: locking strip out, old sealant removed, primer, new sealant, strip back.
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In autumn, cracked window sealant began leaking. I’d applied Sikaflex 591 eighteen months earlier, after accidentally pressure-washing the previous seal away.
More thorough this time. My acrylic windows sit in rubber glazing seals with locking strips, rather than being bonded directly into the hull. The rubber holds them mechanically; sealant adds water protection.
Simple plan: locking strip out, old sealant removed, primer, new sealant, strip back. In reality, it was 8 March 2026, a date I no longer associate with celebration. Preparation
Strip out, old sealant removed with fingernails and screwdriver. First questionable choice. The screwdriver slipped, scratching acrylic. A frown. Then white paint scratched. A pause to silently calculate what haste had gained.
By the end, sealant beneath nails, nails bleeding. Feelings exhausted; only an inner voice: ‘You must.’ Primer
Sika Primer 209D inside the seal and on acrylic edges. More than ‘paint for adhesion’: it prepares acrylic for polyurethane sealant, leaving a black activating film. Careless marks can remain.
Mine did. Even without the strip, rubber kept closing against the window, especially awkward overhead. Primer runs on acrylic, ingrained rather than wipeable. I fear only sanding the acrylic surface will remove them fully. Sealant and nozzle
Sikaflex-295 UV this time: specified for acrylic and polycarbonate yacht windows, UV-resistant and flexible. Not the main mechanical fixing in my rubber seal, but hopefully a better external flexible seam.
At first, terribly hard to squeeze. I blamed tube age, temperature, gun, general injustice. At window two, simpler cause: nozzle hole too small. Cut wider, much faster. Unpleasant but useful lesson: sometimes the hole, rather than the material, is inadequate. Locking strip
Refitting it ended the plan’s last resemblance to reality.
Lying on my side, forcing it into the groove with a screwdriver. Fingers, wrist, arm, side, neck hurting. One inaccurate movement, ten fitted centimetres popped out. Six windows, four hours.
Now I know there’s a proper locking-strip tool. Stubbornness is cheaper than a tool, but by window four the savings look questionable. Cleaning up
Strip finally in, excess sealant squeezed out. Tired, I used wet wipes: second questionable choice. In the cramped space, sealant onto clothes, clothes onto white hull, then attempts to clean it spread it farther.
By evening, satisfaction came from finishing, at least temporarily. Hopefully longer than eighteen months this time. If I return to these windows, first a proper tool, or serious thought about another mounting system.
The keel provides the righting moment, returning a heeled yacht upright. Massive metal though it is, it needs attention beyond the occasional lift-out. A bolted keel always has a hull joint, working under load. The hull flexes; the keel takes impacts and vibration. Rigid filler won’t settle it forever. Epoxy eventually cracks, water reaches metal and quietly does what water does. Simple principle: watertight and flexible.
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The keel provides the righting moment, returning a heeled yacht upright. Massive metal though it is, it needs attention beyond the occasional lift-out.
A bolted keel always has a hull joint, working under load. The hull flexes; the keel takes impacts and vibration. Rigid filler won’t settle it forever. Epoxy eventually cracks, water reaches metal and quietly does what water does.
Simple principle: watertight and flexible. My experience
Three years ago, soon after purchase and a grounding, I saw rusty streaks. The yard serviced the joint and keel fastenings: €1,200.
Next year, rust elsewhere after another gentle touch. Free repair. Again this season. Not a one-off, or a miraculous repair meant to survive everything. I need to handle this joint myself, or every stain becomes a paid news bulletin. How I treat the joint
Step 1. Remove old sealant, open to clean metal below and sound GRP above. No patches of barely attached old material. Dremel worked well.
Step 2. Clean and degrease. I used alcohol and compressed air.
Step 3. Sika Primer 206 G+P for adhesion to keel steel and hull GRP. Don’t wait after cleaning: bare metal oxidises quickly.
Step 4. After thirty to sixty minutes, fill with Sikaflex 291i or 292i. A continuous, flexible seam without voids.
Step 5. Once cured, lightly fair the sealant. Restore epoxy primer damaged around the keel edges, but don’t coat the sealant itself with epoxy. Antifouling only over it. Rust on the keel
Separate rusty spots too: a touch of bottom, overenthusiastic sanding last season. Whatever caused it, protection needs renewing.
My sequence: 1. Clean back to bare metal. 2. Rust converter. 3. After treatment, key with an abrasive pad and apply epoxy primer. Repeat to four or six coats. 4. Then antifouling.
Almost exemplary this time, except I remembered rust converter after the first primer coat. Now observe, call it a field trial, and get the order right next season.
The Shipping Forecast is a familiar marine forecast format. Its original job is practical: concise, unambiguous information received over VHF, written down and usable without a map. Text-based, standardised, divided into areas. Essentially the NAVTEX data layer without storage limitations. A short message covers Beaufort wind, sea state, precipitation and visibility for the next day.
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The Shipping Forecast is a familiar marine forecast format. Its original job is practical: concise, unambiguous information received over VHF, written down and usable without a map. Text-based, standardised, divided into areas. Essentially the NAVTEX data layer without storage limitations.
A short message covers Beaufort wind, sea state, precipitation and visibility for the next day. Commercial fleets still use these reports in navigation decisions alongside modern models and displays.
The task
That was what I wanted: an area forecast, readable text.
The problem wasn’t access, but retention. Most services show now and the next few days. History disappears or costs extra.
Telegram became delivery channel and archive: searchable messages to revisit.
An unexpected effect: forecasts stopped being just a pre-departure action. Reading twice daily, I gradually saw weather systems changing, beyond individual forecasts.
The solution
I built a bot that: • downloads DWD and Met Office forecasts several times daily • splits them by area • offers subscriptions to selected areas • sends updates when text changes • shows a map of area names • suggests nearby areas from your location
Coverage: Atlantic Spain to Iceland, North Sea Amsterdam to Bergen, Baltic Oslo to Klaipėda.
Using it
Open the bot chat, send /start and choose an area. New forecasts arrive privately. For example:
DWD North and Baltic Sea Issued: 05.04.2026, 12:30 CEST
Western Baltic: Sunday: wind: westerly winds 5 to 6. visibility/weather: rain or shower with moderate visibility. sea: eastern part 2 meter. Monday: wind: west to northwest about 6, later decreasing about 5. visibility/weather: first rain or shower with moderate visibility. sea: at times 2,5 meter.
With that forecast, particularly 2.5m seas, I’d open Windy and examine conditions before deciding to leave.
What changed
I began using it beyond departure planning.
The message history became more useful than the forecast itself. Return to any day, see exactly what was issued. I’ve used it in passage notes rather than relying on memory.
Weather checks rarely become a complete habit. Even daily checks often mean wind alone. Not enough in the North Sea: waves can matter more, especially in German waters receiving long swell without obstacles.
One short text contains wind, sea state, rain and visibility. Repetition builds a complete picture.
Last summer, I bought an Anycubic Kobra 2 Pro. Obvious idea: the boat constantly needs small parts, hard to buy quickly and harder to fit accurately. A printer should fill that gap. A deferred decision The box became furniture in a corner. Every meeting with Grisha, the same exchange: unpacked it? No. Eventually, was that still a fact, or a habit of not beginning? Two weeks before New Year, the box finally opened. First contact Modest expectations.
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Last summer, I bought an Anycubic Kobra 2 Pro. Obvious idea: the boat constantly needs small parts, hard to buy quickly and harder to fit accurately. A printer should fill that gap.
A deferred decision
The box became furniture in a corner. Every meeting with Grisha, the same exchange: unpacked it? No. Eventually, was that still a fact, or a habit of not beginning?
Two weeks before New Year, the box finally opened.
First contact
Modest expectations. In practice, more than a tool: another way of thinking. Ready-made models first, then my own. FreeCAD became my desktop’s central icon. Where does solving a problem end and improving it just because you can begin? Modelling became an obsession.
Materials and limits
ASA from the start, for UV and heat resistance aboard. A price to pay: warping with unstable temperature. Without an enclosure and proper bed adhesion, results were random.
A few failures established priorities: conditions first, model second.
Practice
First real need arrived unplanned. During unstepping, the anemometer met a post. Cracked bracket. Measured, generated an OpenSCAD model, printed in ASA. Fitted without adjustment. The tool justified itself.
Next, the broken saloon curtain bracket. FreeCAD from scratch, several iterations before fitting. A clear lesson in the time cost of measurement errors.
The overhead stereo had been mounted exposed. A PETG case made it look finished. Tidying rather than repair.
A diesel filler cap came out almost factory-like. Grisha needed one after losing his in Norway. Normally search, order, wait. Here, a couple of evenings.
Navigation lights formerly on cable ties: functional, temporary-looking. Printed ASA rail mounts made them rigid and purposeful.
Rethinking
I’d seen printing as reproducing things. It became a way to change the underlying solution: make the part a specific place needs, rather than hunt for something close.
Conclusion
The printer now occupies the same place as a basic toolkit. It can’t solve everything, but changes how quickly and how you solve things.
I’ll share models at https://makerworld.com/en/@iatsan. If you print too, share your links in the comments. I need ideas and inspiration.
I already have a channel for recording sailing experience. But most stories contain more than a few paragraphs. Hull painting took two months. Cockpit sole, a month. Every outing needs preparation rarely seen in the finished text.
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I already have a channel for recording sailing experience. But most stories contain more than a few paragraphs. Hull painting took two months. Cockpit sole, a month. Every outing needs preparation rarely seen in the finished text.
Other memorable episodes don’t warrant a full post. For example, spilt vinegar on the morning bus, and trying to explain to myself why launch preparations needed it. Or almost becoming a two-yacht owner.
I’ve also watched other channels more. Nikita at @whaleflysails posts tracks and photos. During Silverrudder, Grigory shared short videos almost hourly. Simply enjoyable to watch. Content needn’t always be useful; sometimes the unedited process, without conclusions, is enough.
Where is the line between experience and recording it?
I tried a second channel, live in format. About a month in, it takes pressure away. Stories can unfold without immediately becoming finished prose.
Once an episode ends, I return here, gather the material and make a complete post. An unfinished board or bird by the pontoon now has somewhere separate.
For variety, something that’s sat in drafts for two years.
Simple job: making day shapes while sorting out the cockpit.
At first, I ignored a wasp entering the engine vent. Repeated visits suggested construction inside.
A straightforward assumption: leave it, and soon it won’t be one visitor.
When it flew away, I masked the hole. Seemed sufficient.
Reality differed. It returned, hovered at the entrance and checked the surroundings, flying round the sole, returning to the tape as if verifying coordinates. Working became impossible.
Time to admit the conflict had begun.
I judged distance and opponent size: large enough to allow no mistakes. A mat nearby, quick plan. Waited for it to hover, covered it and pressed.
I didn’t lift the mat immediately. The aim was one decisive intervention.
Motionless, no visible damage. I spooned it overboard. Inside, a plum-sized nest, partly removed. That evening, ordered a new vent grille.
The day shapes still work and occasionally appear in post photos.
Saw a post by @londonrobot and couldn’t resist doing the same to my channel. Now I’m cackling in the middle of the night. Forgive the off-topic post. 📊 Source (bot): @ScratchAuthorEgoBot 🎯 Channel: @deelstuff 🔥 The roast: A classic ‘Captain AliExpress’: happy to spend €500 repairing some metal fitting, then gets childishly excited about a dirt-cheap Chinese tap or sensor.
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Saw a post by @londonrobot and couldn’t resist doing the same to my channel. Now I’m cackling in the middle of the night. Forgive the off-topic post.
A classic ‘Captain AliExpress’: happy to spend €500 repairing some metal fitting, then gets childishly excited about a dirt-cheap Chinese tap or sensor. His boat Rassvet is apparently an endless adult LEGO set, where epoxy per square centimetre will soon outweigh the hull. An astonishing gift for repeating the same mishaps: calculates tides to the second, yet relentlessly rams cranes, buoys and quay walls with his mast. His brain apparently refuses to register dimensions beyond his own nose.
The contrast is adorable: ‘I’m a great analyst and planner’ versus ‘Oops, forgot the respirator, nearly coughed my lungs out after sanding.’ His DIY borders on masochism. Why pay professionals when you can spend a month embracing filthy fibreglass, spend the same on materials, and proudly announce ‘Now I can build boats’? The whole channel celebrates heroically overcoming self-created problems: a giant killer tarpaulin, or entering a lock right behind a barge. Genius, honestly.
Gadgets and 3D printing seem intended to turn a fifty-year-old yacht into an Elon Musk spaceship. Fit NAVTEX, write a bot, install a motorcycle tablet: soon he’ll print a new crew to avoid feeding them borscht. All that grandeur about ‘the spirit of the sea’ and ‘honest elements’ meets the reality of half a day picking barnacles from a log with vinegar. Credit where due: admirable eastern European stubbornness. While others rest, he voluntarily coats himself in WD-40 and epoxy, sincerely calling it the time of his life. At least we know: if a bright yellow boat appears, keep clear. The skipper is probably staring at the moon again or adjusting another homemade sensor.
Event
Ideas I picked up at Düsseldorf Boat Show 2026
Photos and video17 photos · 3 videos
17–18 January 2026 saw Grigory, Sergei, Nikita and me at Düsseldorf’s huge show. Outwardly, familiar. Sixteen giant halls: handmade wooden kayak paddles to multi-deck superyachts with champagne at the entrance. The one thing that changes annually is how your legs feel. New boats, new ideas Owning a fifty-year-old yacht dispels illusions. Factory condition long gone. Everything breakable broken; obsolete things removed.
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Ideas I picked up at Düsseldorf Boat Show 2026
Context
17–18 January 2026 saw Grigory, Sergei, Nikita and me at Düsseldorf’s huge show. Outwardly, familiar. Sixteen giant halls: handmade wooden kayak paddles to multi-deck superyachts with champagne at the entrance. The one thing that changes annually is how your legs feel. New boats, new ideas
Owning a fifty-year-old yacht dispels illusions. Factory condition long gone. Everything breakable broken; obsolete things removed. New technology fitted carefully, or less so, where never intended. Season with limited funds. My interest in new boats is practical: what’s normal now, and what can I painlessly borrow? Beneteau First 36SE
Beneteau’s First 36SE felt thoughtfully designed for maintenance as well as speed.
GRP sole boards close tightly, opened with bright red textile tabs bonded on. Perforated-plywood aft berths lift out for sail storage. Engine access all round, flexible lamp for engine or berth, silicone opening for a fire-extinguisher nozzle. Fridge recessed in the worktop, covered by foil-insulated fabric fastened on. Fabric doors and cupboards with cardboard backing and magnets. Deep netting in aft lockers separates stored things from wiring and hoses.
Some ideas seem so logical they may migrate onto an old Finnish boat I can access. Hallberg-Rassy 370
At Hallberg-Rassy, like leaving Dad’s workshop for a laboratory. Perfect assembly, no play, uncompromising materials.
Carpets fastened to the sole. Simple, reliable. Pull-out galley worktop. Berth backrest lifts to the deckhead on a thin cord for sleeping space. Stainless chafe strips where ropes meet gelcoat. White acrylic hatch above the heads: light without lost privacy.
A strong urge to copy it all aboard. An urge needing a careful budget-and-reality review. Race boats and racing
Grigory found every Mini 6.50 at the show. Stem shapes, main sizes, removable running backstays, Seldén CX furler and NKE instruments. Discussed racing use. Talks from SailGP teams and Vendée Globe skipper Pip Hare. Good for heads and legs alike. (Continued below)
(Düsseldorf Boat Show 2026, continued) Equipment and surprises
My main equipment-hall target: Epifanes. While Grigory talked with Premium Ropes, I showed peeling waterline-paint photos and said AI had suggested two-part paint. The representative calmly said trusting AI would bring me back with the same photos next year. Simpler advice: raise the waterline five centimetres. Perhaps the yacht was now so well equipped her centre of gravity lay lower than under the previous owner.
At Garmin I asked why search-and-rescue insurance had been withdrawn for German residents. It might save a life and a lifetime paying its rescue bill. No answer, but a support number.
One startup offered a mop, gas spring and sander holder for about €300. I wished them luck. More impressed by the Open Boat Project. Yacht hardware and software, all designs open. You can build and print a full instrument set yourself. Things that stayed with me
The HOOK and MOOR boat hook threads a mooring line through a ring in a second. I spent almost the whole journey home mentally replaying its mechanism, trying to model a printable version.
Also a universal adhesive for plastic, wood, rubber, paper and metal. Apparently, the part breaks before the bond. I worried dropping a jar might cause consequences out of all proportion.
And an extraordinarily beautiful stove by Tiny Stove. I stood asking about price, installation and servicing much longer than planned. Perhaps one day it will warm cold, damp evenings aboard.
Every season leaves marks. Memories, scratches, or the realisation that the boat has patiently awaited attention all year and built a long complaints list. Paint that failed. Parts needing replacement since spring. Small things that nearly became badly timed problems. Time to gather them. Plans born underway, in rain, rolling and occasional irritation. The heads nearly took off with Konstantin aboard. Later, the log apparently wanted a tropical winter.
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Every season leaves marks. Memories, scratches, or the realisation that the boat has patiently awaited attention all year and built a long complaints list. Paint that failed. Parts needing replacement since spring. Small things that nearly became badly timed problems.
Time to gather them. Plans born underway, in rain, rolling and occasional irritation. The heads nearly took off with Konstantin aboard. Later, the log apparently wanted a tropical winter. By the end, the reason for the list should be clear.
Winter becomes planning season again. Plans, as we know, are the most honest form of self-deception. Without them, though, sailing quickly becomes survival rather than travel. Hull Fresh waterline paint fouled and peeled. One-part systems proved poor here. In 2026, strip and repaint with two-part: durable protection and peace of mind.
Summer scratches and damage: clean, fair with epoxy filler, prime, paint. Let everyone think my berthing is flawless.
Propeller: Silic One entirely gone. Again. Expected by now, yet I always think this time it should work. Perhaps different specialist protection, or regular cleaning and accepting reality.
Shaft anode replaced, no discussion. The part you remember too late, usually alongside far more expensive ones.
The log fouled as if preparing to winter in the tropics. Remove, vinegar-clean the barnacles, refit in spring with thin specialist transducer paint. Contacts clean, of course. Tentative hope of a full season.
Keel joint: clean back, anticorrosion treatment and rust converter, then flexible Sikaflex 291i. No epoxy over it: slight keel movement eventually breaks rigid protection.
Replace one seacock with plastic, partly to learn. Others perhaps next year. Stern-tube seal too: a continuous stream now suggests learning to dive. Sand and antifoul the entire bottom, especially beneath the keel, renewing epoxy primer where needed. Outside Touch up worn deck paint, reseal portlights with Sikaflex-295 UV, polish the acrylic.
Replace all guardwires and inspect stanchions. Broken hatch hinges retired, guides on the new cockpit lid. Replace soft sprayhood windows with rigid acrylic, much needed for visibility in northern rain, cold and grey.
Sew padded guardwire covers for cockpit comfort. Fit a rugged AliExpress motorcycle tablet as backup chartplotter. Sometimes durable solutions look just like that. (Continued below)
Inside Fit a NAVTEX receiver for weather and navigation warnings. Offshore, those messages matter differently, and phone reception isn’t always there.
A resistor to quieten the speaker. Stereo through the main electrical switch to stop overnight drain. Finally bolt the heads to the sole: in summer, it nearly took off with Konstantin seated on it in a seaway. The boat made its opinion clear.
Combine heads and basin drains into one line with a proper anti-siphon loop. Invisible, but its absence becomes unpleasantly obvious.
Probably convert the fifth berth beneath the chart table into a locker. More things than I’d like aboard; five people on nine metres is tighter than it sounds ashore.
A separate electrical-control box to gather the fuses. Repair the folding saloon door, new rollers and magnets. Refit wooden berth retainers, oil surfaces, replace remaining bulbs with LEDs. Anchoring Where marinas end, real anchoring begins
Fit a bow platform with anchor roller and 16kg CQR. A proper forepeak anchor locker, draining overboard above the waterline.
With no original forepeak hatch, fit a gooseneck for easier chain recovery. Plastic markers every ten metres on the warp.
Mast and sails A second-hand gennaker and sock, flown from the bowsprit. Replace standing rigging completely, carefully recording dimensions and checking the backing structure.
The main becomes hard to hoist above halfway. Find the cause: dirty groove, worn slides or age.
Wind indicator still sticks. Probably lubrication or incorrect stop position.
Find where rain runs down the mast into the hull. Dismantle, clean and lubricate the Furlex. Arrange the furling-line lead so it stops tangling with sheets and pursuing its own life.
Programming A few numbers among salt and wind
A bot for Shipping Forecast and warning notifications; a service sending AIS position maps. Useful to know where friends and sailing neighbours are.
Travel The reason for all this
January: Düsseldorf Boat Show, meet Erik Aanderaa, bombard Epifanes with questions. Summer: a major offshore trip from Germany to Norway through the North Sea, returning via the Baltic, all the way round Jutland.
Finally learn sea fishing, catch my first fish in twenty years. Anchor more, use marinas less, learn FPV flying and film the water from above. Kiel a permanent home for both me and the boat. Instead of a conclusion I don’t know how much will happen. Weather, fatigue and discoveries beneath the sole always rewrite plans. The list itself already gives the season direction.
A boat forgives a lot, with responsible attention at the right time.
The first snow has melted. Jack Johnson on the record player, coffee cooling on the table. Evenings like this reveal how full the season was. Last December, I wrote my 2024 review and it’s good to see the notes becoming a continuing story. Winter Last December began with a winter-jobs plan. It seemed excessive; almost all got done. Thanks to Oleg for suggesting a list. Without it, I’d have missed half the small things. In January, I went to Düsseldorf Boat Show.
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The first snow has melted. Jack Johnson on the record player, coffee cooling on the table. Evenings like this reveal how full the season was. Last December, I wrote my 2024 review and it’s good to see the notes becoming a continuing story.
Winter Last December began with a winter-jobs plan . It seemed excessive; almost all got done. Thanks to Oleg for suggesting a list. Without it, I’d have missed half the small things.
In January, I went to Düsseldorf Boat Show. Manufacturers, new products, simulators, and a sense of being among people thinking about the same sea.
The marina carried out a service on the engine and repaired the keel joint. Both need repeating this year. Replaced the worn halyard and masthead sheave. Bought velour mattress covers from Temu, which survived the season perfectly.
Spring From February, major hull work. Every chip opened, reinforced and faired for painting. Almost two months of weekends in the shed; better results than expected. Bright yellow, catching admiring looks all summer.
The deck received new non-slip. The underwater hull was renewed with antifouling. On the electromagnetic log, I continued the experiment: two months unprotected, four with marine grease. Next year, specialist transducer paint.
Bornholm A week after launch, on 21 April, a two-week solo voyage. I thought it would be the year’s main event.
Aground and fresh fish at Rügen, fascinating people on Bornholm, fairy-tale Christiansø, fog off Fehmarn so dense I wondered whether the boat moved. Long, twenty-four-hour passages, cold night watches, alternating with full days of rest. This format brings sailing fully alive for me.
Back home, I repaired a stanchion and sewed my lazy bag, which faded over the season. More UV-resistant fabric next time.
Summer A Kiel berth brought the boat closer. I began drafting practical Kiel Canal instructions, noting details rarely in official documents.
At Kieler Woche, Grigory, Sergei and I joined the sailing parade. Becoming a tradition.
One July outing brought my first flood below. A floating carpet was alarming; a failed freshwater tap was the cause.
North Sea and Wadden Sea On 1 August, into the North Sea and Wadden region. Surgical precision in planning. An hour wrong, nowhere to hide.
Two and a half weeks: storm-bound, strong streams, three-metre seas in thirty knots. Heligoland’s gannets so close I wanted to check the softness of their feathers. Düne’s seals watched us, then jumped into the water together, as if we’d disturbed their morning council. Hares everywhere on Norderney, Spiekeroog mud gripping the yacht at low water.
About thirty opening bridges in the Netherlands, a night at a town quay. Sunsets rewarding every mile. A voyage that strengthened my character.
Autumn Back to repairs. I made a cockpit access lid, restored the pulpit’s shape, and repaired many small faults.
For a break, we visited Hamburg Yachtfestival. Smaller than Düsseldorf, but leak-control training was useful. After both tank and stern-tube seal incidents, I had plenty of questions.
The cold passage back to Lübeck ended the sailing. Moonlight lay softly on the water, as if the sea offered respite. Then ForceSail seminars , mast removal , an accidentally broken electronic wind sensor, and a huge tarpaulin that almost carried me off in a gust.
Statistics According to SailTies 1,100 miles over thirty-two days, nearly five hundred tidal. Calm to force 7, groundings, surfing, frozen night watches, July sunbathing. Ashore, covered in epoxy, paint and WD-40.
The channel grew from 170 to 310 subscribers. Plenty of conversations: marinas, paperwork, routes, wintering, seamanship. Visitors aboard, meetings on the water. Helping someone feels like another passage, organising experience and making life warmer.
Afterword A full, sometimes difficult year. Challenges, long passages, lessons, and quiet moments to stop and look. I want to keep going. More routes and discoveries ahead: the reason I keep putting to sea.
Friday, 7 November 2025. Thick fog, like an old sea novel. Cold dew dripping from deck. I washed, drained the tank, spread eight kilos of moisture absorbers below. Slightly late: first mould in cupboards. Treat, doors open, mattresses upright. Damp likes cosy corners; I like them dry. Each to our own. An extra couple of metres Harbourmaster: half an hour. Engine on, lines released, careful departure. Of course, another mast strike on a mooring pile while turning.
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Friday, 7 November 2025. Thick fog, like an old sea novel. Cold dew dripping from deck. I washed, drained the tank, spread eight kilos of moisture absorbers below. Slightly late: first mould in cupboards. Treat, doors open, mattresses upright. Damp likes cosy corners; I like them dry. Each to our own. An extra couple of metres Harbourmaster: half an hour. Engine on, lines released, careful departure. Of course, another mast strike on a mooring pile while turning. My brain knows hull dimensions; mast dimensions, less so. More care needed.
Drifted while another yacht lifted. Alongside the platform, showed the crane operator side photographs of «Rassvet» with sling positions. Twelve-metre bow and stern lines ready to prevent swinging. Yellow hull reflected like an autumn leaf in the water. What lay beneath Up she went, cleansing ritual begun: steel scrapers, then pressure washer. Growth flew away as if the hull wanted to shed the season’s memories. I photographed and filmed.
Findings: • yellow waterline paint heavily fouled and peeling: strip and replace with two-part paint; • chips and rust at the keel joint: clean back and repair; • Silic One completely gone from the propeller; • keel most fouled. A ‘gentle grounding’ might theoretically clean it, but anyone practising that should stay away from me. Battling the tarpaulin Cleaned, onto the cradle, to winter storage. A week later, back with a ten-kilo, twelve-by-six-metre tarpaulin. Apparently, I’d chosen the three-headed-dragon model: one sheet, three hours dancing round the yacht. Halfway through, it developed a life of its own, falling on my shoulders or rising with the wind. Any moment, I thought, it would take me flying. Quiet promise: two smaller ones next time.
Now «Rassvet» is sheltered from rain and wind, ready for hibernation or ‘Best Baltic Cocoon’.
All that remains: winterise the interior and engine and charge the batteries occasionally. Main jobs once air exceeds 10°C. For now, breathe. Land can provide adventures too. It does its best.
Monday, 3 November 2025. Yard help booked for the morning, mast crane by ten. Alexander’s words from the recent berthing seminar came back: ‘If you’re approaching alongside at a steep angle and your hair stands on end, count to three and turn.’ I laughed inwardly. True. Before they arrived, I disconnected wiring, removed the mast-heel split pin and wooden wedges, and released the lower shrouds by the spreaders. Robin and Anton arrived.
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Unstepping the mast
Preparation Monday, 3 November 2025. Yard help booked for the morning, mast crane by ten. Alexander’s words from the recent berthing seminar came back: ‘If you’re approaching alongside at a steep angle and your hair stands on end, count to three and turn.’ I laughed inwardly. True.
Before they arrived, I disconnected wiring, removed the mast-heel split pin and wooden wedges, and released the lower shrouds by the spreaders. Robin and Anton arrived. Strop beneath spreaders, slight tension, remaining shrouds undone and gathered, lift. I held the mast below while they raised it and guided it to supports. Smoothly done. Wooden supports I said she’d winter ashore. They offered simple wooden supports for the mast beneath the tarpaulin. Robin went to make them; Anton and I wound a halyard along the mast to gather loose rigging.
Twenty minutes later: a small bow-rail piece, a middle upright, a cockpit cross. Robin asked for old rags beneath to protect the gelcoat. Funny how yesterday’s rubbish becomes engineering.
Mast onto supports. Robin said smooth side up, groove down, for better load support. Old mooring lines secured it; supports tied to rails.
Ninety minutes. Invoice almost immediate: two people, an hour and a half, €276. A sigh. With supports built and mast returned aboard, reasonable. Indoor storage would cost much more. The small surprise A week before, I’d helped Grigory with his mast. Excellent aft support on the bathing platform, simple to dismantle, solid. I’ll copy that next time.
Leaving the quay, the usual perfect-day surprise. Starting the turn, a dull knock. Masthead against the crane. New dimensions caught me out. Electronic wind sensor damaged, bracket slightly bent. Another repair. Only then did I think to bag masthead and heel against moisture at the contacts. Should have done it immediately. End of the day The mast blocked the bow completely. Normal bow-first berthing became a puzzle. Stern-to instead, first time in a couple of years. As confident as if I did it daily.
Some lessons make a whole picture suddenly fall into place. Dozens of familiar pontoon approaches, almost automatic, then one gust or unfamiliar stream overturns everything. With that feeling, I attended Alexander Guskov’s late-October seminars for @forcesail. Format and teaching A year ago, I’d attended Alexander’s sessions on sails and weather so expected depth. Practical advice with explanations of why the boat behaves that way.
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Some lessons make a whole picture suddenly fall into place. Dozens of familiar pontoon approaches, almost automatic, then one gust or unfamiliar stream overturns everything. With that feeling, I attended Alexander Guskov’s late-October seminars for @forcesail. Format and teaching A year ago, I’d attended Alexander’s sessions on sails and weather so expected depth. Practical advice with explanations of why the boat behaves that way. Evening concentration is hard, but important details stick then.
Three sessions, up to four hours each. First, forces on the hull. Afterwards, I filmed prop-walk turbulence aboard my yacht to see it from outside. Then basic manoeuvres through those forces, finishing with less obvious marina situations that happen too often. Intensity Dense programme. Website tests between sessions drained me fastest. I’d change the schedule: four three-hour sessions, a week apart, more time to digest it.
Sometimes the value lies in feeling the boat better: inertia, bow behaviour in wind, responses to your actions. Afterwards, it’s hard to imagine a manoeuvre that would leave you lost. Small tricks • set fenders while stopped: the hull sits deeper underway • hang them between stanchions • two heights: deck level or waterline • the pontoon should meet a fender’s upper part, or push it upwards • wind turns the bow; plan the approach accordingly • light wind can be harder than strong, offering less help • control depends on speed; don’t reduce it too far • an offshore wind helps the approach but complicates departure • many unusual situations simplify into coming alongside The result Thorough, practical, useful seminars for anyone with basic experience wanting organised knowledge. A quiet confidence, as though someone straightened the wonky bits in your head. Remember: the perfect berthing happens only when nobody’s on the pontoon.
After a day’s rest in Heiligenhafen, offshore again. David, not fully recovered, debated going home or finishing. Curiosity won; he stayed. Towards Grömitz 8 October 2025, towards the small resort of Grömitz. Grey but dry morning, light south-westerly about eight knots. Beneath the Fehmarn bridge, then south, then south-west a couple of hours later. Wind dead ahead, sails useless. Engine on. Grömitz at three, twenty-six miles in six hours.
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Back to Lübeck. Part 2 Heiligenhafen — Grömitz — Am Stau
After a day’s rest in Heiligenhafen, offshore again. David, not fully recovered, debated going home or finishing. Curiosity won; he stayed.
Towards Grömitz 8 October 2025, towards the small resort of Grömitz. Grey but dry morning, light south-westerly about eight knots. Beneath the Fehmarn bridge, then south, then south-west a couple of hours later. Wind dead ahead, sails useless. Engine on. Grömitz at three, twenty-six miles in six hours.
A cosy, almost toy-like town. Tidy waterfront, smooth sandy beach, fish smells from dozens of cafés. A huge Ferris wheel turned ashore; suddenly, hundreds of lights lit up. A reminder that autumn needn’t be dull here. Rain sent us back aboard. Buckwheat with a Maggi cube and tinned meat in tomato sauce. No haute cuisine; ideal after six hours motoring.
Back to Lübeck Bay 10am departure on 9 October. Unbroken sunshine making up for yesterday. Fifteen knots, broad reach, full sail. An astonishingly quiet sea, a feeling of inner comfort. Lübeck Bay is special: my first independent trips began here. Returning feels like home; familiar water, familiar shores.
Before Travemünde, sails down, engine on for the Trave. Its bends bring either headwind or following wind. Today, naturally, headwind.
Winter and goodbyes Evening berthing. David helped remove and fold the sails, dismantle the boom and check fixings. Then I met harbourmaster and yard staff about winter storage and the season’s growing jobs list.
Kiel to Lübeck done: eighty-six miles in four days. Despite seasickness, David now wanted his own boat. Even nausea can’t prevent love for the sea beneath moonlight and salt air.
So much food left that I joked we could eat through winter without buying more.
This winter, my boat would spend her final months on the Trave, halfway to Lübeck. So I planned the return in early October. In Vadim Luppo’s sailing chat, I noticed a man newly arrived in Germany. No sea experience, dreaming of buying a yacht. It sounded wildly adventurous; I invited him aboard as a passenger to compare romance with reality. Planning Monday, 6 October. Fifty-knot storms over the weekend, easing by Monday noon.
Preparing for the passage This winter, my boat would spend her final months on the Trave, halfway to Lübeck. So I planned the return in early October. In Vadim Luppo’s sailing chat, I noticed a man newly arrived in Germany. No sea experience, dreaming of buying a yacht. It sounded wildly adventurous; I invited him aboard as a passenger to compare romance with reality. Planning Monday, 6 October. Fifty-knot storms over the weekend, easing by Monday noon. Simple plan: leave eleven, offshore twelve, Heiligenhafen by evening. I wanted daylight arrival. A year ago, around the same dates, I’d been too cold to helm or stay in the cockpit, even in several layers.
A broad reach up to twenty knots, easing later. Full genoa, no main: downwind, the main would only blanket the headsail. Departure I arrived at ten. David got stuck in traffic, arriving at two. A telling-off for form’s sake, then departure. After freezing on the spring Bornholm trip, I’d bought €65 heated thermals on AliExpress, powered by a power bank. Test time. Wind eighteen knots, air 12°C, water 11°C. Comfortable even on minimum heat.
Six knots, lively progress. David took the tiller, apparently feeling the wind’s power for the first time. Twenty-five degrees of heel in gusts: tense at first, then smiling. I explained sails and keel; he listened without blinking. The Baltic after the North Sea At five, the Todendorf. exercise area. Normally a detour, but open by then. Lucky. After the North Sea the Baltic felt a quiet lake. Calm, predictable, almost kindly. Moon and seasickness At seven, the sun gave way to an enormous, nearly full moon. Silver water, glittering waves, a road of light round the boat. The breeze grew warm, as though evening were apologising for the cold day. David stared silently ahead. ‘I feel sick.’ Minutes later, his resolve to become a sailor weakened. On we went: me enjoying soft wind and night peace, him feeding the fish and reassessing maritime freedom. Heiligenhafen At eleven, Heiligenhafen. Long, narrow entry, unlit buoys. Leading lights only; I aligned them in total darkness. Relief at berthing. €20 by QR code, shower, straight to bed.
A rest day followed. Small, cosy town. I wandered the waterfront looking at yachts; David unexpectedly made borscht. The first aboard my boat, perhaps my first post-passage meal that felt homemade rather than tinned meat.
5–7 September 2025, the annual Hamburg Yachtfestival at Wedel marina. Nearby, so Grigory and I went to see this year’s offerings. Flea market The highlight: rows of extraordinary nautical things, brass compasses to ship’s tools. A couple of hours browsing and chatting. I bought a Swiss drill for €7, aluminium radar reflector €8, and 3D mesh mattress underlay €10. Excellent condition, five or ten times dearer in shops. A real haul.
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5–7 September 2025, the annual Hamburg Yachtfestival at Wedel marina. Nearby, so Grigory and I went to see this year’s offerings. Flea market The highlight: rows of extraordinary nautical things, brass compasses to ship’s tools. A couple of hours browsing and chatting.
I bought a Swiss drill for €7, aluminium radar reflector €8, and 3D mesh mattress underlay €10. Excellent condition, five or ten times dearer in shops. A real haul. Festival grounds Beyond, waterfront tents of clothing, equipment and accessories. We looked everywhere; prices were windblown, far above expectations. Food stalls smelled better. Shawarma by the stage beside the lecture tent. Talks Maritime lectures in a large tent, all German. I can follow the gist now. First, NMEA 2000, the onboard data standard.
Then a nineteen-year-old dreaming of the Mini Transat, a solo Atlantic race in a tiny yacht. No money, plenty of determination. Festival visits, sponsor hunting, ready to challenge an ocean. A chance to become known and enter professional racing. Inspiring: empty pockets, radiant smile, Atlantic ahead.
Finally, sail shape for wind and course, demonstrated on a miniature yacht. Radio-controlled yachts RC yachts raced round two paint tins by the pontoon. We waited, got controllers and tried. A minute later, as competitive as real sailing. Another toy for the wish list. Workshops Alongside lectures, workshops: gennaker handling, lifejacket inflation, recovering a person and deploying a liferaft. Clear and impressive. Leak-control training Most memorable: Well Sailing’s training yacht simulating emergencies. Instructor lets water in; participants stop it with whatever is available. Our turn, water pouring in, entirely real sensations. Perhaps the only time sinking a boat feels fun. Now I know: a ‘carrot’ works as well as a bung! Overall Plenty of ideas, useful finds and inspiration. A day well spent learning, meeting people, and remembering how thoroughly sailing becomes a way of life. Definitely back next year.
Always something to fix aboard, not everything worth a separate article. Here are small jobs making life a little easier. Curtain-rail bracket Curtains hang on a rail; the rail, on plastic brackets. One cracked, no replacement available. Epoxy held for months, then failed again. Metal staples and plastic might reinforce it, but risked shattering it mid-repair. I asked Grigory to show me designing and printing a replacement.
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Always something to fix aboard, not everything worth a separate article. Here are small jobs making life a little easier. Curtain-rail bracket Curtains hang on a rail; the rail, on plastic brackets. One cracked, no replacement available. Epoxy held for months, then failed again. Metal staples and plastic might reinforce it, but risked shattering it mid-repair. I asked Grigory to show me designing and printing a replacement.
Aboard his yacht, vernier calliper out, Autodesk Fusion modelling. A couple of hours showed me 3D printing could rescue all sorts of little boat fittings, more than an engineer’s toy. Printed, the legs were a couple of millimetres short, but it fitted perfectly. Inspired me to learn modelling properly. Much nicer repairing with my hands than spare-parts catalogues. Rust stains During the passage to Heligoland, a heat pad burst over the topsides. Rust marks resisted cloth and soap. Sanding would spoil the gloss. Found pH-neutral Star brite Rust Stain Remover, €25. Spray, ten minutes, rinse: lighter but still there. Again: perfectly clean, paint shining as if polished. It works, tested through my own mistake. A new tap After the internal flood that left eighty litres below, I wanted less chance of repetition. A €2 AliExpress pump switch: its indicator now goes out while the pump runs, showing at once if water is being wasted. A €30 pull-out tap from there too. An hour to remove the old, enlarge the hole slightly, secure the new and connect through adapters. Precise flow, easy pan washing, like a home kitchen. Most importantly, it holds pump pressure without leaking. Sometimes a small change adds more comfort than a major upgrade. Audio An old American five-inch speaker had no cover. A €2 grille improved its appearance immediately. More music for night watches: €9 head unit supporting TF cards, €3 antenna. Spotify playlists saved offline to the card, an hour to install. Flawless, except too loud even at minimum. Something to solve. A small debt to the rescuers After the incident when I was pulled off the shoal, I began a monthly DGzRS donation. Small, but hearing their call sign, I know I’m helping a little those who helped me.
In August, at Delfzijl lock in the Netherlands, an incident reminded me that even in a canal, the sea won’t forgive complacency. A barge entered ahead. I drifted at the gates while she berthed, then followed when the engine fell quiet. Suddenly, engine on again: powerful wash threw my yacht into the wall. Seconds: a dull impact, hull scratches, bent pulpit taking the main blow. Awkward to board, unsafe to lean on, torn mounts potentially admitting water.
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In August, at Delfzijl lock in the Netherlands, an incident reminded me that even in a canal, the sea won’t forgive complacency. A barge entered ahead. I drifted at the gates while she berthed, then followed when the engine fell quiet.
Suddenly, engine on again: powerful wash threw my yacht into the wall. Seconds: a dull impact, hull scratches, bent pulpit taking the main blow. Awkward to board, unsafe to lean on, torn mounts potentially admitting water. Hardly a magazine-cover appearance either. Removal and workshop Easy removal: five through-bolts. My colleague Alexander helped. Off to a workshop, asking for the cheapest possible straightening.
A week later, dimensions requested. Another week, proud news: excellent result, ‘very cheap’ — €500. I choked, but didn’t argue, especially hearing a replacement would be €1,500. Refitting and reinforcement Back aboard, Grigory came to help. A couple of hours planned, all day spent. He was leaving Kiel that night for Svendborg, preparing for the Silverrudder Cup.
I wanted backing plates inside the hull: 3mm stainless, €10. Cut and drill to fit. And drilling stainless is a dubious pleasure. No cobalt bits; Grisha used ordinary ones, sharpening with a Dremel. Sparks, hot metal and WD-40: a survival-film scene.
Meanwhile, I removed old sealant, cleaned and degreased. Holes ready, pulpit fitted perfectly. Unexpected complications As we began, an old navigation-light wire fell from the tube and crumbled in our hands. Everything off again, replacement needed. Thankfully, Grigory had suitable double-sheathed cable.
Another hour, Sikaflex-295 UV applied, pulpit bolted through the backing plates. Done by evening. Tea, admiring it: like new. Afterword Stronger than before, less trusted. I once thought it could withstand anything. Now I see a few bolts and plates holding it all.
Colleagues were surprised I hadn’t claimed on insurance. I wrote to Pantaenius: yes, collision with a quay wall was covered. But the €500 repair was below my €800 excess. Also, report before repairs so they can send an assessor.
Weeks repairing three seconds afloat. Even a small fuck-up becomes an adventure, with hot-metal smells, sealant on skin and tea at the end.
Paint dry, masked and sanded the KiwiGrip areas. This non-slip finish had already survived a season aboard and performed flawlessly. A day later, fitted the latches with Sikaflex-295 UV, then soft EPDM seal round the edge. Ready to fit! Installation At the marina, trial fit, marked the cut-out and carefully made the opening in the sole. Everything in place: pure pleasure. Perfect fit. Passing technicians stopped to inspect and praise it.
Hardware and seals Paint dry, masked and sanded the KiwiGrip areas. This non-slip finish had already survived a season aboard and performed flawlessly. A day later, fitted the latches with Sikaflex-295 UV, then soft EPDM seal round the edge. Ready to fit!
Installation At the marina, trial fit, marked the cut-out and carefully made the opening in the sole. Everything in place: pure pleasure. Perfect fit. Passing technicians stopped to inspect and praise it. One suggested bonding the cut-out pieces underneath as guides. Grigory suggested rounding the opening’s corners to prevent chipping. Another useful point: epoxy-coat all exposed edges.
The lid clicked into place: that satisfying boat-repair moment when everything finally makes sense.
Tools • Oscillating multitool, jigsaw, or angle grinder with metal-cutting disc • Sander, P80, abrasive pad for corners • Short-pile rollers, mixing containers • Respirator, gloves, goggles, long sleeves, wet wipes
The result A month’s work, dearer than expected, but worth it. Easy access to the stern-tube seal and engine’s rear, plus experience with epoxy, glass cloth and patience. I started thinking it was just a lid. Now I think I could build boats. The next project will surely be faster, neater and perhaps less eventful. Though without adventures, wouldn’t a boat be boring?
As usual, every voyage leaves something to repair. Water had begun to leak past the stern-tube seal, almost impossible to replace without removing the engine. The answer: a new cockpit panel with an access opening for the seal and gearbox. Taking the cockpit shape First, a mould. Masking tape over the sole, double-sided tape over that, then polyethylene film. A layer cake: protection below, easy release above.
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As usual, every voyage leaves something to repair. Water had begun to leak past the stern-tube seal, almost impossible to replace without removing the engine. The answer: a new cockpit panel with an access opening for the seal and gearbox. Taking the cockpit shape First, a mould. Masking tape over the sole, double-sided tape over that, then polyethylene film. A layer cake: protection below, easy release above.
Three pieces of glass cloth cut to cockpit size, wetted with epoxy and laid successively. A strong cast left for a day, transparent and perfectly following the sole’s shape. The core Next day, removed it carefully, trimmed excess with a multitool and levelled the edges. A sheet of 12mm marine plywood, bonded with waterproof BFU 100 adhesive. Cut the blank, sanded both sides thoroughly.
The mould wasn’t perfect, so a sandwich: about 400ml epoxy thickened with cotton fibres, spread over both surfaces, plywood pressed against GRP. Batteries, dumbbells, toolboxes: anything heavy on top. Another day’s cure.
Weights off, edges bevelled forty-five degrees, sanded, then three glass-cloth layers over everything, sealing the plywood inside. Found bubbles where I hadn’t expelled all the air. Cut them open, released the air and patched with cotton-thickened epoxy.
Again, I’d choose 3D Core XPS instead of plywood: lighter, more accurate shape. But plywood added solidity; material costs were similar. Protection Glass cloth and epoxy need respirator, goggles, gloves and long sleeves. I thought ‘only five minutes’ meant no gear needed. Then learnt how wrong that was. After sanding, itching everywhere, burning skin, sand under the eyelids. Glass dust in my nose, sandpaper in my throat. Days of coughing, weakness and dizziness. Baths, litres of water, sleep as after a storm. Now I know: unprotected composite work guarantees suffering. Don’t repeat my mistake. Finishing Once cured, finishing work. Trimmed, sanded, drilled two handle holes, degreased with alcohol and applied two-part Epifanes primer. In spring, I’d painted with a one-part system and disliked its abrasion resistance. Time to try two-part.
A coat every day, three in all, no intermediate sanding. Turned over and repeated underneath. 750ml only just enough. Glossy, strong, almost factory-finished.
Route: Kiel → Rendsburg → Glückstadt → Cuxhaven → Heligoland → Wangerooge → Norderney → Lauwersoog → Groningen → Borkum → Spiekeroog → Cuxhaven → Gieselau Lock → Kiel Dates: 1–16 August 2025 Distance: 526 nautical miles Duration: sixteen days Wind: Beaufort force 1–7 Waves: 0.5–2.5 metres Passages: seven to fourteen hours Average speed: 5.2 knots Maximum speed over ground: ten knots, with the stream Locks transited: 7 Bridges opened: 30 Islands visited: 5 Fuel used: about eighty litres Marinas, fuel and water: about €500 The story: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13 📍 Interactive map of the route, if you’d like to follow in my wake
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(Continued) Useful links • German tide tables: https://gezeiten.bsh.de • Konstantin’s view of the trip: @whitehareyacht Statistics Route: Kiel → Rendsburg → Glückstadt → Cuxhaven → Heligoland → Wangerooge → Norderney → Lauwersoog → Groningen → Borkum → Spiekeroog → Cuxhaven → Gieselau Lock → Kiel Dates: 1–16 August 2025 Distance: 526 nautical miles Duration: sixteen days Wind: Beaufort force 1–7 Waves: 0.5–2.5 metres Passages: seven to fourteen hours Average speed: 5.2 knots Maximum speed over ground: ten knots, with the stream Locks transited: 7 Bridges opened: 30 Islands visited: 5 Fuel used: about eighty litres Marinas, fuel and water: about €500 The story: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13 📍 Interactive map of the route, if you’d like to follow in my wake
Leaving Kiel in early August, I expected the North Sea to toughen me up, test decisions and bring strong wind and high waves. It did. Long planning sessions daily: wind, waves, currents, tide tables. No room for mistakes, no refuges or anchorages nearby. After a week, checking data and calculating ideal departure and arrival times felt automatic. Waves, currents and fishermen The North Sea always moves.
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Through the Wadden Sea. In review
Expectations Leaving Kiel in early August, I expected the North Sea to toughen me up, test decisions and bring strong wind and high waves. It did. Long planning sessions daily: wind, waves, currents, tide tables. No room for mistakes, no refuges or anchorages nearby.
After a week, checking data and calculating ideal departure and arrival times felt automatic. Waves, currents and fishermen The North Sea always moves. Waves don’t appear or disappear; they simply exist, endless day-and-night breathing. Add five-knot streams, turning steady progress into fighting for metres. Shoals everywhere. Fishermen the local kings: straight at you, nets either side, gulls behind, without fuss.
And remarkable variety: first red cliffs at Heligoland, tacking up the Elbe, a Wangerooge seal, Norderney hares, Groningen at sunset like a living stage set. Fuck-ups and lessons • The stern-tube seal at Wangerooge developed its own personality as an onboard fountain. A modification that still makes me nervous about going to sea. • Delfzijl lock taught us not to enter a confined space with a barge. Price: the pulpit bent and torn from its starboard mounts. • A fishing vessel off Spiekeroog showed how a sail blocks your view at the worst moment. • Büsum’s fairway and the wind ‘only we experienced’ reminded us forecasts are theory. Learn to read clouds and pressure like a book. • Kiel Canal berthing gave us classic fatigue: one line secured, then dropped while running for another. Lucky the lines were long enough. • Waves tore out the heads mounting and broke the saloon door. It now closes by persuasion rather than hand. • A burst heat pad rust-stained the hull; every mistake added a scratch. The sea dislikes smooth surfaces. New skills • Waterkaarten, locks and opening bridges mastered. No mysteries left. • Real-world tidal planning. Tables, charts and clocks became daily routine. • Tested the boat, from a lock-wall impact to settling into Spiekeroog mud. Feelings Fear stopped my heart at the lock wall or while being swept sideways in the Ems. Joy opened it at gulls over fishermen or the meadow scent of Spiekeroog. And a childhood dream fulfilled: my own boat through a city’s heart. The finish Just over five hundred miles in two weeks, dozens of bridges and locks, calm and squalls, towns you’d never otherwise reach. Beyond the familiar Baltic into a world where each tide matters more than engine or chart.
Sometimes frightening, sometimes funny, mostly beautiful. Two weeks became a story impossible to forget.
15 August 2025. A rare chance to rise after sunrise: the flood began only at 11.14. Light westerly, sunshine. Fuel berth at noon, tank full, facilities card returned, Elbe at one. Through the lock The stream whisked us towards Brunsbüttel. Ideal: three hours to the Kiel Canal lock. VHF thirteen for instructions, turned against the three-knot stream to wait. Throttle needed to stand still. Fifteen minutes later, gates open, a column of boats emerged.
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Through the Wadden Sea. Part 13. Cuxhaven – Kiel
Planning 15 August 2025. A rare chance to rise after sunrise: the flood began only at 11.14. Light westerly, sunshine. Fuel berth at noon, tank full, facilities card returned, Elbe at one. Through the lock The stream whisked us towards Brunsbüttel. Ideal: three hours to the Kiel Canal lock. VHF thirteen for instructions, turned against the three-knot stream to wait. Throttle needed to stand still. Fifteen minutes later, gates open, a column of boats emerged. White light; more throttle, barely moving. I worried we’d stay there until the stream eased. Thankfully, the operator waited. Slowly but surely, inside.
Behind us, a Norwegian sailor on his first transit. He’d done the Rolex Fastnet Race, the famous race along England’s south coast. Hull impact, lost gennaker, torn genoa and main: €20,000 damage. ‘First and last time.’ Understandable. Now home to Norway via the Baltic, avoiding another North Sea storm.
Gates open, goodbyes, onward. Canal quiet Peace inside. Half an hour earlier, fighting current at the limits; now another world. Breathing and lapping water, sunset turning the sky gold. The background tension switched off. No more battling the elements, it seemed.
Almost a hundred kilometres of calm water, daylight navigation only. Five overnight stops, kilometres one, twenty-one, forty-one, sixty-six and eighty-five. We could reach forty-one, the pontoon by old Gieselau lock. The day total: thirty-eight miles, eight hours. Next morning Quiet progress until Kiel-Holtenau lock, already containing two container ships. The first kept her engine running, strong prop wash astern.
I approached the pontoon carefully. Kolya secured the bow, but when I handed him the stern line, he released the first and ran aft. We swung perpendicular to the wall. Fatigue showing. Thankfully, enough line length to avoid starting again.
The boat behind had it worse, directly in the prop wash. Eight fenders over, five people pushing with all their strength to avoid being crushed into the pontoon. Like that until the gates opened. The end Another thirty-one miles, seven hours, and Kiel. Tired, but a full stop at the end of a long chapter. Even quiet passages find surprises: a line mishandled, a container ship giving neighbours a whirlpool treatment. The sea reminds you: relax after berthing.
14 August 2025. Precision needed leaving Spiekeroog: at low water, a sandbank links it to Langeoog. High water 4.04am. For a little more sleep, departure at five, clear of the shoal by 6.30 or risk a hard grounding. Destination Büsum. Descriptions said its lock opened with at least a metre of tide and no strong southerly. At 5.07pm, three metres of tide, north-westerly nine knots. Ideal. Into darkness Pitch black, like floating in space.
Planning 14 August 2025. Precision needed leaving Spiekeroog: at low water, a sandbank links it to Langeoog. High water 4.04am. For a little more sleep, departure at five, clear of the shoal by 6.30 or risk a hard grounding. Destination Büsum. Descriptions said its lock opened with at least a metre of tide and no strong southerly. At 5.07pm, three metres of tide, north-westerly nine knots. Ideal. Into darkness Pitch black, like floating in space. Kolya’s torch picked out branches marking the fairway edges. He called from the bow; I followed our recorded track, anxiously checking depth. No lights or reflections, just black water.
No wind, engine on. Current carried us at 7.5 knots. Offshore by six, towards Büsum, among yachts, fishing boats and container ships. Altostratus formed an endless grey dome. Meeting a front Halfway, clouds lowered: usually an approaching front. Nothing forecast; no internet left to check. Wind eight, twelve, eighteen knots. Genoa up, engine off. Nearer Büsum’s channel, the wind shifted more. A couple of miles out, north-easterly 28 knots, two-metre waves.
Furled to the second reef, headed north to turn into the fairway from the east. Worse: buoys disagreed with the chart, wind knocked us off course, sea boiled. Requested an inReach forecast update. Still nine knots, as though the storm existed only for us.
With the same conditions tomorrow, we couldn’t leave Büsum. Better not risk it. Divert to Cuxhaven. Turning towards shelter A couple of hours later, wind eased, clouds gone, sun out as if nothing had happened. Smooth sea; the storm seemed a dream. Engine pulled strongly. Cuxhaven at five: sixty-two miles, twelve hours. Evening in town A waterfront walk released the tension. Setting sun turned the water into fine threads of light. Cruise ship AIDAb appeared, ablaze in colours, a floating city passing the wooden Kugelbake navigation mark. Here since the eighteenth century, once the Elbe entrance’s essential landmark, now Cuxhaven’s symbol. I stood beneath it awhile, then slowly returned aboard.
13 August 2025. About fifty miles Borkum–Spiekeroog, ten hours. Main difficulty: the entrance sandbar, only twenty centimetres charted, exposed at spring low water. High tide adds 3.5m. High water 3.29pm, so leave by six to avoid fighting the ebb. Borkum’s depths permit departure anytime; flood not until 8.39. Light easterly, five to seven knots. Engine needed, sail mainly for stability. The passage More fishing boats than I’d seen anywhere.
Planning 13 August 2025. About fifty miles Borkum–Spiekeroog, ten hours. Main difficulty: the entrance sandbar, only twenty centimetres charted, exposed at spring low water. High tide adds 3.5m. High water 3.29pm, so leave by six to avoid fighting the ebb. Borkum’s depths permit departure anytime; flood not until 8.39.
Light easterly, five to seven knots. Engine needed, sail mainly for stability. The passage More fishing boats than I’d seen anywhere. Salt surprised me too: white film over the whole deck, like flour. Otherwise quiet: light wind, almost no waves.
Near Spiekeroog, a cinematic moment. I went to the mast to lower sail, Kostya at the tiller. As the last cloth dropped, a fishing vessel appeared straight ahead, only three hundred metres away. Nets out on both sides, gulls astern. ‘Kostya! Turn! Quickly!’ Confusion first, then he moved the tiller in time. About fifty metres between us. Thankfully, no net in the propeller. The fishermen neither turned nor slowed. Kings of the sea indeed. Lucky to escape consequences. Spiekeroog Plenty of marina space. Berthed quietly, €21 paid, off to explore.
A beautifully kept resort island. Named houses, flowers in windows, neat streets, cafés, restaurants and shops. Beyond town, dunes and the sculpture De Utkieker — ‘The Watcher’ — with wonderful views over the tidal flats. Then broad beaches and dunes, lovely barefoot. Only the second stop after Heligoland I’d call truly beautiful. A Wadden surprise Back at the boat, astonishment: almost no water left. Yachts stood in mud among puddles, even the quay base exposed. Never seen a marina vanish with its water. Atmosphere More than beauty: meadow scents filled the air, like walking through a vast natural apothecary. Almost healing, easing fatigue and the day’s tension. A magnificent end to the East Frisian islands. Worth returning for longer.
12 August 2025. An ideal plan: leave Groningen at 9.30, cover twenty-four canal miles to Delfzijl by 3.06, when flood turned to ebb. Then thirteen Ems miles with following stream and easterly wind. Almost a textbook exercise. Left at 9.50. First test, yesterday’s closed bridge. Phoned; wait. Half an hour later, a woman with a bag reached the control hut and raised it. We wished her a good day.
Heading back 12 August 2025. An ideal plan: leave Groningen at 9.30, cover twenty-four canal miles to Delfzijl by 3.06, when flood turned to ebb. Then thirteen Ems miles with following stream and easterly wind. Almost a textbook exercise.
Left at 9.50. First test, yesterday’s closed bridge. Phoned; wait. Half an hour later, a woman with a bag reached the control hut and raised it. We wished her a good day. Leaving town, an enormous ten-lane road bridge stopped all traffic for our nine-metre yacht, huge spans rising. The Netherlands respects its waterways. A lesson from a barge Twelve bridges behind, Delfzijl lock ahead. A barge entered first. I drifted outside while she berthed, then followed when things looked settled. Suddenly, she engaged her engine. Churning water flung us at the wall like a toy. All I could shout was ‘Oh God!’, before the crash.
Two women came from ashore to check us. They explained we should have waited for the next lock cycle rather than followed the barge. They suggested we leave first to avoid her prop wash again. Very welcome advice.
At the pontoon, damage inspection. Topside scratches, easily sanded and painted. A chip at the bow, repairable with filler. The pulpit fared worse: bent forty centimetres, almost torn out. It apparently absorbed the blow and saved the hull. Remove, straighten, reinforce the mounts. Most importantly, the hull was sound. The Ems Sail up, northwards. Little wind, engine added. Quiet until the turn into Borkum’s fairway. Headwind and strong current: two knots, full engine, boat pitching, hard to hold course. Zigzags to stay within the channel, shoals beside us, motorboats passing with wash. A cocktail of stress.
Main lesson: enter here only with a favourable stream. Evening ashore Rafted alongside a yacht. Town five kilometres away; no energy left. A shore walk, wild hares, then buckwheat and tinned meat: food tested by storms and locks. Shower, instant sleep. An eventful day.
11 August 2025. Quiet weather, ambitious plan: across the Netherlands by canal in a day. At 7.50, the lock gates were open for us. In, mooring lines to hanging ropes, an easy transit. Then Noordergat marina: thirty litres into cans, fifteen into the tank, €2.12 a litre. Enough for Germany. Canals and bridges Straight river-like canals, thirty to fifty metres wide, up to five deep. Almost no wind, sunshine, endless fields with cows and sheep.
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First locks and fuel 11 August 2025. Quiet weather, ambitious plan: across the Netherlands by canal in a day. At 7.50, the lock gates were open for us. In, mooring lines to hanging ropes, an easy transit.
Then Noordergat marina: thirty litres into cans, fifteen into the tank, €2.12 a litre. Enough for Germany. Canals and bridges Straight river-like canals, thirty to fifty metres wide, up to five deep. Almost no wind, sunshine, endless fields with cows and sheep. Without opening bridges, rather dull.
Bridges enlivened it. Initially, full formal radio calls. Then I noticed one operator controlled several. Shortened to: ‘Bridge [name], may I pass?’ Just as effective.
Tried the call buttons too, directly alerting the operator. The real discovery: do nothing. Approach and wait; they see you and open. Slight guilt at stopping all the traffic for our little boat. Sometimes opening seemed to begin before we rounded the bend.
Eighteen bridges and two locks, all three methods tested. Entirely free. Groningen Reached Groningen at 2.30, needing to pass before the 3.30 bridge-opening break. Special canal: historic houses, long barges converted to homes with power and drainage. I’d thought that happened only in Amsterdam. Same here, without tourists.
Looking around, a childhood dream fulfilled: taking a boat through the heart of a city among people, houses and bridges. Unexpected stop A bridge in the centre stopped us. Waited, no movement. Called: no opening today. Phoned for details using Waterkaarten’s number. A festival had closed it. No alternative with the mast up. Disappointed: a week fighting our way here with what should have been following wind, and now we’d wait until it turned easterly and face headwinds again.
Berthed under trees at the town quay. Twenty-seven miles, seven and a half hours. Evening in town The delay was a gift, honestly. After fields and canals, Groningen felt festive. Wandering streets and shops, cheese with a lingering nutty flavour. Bicycle bells everywhere, café laughter, music reflecting in canal water with the lights. Easy and carefree. A feeling of comfort and freedom I wanted to take away.
10 August 2025. Left at the start of the ebb, 7.13am. Navionics showed 1.5m over the bank between the islands, less than my draught. I hoped for at least another metre of water by arrival. At the bank, north-westerly eighteen knots, waves 1.5m, watched on the sounder. All attention on the numbers: twice, only ninety centimetres beneath the keel. Through, I could breathe and send Kostya for more sleep.
A dangerous sandbank 10 August 2025. Left at the start of the ebb, 7.13am. Navionics showed 1.5m over the bank between the islands, less than my draught. I hoped for at least another metre of water by arrival.
At the bank, north-westerly eighteen knots, waves 1.5m, watched on the sounder. All attention on the numbers: twice, only ninety centimetres beneath the keel. Through, I could breathe and send Kostya for more sleep. Towards the Netherlands I wanted Lauwersoog directly, without turning into the Ems or Delfzijl. North to the TSS, then a course for Schiermonnikoog. For three hours, the angle wouldn’t work: only seven miles towards our destination. On the second attempt, the angle came right. We could sail straight to the Netherlands.
Kostya returned. I gave him the course and lookout, and for the first time let myself rest at sea. Usually always on watch, I trusted the boat and went below for an hour. Odd feelings: creaking, motion, noise, no sense of safety. Sleep came anyway. Back out as we passed a wind farm. Approaching Schiermonnikoog Near shore, sails furled, engine on. The flood was just beginning, depths changing. Eyes on the sounder again. The chart explicitly warned that depths were variable and caution needed.
At nine, outside the lock. Seventy miles, fourteen hours. Tried VHF, phone, gate button, even climbed to the cabin. Nothing. We rafted beside a yacht at the nearby marina instead. A Dutch discovery Our Dutch neighbour was friendly and funny. I complained about the lock. He recommended Waterkaarten: inland-waterway charts across Europe. Enter boat dimensions and it routes for bridges and locks, each with opening hours, VHF and phone. Installed, registered: a real key to Dutch canals. Fixed hours, usually seven to seven. First Dutch night No harbourmaster. €23 through Blue Water App, then facilities code on screen. Plenty of showers and toilets, unlimited water and power. After the long day, a hot shower felt luxurious. At last, an undisturbed night’s sleep.
9 August 2025. All thirty litres from the cans had gone into the forty-litre tank yesterday. Refuelling soon, then. Left at ten, three hours before high water. Boats on both sides made departure difficult. We pulled back on a line to angle the stern forty-five degrees. Thankfully, neighbours helped. Along the banks Between Wangerooge and Spiekeroog, depths fall to half a metre. Chart and buoys don’t always agree. Carefully along the red marks, then safely offshore.
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Through the Wadden Sea. Part 7. Wangerooge – Norderney The fuel question 9 August 2025. All thirty litres from the cans had gone into the forty-litre tank yesterday. Refuelling soon, then.
Left at ten, three hours before high water. Boats on both sides made departure difficult. We pulled back on a line to angle the stern forty-five degrees. Thankfully, neighbours helped. Along the banks Between Wangerooge and Spiekeroog, depths fall to half a metre. Chart and buoys don’t always agree. Carefully along the red marks, then safely offshore. Light south-westerly, clear sky. Motor-sailing, course set, autopilot on, shirts off in the cockpit.
Minimum goal Spiekeroog, maximum Norderney. Constant checks of speed, ETA and tide tables. Norderney looked reachable. A quiet passage: one island astern, another ahead, again and again.
Thirty-one miles in six and a half hours. Arrival and the diesel dilemma Norderney’s jobs: diesel, water, route. €20 berth. Fuel? The harbourmaster said cans only, B7 only — biofuel blend. Not what I wanted.
Rolls and water at Edeka’s tables. Google Maps, ChatGPT, Navionics open. The last bio-free diesel was Cuxhaven; nearest GTL, gas-to-liquid, Lauwersoog in the Netherlands.
Back aboard, neighbours offered a gift of advice: enter via Delfzijl, pass Groningen, emerge at Lauwersoog. Possible in a day, mast up, no concern about wind in the canals. Inspiring: canals had long been a dream. Just a red-white-blue courtesy flag needed. The harbourmaster had one, €5. The Netherlands it would be! Town and festival Evening promenade. Dozens of hares in a field, horses grazing with more hares round their legs. A funny sight. Wine festival in the centre, welcome German sausages. Sunset along the waterfront: cafés, restaurants, easy festive bustle. Cosy. East Frisian tea I bought rock sugar, a local speciality. East Frisia has a famous tea culture. Legend says Hitler tried switching Germany to coffee, but the Frisians protested so fiercely he left them alone. True or not, an interesting story.
The ritual: strong Assam and Darjeeling, poured over rock sugar in the cup, a layer of cream gently added. Never stir. Drink the layers: cream, bitter tea, sweetness. Above all, three cups. Frisians accept no fewer.
8 August 2025. Force 5, south-south-west. The Frisian islands all lay south-west, while the morning flood would carry us east. A TSS to cross too. Not a simple passage. Wangerooge, thirty miles south, was the target. Anything farther west was unreachable. Sail as close as possible. Navily reviews gave an entry window two hours either side of high water, 12.04. At five knots, leave at six. But tacking would add distance, and sleep was needed.
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Planning and departure 8 August 2025. Force 5, south-south-west. The Frisian islands all lay south-west, while the morning flood would carry us east. A TSS to cross too. Not a simple passage.
Wangerooge, thirty miles south, was the target. Anything farther west was unreachable. Sail as close as possible. Navily reviews gave an entry window two hours either side of high water, 12.04. At five knots, leave at six. But tacking would add distance, and sleep was needed. We left Heligoland at 4.40am. The passage Bright sunrise. Wind to 24 knots, two reefs in main, one in genoa. Waves 1.5m, heel thirty degrees. Six knots: Wangerooge began to feel possible. GPS supported the hope.
But the stream strengthened and carried us increasingly east. Engine on to point higher. The approach At eleven, the entrance appeared. Autopilot off, hand steering, following lateral marks. Beyond the sandbar, I gave Kolya the tiller and dealt with the main. Branches marked the marina route: twigs upwards, red side; downwards, green. A seal swam calmly past.
Full marina. A man on the pontoon waved arrivals into place. Five minutes later, he pointed us alongside another boat. A third rafted beside us later, and we chatted with her owner. Wadden secrets He rarely went into the North Sea. Between mainland and islands lay a whole other world, the Wadden Sea. Travel only with the tide, but almost no waves or strong wind. A special yacht, though: under ninety centimetres draught and external keel cooling, or sandy water clogs the engine. Built in the Netherlands. Water below Below, a wet carpet. A chill: the flooding story was too recent. Taste: salty. Water under both berths. While I pumped, Kostya searched. The stern-tube seal: a thin stream into the engine compartment. Heeling stopped the pump catching everything; some overflowed below. No repair here. Watch the level, replace the seal in winter. First, avoid sinking. The moving island €22 overnight. Two toilets, two unlimited showers. Five kilometres to town, walking or on a hired bike; alternatively, a little train from the port. No cars.
Wangerooge seemed endless fields with three lighthouses. The oldest, nineteenth-century brick, is now a lookout and wedding venue.
Lovely paths. Hares grazed beside us, unconcerned. A local detail: storms erode the west and deposit sand east. The island never stays still; it moves.
Heligoland belonged to Britain in the nineteenth century as a naval base. In 1890, it was exchanged for German African colonies. A naval fortress in the Second World War; afterwards, the British tried to erase its defences. In 1947, 6,700 tonnes of explosives went into the rock. Operation Big Bang, Europe’s largest non-nuclear explosion. The island survived, leaving enormous craters on the plateau.
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The Big Bang Heligoland belonged to Britain in the nineteenth century as a naval base. In 1890, it was exchanged for German African colonies. A naval fortress in the Second World War; afterwards, the British tried to erase its defences. In 1947, 6,700 tonnes of explosives went into the rock. Operation Big Bang, Europe’s largest non-nuclear explosion. The island survived, leaving enormous craters on the plateau.
The North Sea’s red jewel Straight after berthing, anticlockwise exploration. First, sandy beach and immense red-sandstone wall. Shoes off, as usual. People searching for something. I asked a woman: unique red flint. Gold fever caught us, eyes constantly on the ground.
Steps at the beach’s end led to green hills and a path. Ten minutes later, the northern tip and 47m sea stack Lange Anna, ‘Tall Anna’. Heligoland’s symbol, loved by tourists and birds.
One of northern Europe’s important migrant-bird sites: hundreds of thousands stop in autumn between Siberia and Africa. Even August buzzed with life. Gannet colonies on the west coast: large birds, up to 100km/h in flight and forty-metre dives for fish. So many, you could reach out and touch them.
The town Beyond the lighthouse, narrow streets and northern German houses. Quiet, broken only by gulls and surf. Cars banned by law. Then endless shops and restaurants. Duty-free Heligoland: prices nineteen per cent lower, with ferries still bringing Hamburg visitors for alcohol and cigarettes.
A schoolgirl sold red-flint stones by the road, alone but determined. My feet stopped of their own accord; a minute later, a three-euro stone was in my pocket.
Düne A five-minute evening ferry to Düne, the neighbouring sandy island that constantly changes shape. No permanent residents, only beaches, cafés and parasol hire. An unexpected encounter ended the walk: seals resting on the beach, lazily watching without moving. A rare closeness to wildlife that makes falling in love with the place inevitable.
An unpleasant surprise A little fuck-up too. I often use foot warmers on passages. One tore while berthing, scattering sand-like contents on deck. Seemed trivial. Later, rust stains appeared: the ‘sand’ was iron powder, immediately ingrained in the paint. Water wouldn’t shift it. A job for Kiel.
7 August 2025. We’d waited impatiently: after three days stuck in port, finally going to sea. Not an easy forecast: south-westerly to 24 knots, fighting it all the way. Offshore, currents rarely exceed 1.5 knots; near shore, three to five against you is possible. From Cuxhaven we needed the ebb, clearing fifteen miles of shoals before the flood. The difficulty was timing: first ebb at 1.46am, next only at 1.49pm. Leave before five to clear the Elbe in time.
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Planning 7 August 2025. We’d waited impatiently: after three days stuck in port, finally going to sea. Not an easy forecast: south-westerly to 24 knots, fighting it all the way. Offshore, currents rarely exceed 1.5 knots; near shore, three to five against you is possible.
From Cuxhaven we needed the ebb, clearing fifteen miles of shoals before the flood. The difficulty was timing: first ebb at 1.46am, next only at 1.49pm. Leave before five to clear the Elbe in time. Approaching Heligoland was simpler: any time, without strong streams or drying marina approaches. The passage Cast off at 4.45. Fifteen miles by eight, a strict target. Unexpectedly, almost no wind, mirror sea. Engine on. Plotter 9.8 knots, log only five. Nearly ten over ground: a record for «Rassvet» . A pity the current, rather than the engine, deserved the credit.
At eight sharp, The Elbe was astern. Wind rose, waves to 1.5m, their crests clear on the depth sounder. Second reef in main, first in genoa. Fifteen miles on one tack, pressing hull and sails into the waves. Eventually, a lump in my throat, seasickness, attention reduced to simple acts: breathe deeply, wind on my face, hold the course.
Thirty-seven miles in seven hours. The island Heligoland appears suddenly: red rock growing from a grey-green horizon, a beacon from another world. A particular excitement approaching it. Once a British naval base, later transferred to Germany. Now a quiet resort with unique wildlife, no cars, sea smells and bird calls. After the waves, another rhythm of life. Berthing We approached Heligoland from the south. Downwind to furl the genoa, then head to wind to stow the main. Always an adventure in those waves. First, the southern harbour: forty-foot-plus yachts rafted two or three deep. Better try the north harbour for boats under ten metres. Right decision: plenty of space.
On «Rassvet» there’s no midships cleat, making a spring awkward. My solution: line from pontoon through the jib car, onto the winch and into the cleat. Convenient and reliable.
Payment only five to six in the evening, €30. Neighbours gave us facilities codes while we waited for the harbourmaster. Then off to explore.
3 August 2025. Left at nine, an hour before high water. Uncertain how long Cuxhaven would take with the streams. Twenty-five knots, two reefs in the main. North along the Elbe we could still sail. Like the Baltic prevailing winds are westerly. Ninety minutes later, the river bent west, wind dead ahead. Genoa furled, main and engine. Waves grew to a metre, each hitting the bow and slowing us to two knots. Impossible.
Into the wind 3 August 2025. Left at nine, an hour before high water. Uncertain how long Cuxhaven would take with the streams. Twenty-five knots, two reefs in the main. North along the Elbe we could still sail. Like the Baltic prevailing winds are westerly.
Ninety minutes later, the river bent west, wind dead ahead. Genoa furled, main and engine. Waves grew to a metre, each hitting the bow and slowing us to two knots. Impossible. We began tacking under main and engine, between north cardinal marks guarding shallows and green buoys at the shipping-channel edge. Tacking usually doubles the distance, but speed quadrupled to 8.5 knots.
Under the sprayhood, watching wind, buoys and shipping. Kostya on the tiller, rain hammering the deck. Commands followed rapidly: ‘Left! More left! Hard right!’ At one point: ‘Turn left! Cargo ship coming at us!’ Kostya asked: ‘Why’s he coming here?’ Only a joke for an answer: ‘Because he wants to.’.
On like that to Cuxhaven. Sometimes churning, opposing streams turned the water sandy-coloured. All new. Last seen something similar in the Solent at the entrances to the Beaulieu River and Newtown Bay.
Thirty miles in five and a half hours. Waiting out the storm Plenty of marina space. €19 a night. The harbourmaster gives free beach tickets, normally paid. Also the last chance for bio-free diesel before the Wadden Sea.
Three days’ delay: across the North Sea came storm Floris, with sixty-knot winds near its centre. On MarineTraffic, I watched Grigory, who’d left when we did but headed for Norway. He sheltered north-east of Jutland. That prompted the idea of a Telegram bot showing friends’ yacht positions. Built most of it underway; finishing touches left.
Quiet, cosy town. Waterfront, beaches and cafés north; centre and shops south. Park walks, shells collected, wet feet in the sea. A castle-museum paper-art exhibition impressed me enough to buy its catalogue. Ocean-weather forecasts On 6 August, Windy showed 24 knots. Reef and leave? Even when wind eases, the sea takes time. Waves keep travelling for days, especially across unobstructed North Sea fetch. Looking only at wind is a mistake. Open the wave map and consider the previous day. Apparently manageable twenty knots can mean three-metre seas beyond boat or crew’s readiness.
Wave height exceeded the boat’s beam. Still dangerous, despite the moderate wind.
2 August 2025. Leaving Rendsburg at 7.30. Huge repair docks, then the transporter bridge. I wanted to see it work, but its light was red. Later, an odd change: emerald water became burgundy. Past halfway, it felt like the first sign of the North Sea approaching. Dense green vegetation against dark water looked striking. At the locks by two. Unlike the eastern end, two pairs here, for large and small vessels. About an hour’s wait. Green first: barges in.
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The Kiel Canal 2 August 2025. Leaving Rendsburg at 7.30. Huge repair docks, then the transporter bridge. I wanted to see it work, but its light was red.
Later, an odd change: emerald water became burgundy. Past halfway, it felt like the first sign of the North Sea approaching. Dense green vegetation against dark water looked striking.
At the locks by two. Unlike the eastern end, two pairs here, for large and small vessels. About an hour’s wait. Green first: barges in. Then white for yachts. The operator waits patiently for everyone before closing. At the far end, boats leave in order, first yacht first.
The Elbe Straight out, a strong westerly hit. Low water, with the flood beginning east towards Hamburg. Waves to 1.5m. A hard welcome; no point fighting it directly. We went east with the stream. Genoa up, eight knots, rare for this hull. Evening arrival in Glückstadt.
Interesting berthing: current so strong, we stood still at low revs. Turned and ferry-glided almost by the textbook. Harbourmaster ashore: €12 a night. Fifty miles in ten hours.
An unexpected meeting A Russian-speaking sailor on the next boat. His engine had died outside the canal; they’d berthed under sail. Awaiting a mechanic, he chatted. He’d wintered in Lübeck near my marina and repaired the saildrive. Something clicked: last winter, I’d recommended a workshop and nearby marinas to someone. I asked: ‘Is that your friend, by any chance?’ He nodded: ‘Yes, we sail together. He’s just left for Berlin.’Hard to believe for a second. The sea seems to arrange coincidences to remind us how small this circle is.
A town of good fortune Glückstadt is small, cosy and historic. Founded in 1617 as a port for Hamburg it retains its old trading-town character: narrow streets, gabled houses, canals. Many business names begin with Glück, ‘happiness’ or ‘luck’. Waterfront, old centre, a park once the royal gardens. Dinner at the doner shop to finish.
Lessons Tidal waters begin immediately outside the locks. Take them seriously: three- to four-knot streams, two-metre waves. Before leaving the canal, check forecast and tide tables, choose timing and destination. Lucky we thought to head for Glückstadt, but chance isn’t a plan in waters like these.
1 August 2025 began a new route into the North Sea towards the Wadden Islands. Marina neighbours said: ‘We don’t go there. Too dangerous.’But testing myself appealed more than listening to others’ fears. What is the Wadden Sea? The Wadden Sea is the shallows, sandbanks and islands along Denmark, Germany and the Netherlands. Everything changes by the hour: morning lagoon, desert by lunchtime. A subject of its own for sailors.
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1 August 2025 began a new route into the North Sea towards the Wadden Islands. Marina neighbours said: ‘We don’t go there. Too dangerous.’But testing myself appealed more than listening to others’ fears.
What is the Wadden Sea? The Wadden Sea is the shallows, sandbanks and islands along Denmark, Germany and the Netherlands. Everything changes by the hour: morning lagoon, desert by lunchtime. A subject of its own for sailors. Channels open only with the tide; misjudge time or course, and you’re aground with a long wait for water, while waves pound the boat against the bottom. No wonder it’s UNESCO-listed: wild nature and a constantly moving sea make a unique combination.
First canal miles At noon, out of Kiel. Canal operators on VHF twelve. Already my fifth lock transit this season; familiar, no surprises. Then towards Rendsburg where Konstantin would join that evening.
Twenty-five knots of headwind and rain seemed timed for the worst moments. But calm canal water allowed full speed. Green banks, gulls and cormorants overhead. Frequent fishermen to avoid; I kept wondering who had priority, motorboat or man with rod.
The blue-line town To Rendsburg about twenty-one miles, five hours. A straight line on the map; rain on deck, woodland smells and passing ships in memory. Café, hot food, Konstantin arriving by bus from Hamburg.
That evening in Rendsburg a town of thirty thousand: old houses, bridges, waterfronts. A blue line through the centre leads past all the sights. Like following a chart route into the middle of history. A simple walk, but details make a place memorable.
11 July 2025. A rare Baltic combination: north-westerly Friday, easterly Sunday. East to Fehmarn, then home with following wind. Military areas and a shortcut Between Kiel and Fehmarn, the exercise areas Todendorf and Putlos. Closed when active. To avoid a detour, check the schedules: – website of BSH, – yacht club Lippe, – navigation warnings on Boat View from NV Charts. NV Charts makes German charts. On our way for provisions, we met a colleague.
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A leak offshore
An ideal forecast, an unusual opportunity 11 July 2025. A rare Baltic combination: north-westerly Friday, easterly Sunday. East to Fehmarn, then home with following wind. Military areas and a shortcut Between Kiel and Fehmarn, the exercise areas Todendorf and Putlos. Closed when active. To avoid a detour, check the schedules: – website of BSH, – yacht club Lippe, – navigation warnings on Boat View from NV Charts.
NV Charts makes German charts. On our way for provisions, we met a colleague. He opened their app: no exercises. Ten miles saved. Unexpected wind Crew aboard by lunchtime, evening departure. Forecast twelve to eighteen knots. No reefs. In open water, headed east; soon the wind became easterly too. Windy still promised north. Engine on.
Then the log suddenly read 99 knots. We discussed causes: weed, fouling, small debris. Water below The saloon carpet was floating. Offshore, five miles from land. Murky brown water, starboard heel. Under the berth: water everywhere. Decision: turn back. Changing course changed the heel, sending water pouring from beneath the starboard berth into the saloon.
Too much water to find the leak. Priority: transfer it to the pump beneath the engine. Bucket and cloth? Clearly hopeless. Remembered the drill-driven pump, fetched it, started. The water stopped rising. Just as I hoped we had control, the drill battery died. Taste test Remembered the spare pump beneath the fifth berth. Nika and I cleared everything away to reach it. She asked: ‘Are you sure it’s seawater?’
Confident ‘yes’, then doubt. Finger in: fresh. Several fingers: same. A palmful in my mouth, spit. Freshwater-tank water. Source found I connected the electric pump to the fridge supply and led its hose beneath the engine. Why was the mattress wet, half a metre above the cabin sole? The galley tap was turned sideways, pouring over the worktop. Same in the heads. A short circuit had kept the pump running, emptying the whole eighty-litre tank below. Conclusions ashore Water pumped out, I asked whether we should continue. Everyone said no. As if on cue, the autopilot stopped responding, just like last time on the Fehmarn route.
Hand-steered back to Kiel. In the marina, the pump was still running. Disconnected its second supply from the heads. Carpet out to dry, then rest. What I learnt 1. Taste the water first. 2. Fresh water means a limited amount, so some relief. 3. The freshwater pump needs a manual isolation switch. 4. Bucket, cloth, drill pump and hunting for wires under piles of gear aren’t a solution. A powerful, accessible pump with a proper connection is needed. 5. With a real leak, heading inshore to run aground is an option. 6. The ST1000 autopilot needs serious investigation. I dismantled it but found no cause.
I hope it’s coincidence rather than a curse on the Fehmarn route. Suspicions are growing.
Has anyone faced something similar? How did you handle it? Have I missed anything important?
The Kiel Canal is an engineering marvel and a remarkably peaceful place. Paths disappear into green banks. Especially quiet in the evening: rustling leaves, occasional gulls, muffled engines of passing ships.
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The Kiel Canal is an engineering marvel and a remarkably peaceful place. Paths disappear into green banks. Especially quiet in the evening: rustling leaves, occasional gulls, muffled engines of passing ships.
Wind escaped the trees in bursts to twenty knots, dropping boat speed to four. The canal reaches 250m wide in places, yet even by the banks, depth remains about three metres. German precision: cargo ships observe the 12km/h limit and barely raise a wash. Bliss.
Mad berthing About halfway between Kiel and Rendsburg lies Flemhuder See. An ideal overnight stop on the chart. More wind forecast; anchoring in reeds didn’t appeal. Mooring to the large buoys in the lake instead.
Logical on the diagram: three thick cylinders, boat neatly between them. Less idyllic in practice. Instead of familiar bollards, ingenious inward-curving steel hooks, apparently designed for scratching topsides.
No precision approach in that wind: the boat blew towards the hooks like a woodchip. At least six approaches to secure her, with fresh paint scratches commemorating the heroic ironwork ballet.
The main problem emerged with the stern lines out. Nine metres between buoys; boat 8.8m. Marginal, to put it mildly. Only pulling back in reverse helped. Some improvisation: stern lines round the far sides of their buoys to gain space and avoid the forward one. More nautical origami than mooring: three ropes and nervous sighs.
Late, exhausted but pleased, I ate, wrapped in a sleeping bag, opened a book and slept before the lines could blur.
The return Following wind in the morning, 5.5 knots. At the lock, routine: drift, fenders, lines, radio twelve. Less visible lights than seaward, same system. Red-and-white released a dozen boats and a container ship.
A boat came closer: Oleksandr, a skipper I’d recently met. I photographed him; he said it was his first photo aboard his yacht.
White light, in we went. Northern pontoon, port side this time. Quietly managed, even alone. An inspector asked about payment. I said I’d entered my MMSI and paid online. A nod, good wishes, gone towards the control cabin. Gates open, onward to my marina.
Afterword A useful and surprisingly cosy route. I want to come more often, especially in bad weather: sea raging outside, a mirror of water within green banks. Twenty-one miles and a few new topside scars: a fair price for unforgettable experience.
Canal, tea and a little panic: my first Kiel lock transit
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Kiel is known for regattas, its university and an engineering marvel: the canal between Baltic and North Sea. Built in 1895 on Kaiser Wilhelm II’s orders, the 98km Kiel Canal remains among the world’s busiest, saving ships the storms, time and fuel of rounding Jutland. Millions in revenue, hundreds of thousands of jobs. At its completion, the Kaiser staged a parade of vanity, sailing through aboard Hohenzollern with warships, orchestra and guests.
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Canal, tea and a little panic: my first Kiel lock transit
Europe’s maritime artery Kiel is known for regattas, its university and an engineering marvel: the canal between Baltic and North Sea. Built in 1895 on Kaiser Wilhelm II’s orders, the 98km Kiel Canal remains among the world’s busiest, saving ships the storms, time and fuel of rounding Jutland. Millions in revenue, hundreds of thousands of jobs.
At its completion, the Kaiser staged a parade of vanity, sailing through aboard Hohenzollern with warships, orchestra and guests. Naturally: music, flags and chants.
Rumour has it he personally decreed: ‘Every German must be able to cross this canal free, even by swimming!’ Ferries were the practical answer. Dozens still carry people, bicycles and even cows without charging a cent.
Sometimes it seems the Emperor’s last generous decision, surviving him, two wars, the Reichstag and Deutsche Bahn. My first lock A seventeen-day North Sea trip planned for August. I’d never used a lock and barely knew how it worked. What did it look like? How long? What should I do? Better try one first.
I did my homework: • Online, you can buy a pass: €7 for one lock, €12 for both. You receive a code an inspector may request. • There are also leaflets in German and English. • One detailed first-hand account particularly helped: How to transit Kiel Canal on a pleasure craft?
I first planned to go alone, then remembered a piece of sailing wisdom: the hero is the one who knows when to call Grigory. He agreed immediately. Through the lock Saturday, 5 July 2025, ten o’clock. Lifejacket on, VHF channel 12, cast off. Gusts to 35 knots and heavy rain forecast, adding spice. We drifted at the entrance, watching the lights:
🔴 Red: closed, boats entering from the other side.
🔴⚪️ White added: prepare. Yachts and motorboats start coming out.
🟢 Both go out, green comes on. Large ships’ turn. Four giants appear from nowhere and fill the lock. We watch it turn red again.
⚪️ Still drifting. Over an hour, the cycle repeats: red, red-and-white, green. A radio announcement. Three useful words emerge from the German: Sportboote — pleasure craft — Süd — south lock — and Steuerbord — starboard. A single white light. Our turn!
Fifteen to twenty minutes to enter, staff waiting patiently. Room for a couple of dozen boats; walls keep the wind out. Alongside the northern pontoon, wooden platforms with rings. Lower fenders into the water, or the topsides will soon complain with creaks and knocks.
Gates closed, about ten minutes waiting. Sometimes an inspector checks payment. Water drops twenty or thirty centimetres, barely noticeable unless you watch the wall. Then a bell: exit permitted. Tea break At the pier by the terminal, tea and biscuits. We discussed everything, lights to pontoons. Goodbyes, then I continued alone.
The locks weren’t so intimidating. Understand the signals, listen to the radio, take your time. Call Grigory if necessary. Useful experience, and unexpectedly enjoyable.
Grigory, Sergei and I seem to have a new tradition. On 28 June, aboard Meerbär again, our second Windjammer Parade at Kieler Woche, Germany’s major maritime festival. It began in 1882 as a regatta for imperial yachts. Now sailing week, street festival, international show and naval open day combined. Dozens of countries, hundreds of boats, drones, fleets and festivities: Kiel becomes a maritime capital for June’s festival week.
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Grigory, Sergei and I seem to have a new tradition. On 28 June, aboard Meerbär again, our second Windjammer Parade at Kieler Woche, Germany’s major maritime festival.
It began in 1882 as a regatta for imperial yachts. Now sailing week, street festival, international show and naval open day combined. Dozens of countries, hundreds of boats, drones, fleets and festivities: Kiel becomes a maritime capital for June’s festival week.
The Windjammer Parade is on Saturday near the festival’s end. Tall ships and private boats like ours. No entry fee: join in, keep clear and don’t obstruct. Listen to the radio; easy to find yourself in a frigate’s shadow.
We left around eleven. Wind 24–28 knots. Meerbär @morskoymedved sailed confidently, up to six knots. Towards the red lighthouse at the fjord entrance. A metre of wave was enough to feel the hull working, handrails becoming extensions of your hands. No time for snacks.
Deceptive sun: bright, without warmth, then evening reveals skin the colour of sunset. Sunscreen, glasses, cap, jacket essential. What feels excessive ashore saves you afloat.
No boat? Buy a tall-ship ticket, or watch ashore from Laboe or Friedrichsort. Maritime theatre: sailing ships almost abreast, swaying and turning, like rehearsing an Arctic expedition’s departure.
By the lighthouse, Grigory had the right story, as always.
‘Built in the sixties. Pilots stationed here, meeting ships. The 2023 storm damaged the foundation. Now they work from shore.’ ‘So?’ ‘Five minutes to reach a ship becomes half an hour. Can’t repair it: no specialists. Germany can’t build things like this any more.’
Returning through Friedrichsort’s narrow stretch, an unexpected triangle: a racing yacht one side, historic excursion ship Lisa von Lübeck the other, metres between us. Grigory dropped the sails to let both pass. Someone on Lisa screamed at us in German. The words escaped me, but the message was clear. Apparently, his interpretation of COLREGs was poetic: rather free.
Berthed by three, about twenty-five miles behind us. A little wet, salty fingers, lightly burnt out, but happy. Like last year. Perhaps next year too. Plenty to discuss for the rest of the evening.
Almost as soon as I bought the boat, I wanted a lazy bag, to end the daily dance with the sail cover. Alexei, who helped inspect her, said: ‘Perhaps the one thing really worth investing in.’ A lazy bag is a cover fixed beneath the sail. Lower the main, zip it up: neatly stowed and protected. Otherwise, a separate cover to wrestle on each time. This way, one movement and tidy. A ready-made one for my boat from Resen Sails costs almost €350 delivered.
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Almost as soon as I bought the boat, I wanted a lazy bag, to end the daily dance with the sail cover. Alexei, who helped inspect her, said: ‘Perhaps the one thing really worth investing in.’
A lazy bag is a cover fixed beneath the sail. Lower the main, zip it up: neatly stowed and protected. Otherwise, a separate cover to wrestle on each time. This way, one movement and tidy.
A ready-made one for my boat from Resen Sails costs almost €350 delivered. I took a chance on making it. Six times cheaper and fitting as though tailor-made.
Materials: discoveries and doubts • Fabric. Strong, treated and UV-resistant. By chance, on temu.com I found a ready-made Oxford 420D cover for €24, sized 275–305cm. Perfect. That find set the project’s direction. • Zip. Amazon, 290cm, two sliders, €17. Not cheapest, but I was itching to start rather than wait for China. • Strip for the boom groove. My main’s foot slides into the boom groove; would fabric fit beside it? Thin waterproof ripstop, 100 × 150cm, €8, became the bridge between fabric and metal. • Assembly. Double-sided fibreglass mesh tape, €2, kept everything aligned. A great help with hems. • Needles and thread: leather needles, €4, and a hundred metres of 1mm waxed polyester thread, €5. Just right.
Total: €60. AliExpress would have been cheaper. But the excitement mattered more: would it work?
Three days and fifty metres of thread All by hand. Cut the old cover, assembled the sides, taped them. Zip taped on first, carefully aligned, then sewed on the ripstop strip for the groove.
Hand-stitched out and back through the same holes. Slow, but strong. No machine: hands, needle, patience. Three days overall, working for pleasure without pressure.
Testing afloat Fitted it at the weekend. Getting fabric and sail into the groove together took about ten minutes. Lazyjacks already installed; everything fitted naturally.
Sail drops in easily, zip runs smoothly, fabric stays waterproof. A sail with a colleague: nothing failed. Neighbours gave it a thumbs-up.
Conclusion Making your own lazy bag is entirely possible: save a little, build skills and enjoy the making. Every use reminds me how much aboard can be made with your own hands.
One windy day in Rønne the boat was pinned hard against the quay. Fenders working overtime. The final straw for a fifty-year-old stanchion: the middle one, holding both main fenders. I first thought of replacing it, but a new one would stand out. Closer inspection: it had been welded to the bulwark on two pins. Pins intact; stanchion broken away. Finding a plan I didn’t know what to do. For the first time, I asked ChatGPT, describing the problem with photos.
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One windy day in Rønne the boat was pinned hard against the quay. Fenders working overtime. The final straw for a fifty-year-old stanchion: the middle one, holding both main fenders.
I first thought of replacing it, but a new one would stand out. Closer inspection: it had been welded to the bulwark on two pins. Pins intact; stanchion broken away.
Finding a plan I didn’t know what to do. For the first time, I asked ChatGPT, describing the problem with photos. Sceptical, honestly, but surprised: • several repair options, • chose one and asked for specifics, • then a list of tools and materials, • photographed purchases in the shop to check my choices, • asked questions during the repair and got useful tips. The conversation, if you’re interested: ChatGPT.
The plan 1. Clean up. Sanded the broken mounting and stanchion with paper left from winter jobs. 2. Level. If necessary, level the break with an angle grinder or Dremel. 3. Drill the pin. Start with 2mm, then 4.2mm. HSS-E or HSS-Co bits suit stainless steel, INOX. Drill slowly at low revs, adding WD-40 every few seconds. ⚠️ Clear swarf with compressed air or WD-40. My bit jammed and broke. I had to drill beside it and prise the fragment out. 4. Tap the thread. Used an M5 tap in the 4.2mm hole. A tap wrench is essential; fingers won’t do it. 5. Restore the gelcoat. Repair any damage to prevent cracks and osmosis. 6. Seal. Tikalflex Contact 12 on the mounting and bolts. Sikaflex 291 or 591 would also suit. 7. Fit. Secured with an M5 × 20mm marine stainless-steel A4 bolt.
Tools and materials • Sandpaper, any grit from eighty to 240 • Angle grinder or Dremel, if needed • HSS-Co 2mm pilot drill — €3 • HSS-Co 4.2mm drill for M5 tap — €4 • Tap wrench — €8 • M5 tap — €5 • Two M5 × 20mm A4 bolts — €1 • Two M5 A4 washers — €0.50 • Two A4 screws for the side mounting — €1 • WD-40 — already had it • Gelcoat — already had it • Tikalflex Contact 12 — already had it • Drill — already had it • Wet wipes — already had them 💰 Total: €22.50
Conclusion A few hours and a couple of dozen euros restored the stanchion neatly and firmly, with no visible intervention. I was pleased with the repair and surprised by ChatGPT’s competent, precise help. In my experience, it can match a human craftsperson on jobs like this, sometimes faster and more accurately. Clear questions make it a useful assistant for many people and situations.
No meetings, no routes dictated by others, no ‘five more minutes’ at the berth. Just you, the boat and the horizon. What happens next is your responsibility, under your sail. Nobody tells you what to do. You decide when to leave, where to go, how much to sleep, what to do when something breaks or AIS screams about crossing courses.
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Alone at sea No meetings, no routes dictated by others, no ‘five more minutes’ at the berth. Just you, the boat and the horizon. What happens next is your responsibility, under your sail. Nobody tells you what to do. You decide when to leave, where to go, how much to sleep, what to do when something breaks or AIS screams about crossing courses.
From Lübeck, a circuit of the western Baltic: wild, lively Barhöft by Rügen; across to distinctive Rønne on Bornholm; round the island to Christiansø’s austere beauty; twenty-four hours to deserted Gedser; the resort of Heiligenhafen by Fehmarn; then home to Kiel.
Sailed offshore, slept under stars, crossed shipping schemes, dozed to a timer, woke to gulls. Porpoises, empty marinas at dawn, tacking along a military boundary as they called my boat on the radio. A grounding and rescue call. Torn-out stanchion, lost fender, damaged navigation-light bracket. Seasickness, breathless exhaustion, an unresponsive autopilot. Then Laboe’s memorial emerged from fog, and I knew I was home.
The important changes happened inside, beyond points on a route. Trusting myself, the boat, the wind. Letting go of control. Keeping calm when everything moves. Sleeping fifteen minutes with nobody to back you up. Accepting fear and still going to sea.
My lessons 1. Interval sleep is serious. An autopilot can fail; another vessel can appear from nowhere. Thirty minutes is a luxury. Better fifteen to twenty, with a timer. 2. Plan sleep before departure. Fatigue arrives suddenly. Try to avoid narrow passages or tacking at night. 3. You don’t have to sleep in the cockpit. Cold and uncomfortable. Better below for fifteen minutes, then back on watch. 4. Mooring lines and fenders ready beforehand. Lead bow lines to the cockpit. Two fenders each side suffice. Position them so you can lower them with a boat hook from the cockpit; hang the others after berthing. 5. If in doubt, don’t go alone. Bring a crewmate. Share four- to six-hour watches for food, rest and, most importantly, shared experience.
A journey within as well as a physical one. Listening to myself, trusting instinct, deciding, letting go. These nine days are a chapter I’ll revisit in memory and at sea.
29 April 2024. Thick morning fog, visibility about five hundred metres. Fresh roll and coffee from Junge bakery, then the forecast. Shipping Forecast, 29.04.2025, 10.51 UTC No warnings Western Baltic: westerly winds 3 to 4, western part for a time light and variable winds, at times misty with fog patches, sea 0,5 meter. Windy showed up to eleven knots before noon, then five. The fog stayed. I might wait all day, so decided to leave. Navigating in fog Out at nine.
, 29.04.2025, 10.51 UTC No warnings Western Baltic: westerly winds 3 to 4, western part for a time light and variable winds, at times misty with fog patches, sea 0,5 meter.
Windy showed up to eleven knots before noon, then five. The fog stayed. I might wait all day, so decided to leave.
Navigating in fog Out at nine. Anxious: visibility left little time to manoeuvre if something appeared. However long I travelled, the view never changed. AIS alone was my eyes.
I’d planned to motor, but seventeen knots and waves met me outside. Sails up instead. A couple of hours later, clear of the island. Ahead lay the Todendorf military exercise area between Fehmarn and Kiel Bay. A patrol vessel on AIS. Exercises underway.
Wind ahead, so tacking west, north, west again. Approaching the exercise boundary, the radio said: "Rassvet .... sechs". I tensed. Not sure it was me, but sat by the radio. Minutes later, the voice repeated: ‘Rassvet, Rassvet, [German phrase], null null sechs’, and my heart accelerated. I understood: steer zero-zero-six degrees, north away from the area. Turned immediately.
Returning Fog still over the water. Yacht silhouettes appeared in the milky haze, without AIS. I can’t understand going out like this without something to make yourself visible.
After one, fog began lifting and wind died. Sails furled, engine on. Slowly, clear sky and bright sunshine.
Around five, Laboe’s naval memorial appeared on the horizon. A warm, almost home-like feeling. These two weeks felt an eternity: events, emotions, decisions, solitude, beauty. Now familiar land. I was back.
By seven, berthed in my new Dietrichsdorf spot. Packed and went home. A wonderful voyage I’ll remember all my life.
Covered forty-seven miles in nine and a half hours.
28 April 2024. Up at five. Windy promised eleven to seventeen knots westerly. I needed south-west, close-hauled. Fehmarn seemed possible. Savvy Navvy suggested wind farms and a shoal for some reason; I chose a direct route without that risk. Shipping Forecast, 28.04.2025, 10.36 UTC No warnings Western Baltic: light and variable winds, shifting west to northwest 3 to 4, for a time locally misty, sea 0,5 meter. The passage Sunny, quiet morning.
Planning 28 April 2024. Up at five. Windy promised eleven to seventeen knots westerly. I needed south-west, close-hauled. Fehmarn seemed possible. Savvy Navvy suggested wind farms and a shoal for some reason; I chose a direct route without that risk.
, 28.04.2025, 10.36 UTC No warnings Western Baltic: light and variable winds, shifting west to northwest 3 to 4, for a time locally misty, sea 0,5 meter.
The passage Sunny, quiet morning. Full sail, boat pressing into the wind, warmth on my face. Close-hauled, taking everything the breeze offered.
A little nervous crossing the TSS, but uneventful. Peaceful sea. Then a familiar ‘pffft’, as though someone exhaled beside me. I turned and couldn’t believe it.
Six porpoises, quick finned shadows, surfaced, leapt and slid along the hull. I went forward: some jumped straight before the stem. Joy flared inside. They stayed over an hour, as though sending me off with fresh energy for the final stretch.
Level with the island, the wind headed me completely. Sails down, engine on. Minutes later, the autopilot died: no signal, no response. Back to the tiller, with hours still ahead. I was mentally pricing a replacement when, ten minutes later, it came back to life. Never found out why.
Near the bridge from the mainland to Fehmarn, I watched an enormous crane slowly being lowered into the water from a barge. A feeling of returning: familiar shores again.
Heiligenhafen The largest marina I’d ever seen: a thousand berths. I moored between piles at a green vacancy sign. A QR code at the pier end: €20 a night. Paid showers, familiar by now.
Lovely to be back in Germany. Familiar architecture, ways of life, language. An unexpectedly cosy historic resort town, with beach, cafés and restaurants. A leisurely waterfront walk, the centre, a burger at a local bar. Everything invited rest. An unexpected, excellent stop. Heartily recommended.
27 April 2024. Awake at five. Washed, breakfast, weather check, route adjustments. Shipping Forecast, 27.04.2025, 09.26 UTC No warnings Southern Baltic: southeasterly winds about 3, shifting southwest, increasing 4 to 5, sea northeastern part later 1,5 meter. Weather allowed sailing. No going far north: a commercial TSS. Wind farms to the south. A strict course, whatever the wind direction. The only day of easterlies; make the most of it. Destination: Gedser.
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Planning 27 April 2024. Awake at five. Washed, breakfast, weather check, route adjustments.
27.04.2025, 09.26 UTC No warnings Southern Baltic: southeasterly winds about 3, shifting southwest, increasing 4 to 5, sea northeastern part later 1,5 meter.
Weather allowed sailing. No going far north: a commercial TSS. Wind farms to the south. A strict course, whatever the wind direction. The only day of easterlies; make the most of it. Destination: Gedser.
A rough start Left Christiansø at 6.30. Southerly wind. Fine to Bornholm’s northern tip, then south-westerly as soon as I rounded. Apparently bent round the island. Main and genoa flapped. Sails away, engine on. Four to five knots. By my calculations, sailing again in four hours.
But the wind increased to seventeen knots, waves to 1.5m, speed down to two or three. Waves hit the bow, rolling and stopping us. Seasickness began. Deep breaths, eyes on the horizon, then below for tablets. All I could do was hold on. So I did.
When the wind moved farther south, sails up again. Five to six knots. The yacht cut through waves more easily, heeled steadily. I felt better.
Night watch Dark after nine. Interval sleep. Anna’s stories had shown me I needn’t sleep in the cockpit. Wallas heater on, bed in the saloon, timer set. I judged the middle of the Baltic alongside a TSS reasonably safe. Every thirty minutes: up, check horizon, course, AIS, back down.
Until one in the morning. Another check. Straight ahead, less than a kilometre away, a cargo ship crossing with her port side towards me. An icy wave through my body. We were clearing each other, but I should have seen her sooner. Back to twenty-minute intervals. Harder to sleep.
Crossing the TSS At three, I reached the separation scheme. About twenty ships on AIS, perhaps more outside reception range. Nine to fifteen knots. Four miles across. I held the eastern edge and waited for a gap.
A gap appeared; I crossed. Half an hour later, in the middle, AIS showed encounters with five ships. Quickly furled, engine on, revs down. Let everyone pass, then sails up again.
Gedser At seven, Gedser. Empty marina. Berthing between piles was welcome: they keep the boat clear of pier and neighbours. Previous alongside stops had cost a stanchion, a fender and black tyre marks on the hull.
245 DKK a night, showers extra. Twenty-four litres of diesel at 15.75 DKK. An unpleasant €300 card deposit took four days to return. A walk and provisions. Gedser seemed deserted: empty streets and silence. Sat in the park with cold coffee, then back to the marina.
26 April 2024. Leaving Rønne with a heavy heart. I wanted to stay and uncover more of its mysteries. Originally, round Bornholm’s south, returning via the north. Anna and Yulia persuaded me otherwise: along the rocky north, with lighthouse, cliffs and Hammershus, one of Scandinavia’s oldest surviving castles. High pressure forecast between the islands. Hardly any wind. Motoring again.
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Rønne–Christiansø passage 26 April 2024. Leaving Rønne with a heavy heart. I wanted to stay and uncover more of its mysteries. Originally, round Bornholm’s south, returning via the north. Anna and Yulia persuaded me otherwise: along the rocky north, with lighthouse, cliffs and Hammershus, one of Scandinavia’s oldest surviving castles.
High pressure forecast between the islands. Hardly any wind. Motoring again.
, 26.04.2025, 15.26 UTC No warnings Southern Baltic: variable winds about 3, at times fog patches, sea 0.5 meter.
A quiet passage. No regrets about the northern route: calm sea, clear sky, scenery from an old book. Covered 28 miles in six hours, using six litres of diesel.
Practicalities Christiansø consists of two islands linked by a 150-year-old suspension bridge. Harbour entry from the south only. Room for four or five boats along the east side. One power point near the bridge: arrive later, bring a long cable.
Pay by QR code. Boats under ten metres: 220 DKK a night. Free toilets, coin-operated showers. Berthed around two and went exploring.
The island Christiansø was a fairy tale. Breathless with feeling. Stone fortifications, old tiled houses with black attics, ducks and gulls nesting right beside the paths, greenery, rocks and sea. Like scenes from Alba where a girl photographs island wildlife.
I sat on a bench on the eastern shore. Surf breaking on rocks, gull calls carried on the wind. I wanted to keep that moment forever. Out came the postcards; I began finding their views. A quiet, personal adventure.
Shops open for only a couple of hours, roughly eleven to one. No lighthouse climb: restoration until mid-June. But the restaurant opened at 5.30 for precisely one hour. Simple menu: boiled potatoes with hollandaise, beetroot cubes and crisp pork belly. Vivid, rich, beautifully balanced flavours.
Next steps The farthest point of my route. I wanted at least another couple of days. But a prolonged storm, gusting fifty knots, was due in four days. Getting back to Kiel would be hard, about two hundred miles. Tomorrow promised sailing wind; after that, headwinds again. Morning departure, then.
One last island walk. The eiders’ strange gulping calls made me smile. A yellow rubber duck tied to the pier. A fiery sunset turning the village gold.
24–25 April 2024. Around two in the morning, I berthed at a finger pontoon and connected power. Straight off to inspect the facilities. Spotted a diesel tank and self-service terminal; later returned with cans. €80 deposit, 16.29 DKK per litre. Deposit back almost immediately. Marina payment at a machine too. All the island’s harbours share a network: pay for one and choose others ahead. More than five days in total earns free nights. Two days cost 532 kroner.
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Practicalities 24–25 April 2024. Around two in the morning, I berthed at a finger pontoon and connected power. Straight off to inspect the facilities. Spotted a diesel tank and self-service terminal; later returned with cans. €80 deposit, 16.29 DKK per litre. Deposit back almost immediately.
Marina payment at a machine too. All the island’s harbours share a network: pay for one and choose others ahead. More than five days in total earns free nights. Two days cost 532 kroner. A sticker gave shower and toilet codes. Unlimited showers, particularly welcome.
After a shower, straight to sleep.
The beach Before the holiday, my friend Denis suggested contacting a sailing family who’d lived here for years. He gave me Anna’s details. We messaged, and she recommended places in Rønne.
I began northwards, through a park to a broad, deserted beach. Cloudy and windy. Shoes off, jeans rolled, bare feet on cool sand. Without sun, time lost its meaning. Just walking silently, lost in thought. Perfect for being alone with yourself. I took a stone with rusty-orange staining.
The museum I love museums, so couldn’t miss the town’s. Three floors surprised me: Viking artefacts, the story of local troll Krølle Bølle, a mischievous fairy-tale boy. A room on Soviet occupation of the island. Even handwriting exercise books suspiciously like my school ones. Worth visiting.
The town Rønne is Bornholm’s largest town, but walkable in a couple of hours. Neat houses, tiled roofs, cobbles. I wanted coffee and a croissant. The barista’s coffee smelled so good I asked the variety: BAYA 100% Arabica, with chocolate notes. Remember that.
Plenty of cafés and restaurants on the main street. A recommended stop at Aroy Dee Thai Takeaway: quick and tasty.
Wandered, photographed myself by two lighthouses near the commercial port. A shopping centre near the marina is handy for food and clothes. I tried to buy local products. Buses run only four to six times a day; watch the timetable unless you fancy sleeping at a stop.
Back aboard, I found the middle stanchion torn out. Apparently, the fenders had rubbed the quay too enthusiastically.
Visitors Anna came with her friend Yulia that evening. Long conversations about sailing, living abroad and favourite island spots. They gave me postcards of Christiansø, where Anna had lived for years. Each was a little quest: find this and see it yourself. Warm and heartfelt. I wanted at least a week here. Two days are far too few.
23 April 2024. Breakfast: four eggs, cured ham, vegetables, two rolls and coffee, €10 at the marina café. Phone out, passage planning. North-east towards Rønne. The only fallback would be anchoring off Rügen. Several wind farms en route; I chose to pass north of them, safer that way. Shipping Forecast, 23.04.2025, 10:11 UTC No warnings Southern Baltic: light and variable winds, later northeast 4–5, at times misty with fog patches, sea later 1 meter.
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Planning 23 April 2024. Breakfast: four eggs, cured ham, vegetables, two rolls and coffee, €10 at the marina café. Phone out, passage planning.
North-east towards Rønne. The only fallback would be anchoring off Rügen. Several wind farms en route; I chose to pass north of them, safer that way.
, 23.04.2025, 10:11 UTC No warnings Southern Baltic: light and variable winds, later northeast 4–5, at times misty with fog patches, sea later 1 meter.
Windy showed five to eight knots abeam early, then calm beneath a high. Around 75 miles to Rønne. To do it in under twenty hours, the engine would need to run almost throughout.
Departure After grounding, extra care: centre of the fairway throughout. GPS speed reached six knots, a current unusual for the Baltic. Only my second such experience after Fehmarn.
Soon, a grey fog wall. Nowhere to retreat; I entered, and it closed round me. Wind completely gone. Without a little swell from far away, the sea would have been a mirror. Three such patches, two hours in each.
Around halfway, the current turned against me. GPS speed fell to four knots; the log still read 4.9. Setting sail compensated a little.
The drone In one foggy calm, I launched my old DJI Mini SE for a few shots of set sails on endless water. All fine until it suddenly stopped moving. Camera and rotation worked; the drone itself stayed still. The yacht went ahead, leaving it behind. Phone signal weakening, battery draining. Fifteen minutes’ flying time left. Panic.
Eased sails, engine on, turned back. Used the camera image to find it. A careful approach, avoiding mast and backstay. Reverse, closer, grabbed its body.
It thrashed in my hand, trying to escape. One hand held it while the other pushed the sticks down. The blades caught my fingers twice, spraying blood round the cockpit. Plasters, alcohol, drone off and folded away. Shots secured, hands shaking.
The passage The wind turbines looked extraordinary in fog, impossibly tall, almost alien. Sunset enjoyed, seven layers on, interval sleep. Rønne was still hours into the night; I needed rest.
Awake at midnight. Container ships on AIS. Two green lights showed the marina entrance. Total darkness, rocks nearby, a winding, unfriendly approach. Made it through. No alternatives anyway.
The result Covered 76 miles in sixteen hours, using fifteen litres of diesel.
22 April 2024. First, alongside at the diesel berth: refuel, sort out payment for the ‘rescue’, and find a berth for the night. Almost empty, any berth available. Two arrangements: alongside finger pontoons or bow-to with the stern on a buoy. After my epic circling round buoys a couple of years ago, an obvious choice. A Search and Rescue boat lay alongside.
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Practicalities 22 April 2024. First, alongside at the diesel berth: refuel, sort out payment for the ‘rescue’, and find a berth for the night.
Almost empty, any berth available. Two arrangements: alongside finger pontoons or bow-to with the stern on a buoy. After my epic circling round buoys a couple of years ago, an obvious choice.
A Search and Rescue boat lay alongside. I went aboard, found the crew and asked the price of their help. €200 an hour; good news, they’d spent less than half an hour on me. Papers would go to the Bremen office, with an invoice by post.
Then the harbourmaster, a young man with no English. My broken German, gestures and familiar English words sufficed. He switched on the fuel pump and waited while I filled tank and cans. Diesel €2.20 a litre, no biofuel. I still added 25ml of Liqui Moly Marine Diesel Protection as a precaution.
Berthing: €15.50 for under nine metres, plus €4 per person. Another €20 deposit for the facilities card. Surprisingly, free unlimited showers. Rare in Germany.
Fish On the way back, a fishing boat berthed and unloaded baskets of fresh fish and ice. Had I waited aground for them, might the tow have been cheaper? I thought of buying fish for soup, but exhaustion won. Bed.
Woke a couple of hours later to a delicious smell on the pier: the fishermen were smoking their remaining catch. An enormous garfish — or needlefish — cost only €4. Too much for one person, yet they added three pieces of another fish free. I sat by the water. Bony, tangy fish, with green bones: never seen that, especially at this price.
Around the village After lunch, exploring east: a beach and a ‘Caution: wild area’ sign. Little to do.
Cosy village: a dozen houses, restaurant, café, a couple of hotels and a campsite. Like a Soviet holiday camp.
West was better. A well-kept path, flowering wild plums on both sides, sweet-smelling air. A strange buzzing everywhere, as though from the ground. Past a viewing deck over a lake, a closed museum and a €1 tower. From the tower, I understood: dense swarms of midges over every tree and bush, black tongues of flame dancing in the air. Frighteningly beautiful.
The field A fork by a field. One sign back to the marina, another towards a ‘sight’. I continued. Bushes, then clouds of mosquitoes at head height. Doubts, then I crouched and ran. Midges in hair, eyes and collar.
At the end: a second viewing deck over the lake and three more black clouds. That was it. Dead end. A field probably full of ticks, midges behind, nowhere ahead. Trapped.
Back at the marina, a shower, then evening on the beach, watching a rainbow over the sea.
21 April 2024. After two and a half months without a day off — coding by day, painting at weekends — I finally exhaled. Three days sleeping aboard brought me round. Lübeck behind me, north-east towards Christiansø and Bornholm. For the first leg, I hoped to reach at least Rügen. Ports of refuge • First outing of the season: anything could happen. Nearby shelter in Lübeck Bay: Travemünde, seven miles, and Grömitz twenty miles.
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21 April 2024. After two and a half months without a day off — coding by day, painting at weekends — I finally exhaled. Three days sleeping aboard brought me round. Lübeck behind me, north-east towards Christiansø and Bornholm. For the first leg, I hoped to reach at least Rügen.
Ports of refuge • First outing of the season: anything could happen. Nearby shelter in Lübeck Bay: Travemünde, seven miles, and Grömitz twenty miles. • Wismar Bay — twenty-five miles, six to nine hours, with several suitable marinas. • Then Kühlungsborn, 35 miles, and Warnemünde, 45. In theory, Gedser was possible at 55 miles, but required crossing a traffic separation scheme, TSS. • Then a long stretch without shelter: only Prerow at mile seventy. • Final destination: Barhöft, 98 miles. At an average 4.5 knots, twenty to twenty-two hours.
Weather The red Windy forecast three to eleven knots of headwind.
, 21.04.2025, 09:36 UTC No warnings Western Baltic: light and variable winds, at times misty with fog patches, later locally thunderstorms, sea below 0.5 meter.
Motoring, then: to maintain the planned speed under sail, I’d need at least fifteen knots abeam or aft.
The passage Quiet going. Followed my Navionics route; tried Savvy Navvy but didn’t take to it. Swans by the shore, gulls offshore. Near Wismar, porpoises escorted me for a couple of minutes — like small dolphins. A good sign. Reading, tea, simply being there.
I used to add a little alcohol to the stove for each boil. Now half a bottle: less fuss. Convenient.
Cold after sunset. Seven layers, warmers, sleeping bag in the cockpit. Bearable, but getting out of that cocoon was a challenge. Does proper thermal underwear for this exist?
After ten, I began dozing: an alarm every twenty minutes to check course and surroundings, sometimes more often. You never know whether the autopilot will fail or another boat will approach with its skipper asleep too. Saw a shooting star.
Light from four. Fog and drizzle in patches, condensation everywhere. A fantastic dawn, though.
Reached Rügen at seven: a protected island with narrow fairways and surrounding shoals. Hard to concentrate, with birds and scenery everywhere. I wanted to stay the whole holiday.
Aground Near the marina, I felt uneasy: fenders still not down. I stopped two hundred metres out and went forward to prepare. The wind carried us outside the fairway. I’d just turned towards the nearest buoy when the stern jumped and the boat stopped. Aground.
Reverse: nothing. Rocking, setting sail: nothing. Firmly stuck. I called the harbourmaster. He’d already seen me and called the rescue service.
A small launch came off a larger rescue boat, two people aboard. Politely but firmly, they asked me to fill in a form first. Then gave me a line to secure at the bow. A couple of minutes later, back in the fairway.
Total Covered 98 miles in twenty-two hours, using 23 litres of diesel.
Boat afloat, season open. Except without mast and sails, she’s a floating cottage. The fun begins with stepping the mast and trying not to have a heart attack when a twenty-knot gust hits as you hoist the sails. The mast Back to the DavidWerft GmbH team for our second mast-stepping operation together. Straightforward: 1. Untangle the rigging and check nothing crosses. 2. One person lifts the mast with the crane, slings beneath the spreaders. 3.
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Boat afloat, season open. Except without mast and sails, she’s a floating cottage. The fun begins with stepping the mast and trying not to have a heart attack when a twenty-knot gust hits as you hoist the sails.
The mast
Back to the DavidWerft GmbH team for our second mast-stepping operation together. Straightforward: 1. Untangle the rigging and check nothing crosses. 2. One person lifts the mast with the crane, slings beneath the spreaders. 3. Another holds the heel, guides it to the yacht and into its step. 4. With the heel secured, attach shrouds and stays, the wires holding it upright.
The key is even, tight tension, with the mast aligned in every direction. Fine adjustments to tension do the aligning.
I connected navigation lights, antenna and electronic wind sensor. Everything worked first time.
During lifting, the crane arm caught the wind vane and turned its indicators. The yard team seemed delighted, went up on the crane and adjusted it. Said they enjoyed it. Amusing, though they didn’t deduct the little ride from the invoice. That evening: €185 for an hour with two employees.
The sails
With the mast up, onto the sails. Last year, I’d found a good setup, even devised a rule for steady speed in different winds. This year, I bought telltales: fine threads attached to the sails, showing how effectively they work. Set correctly, they indicate smooth, laminar flow and maximum drive. I stuck them on beforehand, sail spread on the ground.
The mainsail goes on the mast. Best hoisted with wind ahead or abeam. I fitted it at the mast crane, as the wind was straight ahead. 1. Fit the boom, lazyjacks, kicker, topping lift and mainsheet. 2. Attach the sail’s foot to the boom, connect the halyard and hoist. 3. Close the stop to retain the mast slides, then stow the sail carefully. 4. Insert battens, fit telltales and lead reefing lines.
The genoa, the forward sail, is simpler: 1. Prepare the furling line. 2. Attach all three corners and hoist, ideally in under ten knots or flat calm. 3. Furl it and move on. Unfortunately, the following wind was too strong, about twenty knots. It pulled the sail so hard my heart tightened at the thought of tearing it. A passing father and son helped: the son held the genoa against the stay while I hoisted. His dad enjoyed a chance to practise English with me. Together, we managed.
Finishing touches
With sails fitted, the main work was done. Small jobs left: • Clean and fill the water tank • Grease the stern-tube seal • Check electronics and heating • Check the VHF and AIS • Buy water and dry provisions, bring warm clothing and bedding, and stow everything
Now truly ready. The boat was back in service. A week later, I cast off and headed north-east, on a trip I won’t forget. More soon.
My yacht’s launch was booked for 4 April 2024. A special, nervous moment needing careful preparation: even a small detail can wreck the plan. Preparation I arrived in the morning. After painting the hull, one important task remained: the boat’s name and home port. I’d ordered a 40cm-wide vinyl RASSVET and a little 17cm-wide italic of Kiel. Like fitting a phone screen protector, straightforward. Lined it up by eye; it seemed straight. Next, the mooring lines.
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My yacht’s launch was booked for 4 April 2024. A special, nervous moment needing careful preparation: even a small detail can wreck the plan.
Preparation
I arrived in the morning. After painting the hull, one important task remained: the boat’s name and home port. I’d ordered a 40cm-wide vinyl RASSVET and a little 17cm-wide italic of Kiel . Like fitting a phone screen protector, straightforward. Lined it up by eye; it seemed straight.
Next, the mooring lines. Two long lines secured to cleats and dropped down the starboard side, to stop the yacht spinning in the wind on the crane. Three tonnes spinning like a top is impressive, but undesirable.
I suddenly remembered to test the engine. Odd that it only occurred now, not weeks ago. I started it for seconds: without water, the cooling system can’t circulate. Then remembered the fuel tank had been shut after filter servicing. Opened the valve in time. Good to remember before launch.
Next, inflatable fenders along the sides to protect the hull against the pier.
Finally, marine grease on the log sensor. Last season, it worked for a couple of months, then stubbornly read no more than 0.6 knots. At autumn’s lift-out a whole fistful of barnacles covered it. Hopefully, grease will help it last this season.
The launch
I’d just finished when the harbourmaster called: ten minutes until my turn. He came with the tractor, lifted the cradle and took the yacht to the crane.
While they secured her, I had a chance to touch up the inaccessible patches: beneath the keel and under the four cradle pads. They lifted her half a metre and held her there. Quick, careful work, paint flying everywhere. How I regretted not changing into work clothes.
Finally, gently afloat, with ten minutes to check for leaks. Below, I opened all the valves and felt the joints: dry. Back to the cockpit, signal all clear. Slings off, crane prepared for the next yacht.
Engine started, cooling water confirmed at the exhaust, I eased away towards my berth. A broad smile appeared of its own accord. Relief, happiness and… anticipation.
You expect messages like this when your channel has ten thousand subscribers and your Instagram is polished to perfection. Then, suddenly: ‘Andrei, could I advertise with you?’ It took me back to my first encounter with sailing. Katya wrote that she was putting a crew together and asked if I could mention it. Perhaps useful to someone? Her channel, @kapitanKate has diaries of her trips, so you can see for yourself.
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You expect messages like this when your channel has ten thousand subscribers and your Instagram is polished to perfection. Then, suddenly: ‘Andrei, could I advertise with you?’ It took me back to my first encounter with sailing.
Katya wrote that she was putting a crew together and asked if I could mention it. Perhaps useful to someone? Her channel, @kapitanKate has diaries of her trips, so you can see for yourself.
The trip is to Turkey’s Fethiye area, from 31 May to 7 June. A real mecca for Russian-speaking sailors: easy travel, mild climate, warm water, beautiful bays, good food and evenings in the cockpit under the stars. I’ve sometimes thought of joining someone to explore it properly myself.
One cabin remains on a cosy 2023 Bavaria Cruiser 46. €700 per person or €1,300 for the whole cabin, plus around €200–250 for the shared kitty covering diesel, marinas and so on. Ask the skipper directly for details: @catherine_di_jones.
Perhaps this is the excuse to find out what sailing feels like? I’m simply glad someone is taking that step, even somewhere sunnier than the cold Baltic.
Over the last couple of years, working on the hull, watching neighbours, reading everything and listening to experienced owners, I’ve formed my own picture of what to do, why and in which order. Here it is, so I don’t forget — and perhaps it’ll help someone else.
Over the last couple of years, working on the hull, watching neighbours, reading everything and listening to experienced owners, I’ve formed my own picture of what to do, why and in which order. Here it is, so I don’t forget — and perhaps it’ll help someone else.
🧼 Antifouling Special paint that keeps marine organisms off the hull. The main types: • Ablative (Ablative). Wears away like chalk, taking growth with it. Cheapest, but wears quickly, in four to six months, and unevenly, especially at the bow and rudder. Even gentle rocking wears it, not just sailing. • Self-polishing (Self-Polishing Copolymer). Dissolves through hydrolysis as the boat moves through water. The most popular type for sailing yachts, but needs annual renewal and works poorly if the boat stays still for long periods. • Hard (Hard). Contains high levels of biocides released through intense contact with flowing water. For faster boats, from ten knots. Old layers are difficult to remove and may crack. • Silicone (Foul-Releasing). Creates a smooth surface from which growth slips off. Environmentally friendly but expensive, with exacting application and regular sailing needed to remain effective. • Copper-based (CopperCoat). Copper powder mixed with epoxy, applied once a decade and virtually maintenance-free. But very toxic, banned in some countries, expensive and requiring particularly careful application.
🧱 Primer Paint doesn’t adhere well directly to the hull. An intermediate layer is needed: either a compatible old coating — manufacturers usually publish compatibility tables — or primer, such as Hempel one-component Underwater Primer.
🧪 Epoxy barrier Neither antifouling nor one-component primer protects against osmosis. For that, apply several coats, usually four to six, of two-part epoxy primer. Even that can eventually crack, so stripping right back and starting again every eight to twelve years is recommended. Labour-intensive, but cheaper in the long run than repairing osmosis damage.
🛠 Hull repairs A fair surface helps reduce growth as well as improving speed. Once the epoxy is removed, inspect the bottom carefully, fill chips with epoxy filler, and remove and rebuild damaged laminate where necessary. Only then paint.
Perhaps in a couple of seasons, I’ll reread this and decide I had it all wrong. For now, it’s my way: slow, dusty and covered in epoxy from head to toe.
Perhaps the most important preparation for a new season is renewing the antifouling. It keeps marine life off the hull. A few shells or strands of weed hardly sound alarming, but they add weight and noticeably reduce speed. I’ve already described how hull and propeller fouling cut my yacht’s speed fivefold. First, thorough preparation. The old paint had hardened unevenly, with barnacle marks and a yellow-green colour like slime. Sanding removes it.
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Perhaps the most important preparation for a new season is renewing the antifouling. It keeps marine life off the hull. A few shells or strands of weed hardly sound alarming, but they add weight and noticeably reduce speed. I’ve already described how hull and propeller fouling cut my yacht’s speed fivefold.
First, thorough preparation. The old paint had hardened unevenly, with barnacle marks and a yellow-green colour like slime. Sanding removes it. Last year I spent four days with a cheap Bosch sander amid clouds of toxic dust, which worked into my skin and past goggles and respirator.
This year, I made life easier with a more powerful Makita BO5041 and Bosch UniversalVac 15. Success: all sanded in one day, practically no dust. I sanded back to a smooth grey layer, the primer applied last season.
The steps (Timings are for around 10°C. Check the instructions for other conditions.) 1. Mask transducers and sensors. 2. Sand with P80. Depending on the old coating and the tool — anything from hours to a couple of days. 3. Wash with Hempel Pre-Clean Cleaner. I mixed 50ml per litre of water, enough for about a third of the hull before the solution turned cloudy. 4. Optional, but recommended: prime damaged areas with epoxy primer. Once the cleaner and epoxy layer have dried completely, apply one-component primer. Focus on waterline edges, keel joint and projections that suffer most from sanding. Wait at least eight hours. 5. Apply two coats of self-polishing antifouling, no earlier than a month and no later than eight hours before launch, with eight hours between coats. 6. Remember to remove the tape.
A minimum job, without which the boat can foul within a month or six weeks. Remember: antifouling works in water. Ashore, it gradually loses its properties and is virtually useless after a month. Where boats winter ashore, the bottom is treated annually. Where they stay afloat all year, it’s done every two years, lifting out for a few days.
The result My second preparation for a season. Past mistakes accounted for, better tools, a much more efficient process. Apparently, everything under control. Yet despite experience and a clear plan, a little nervousness remained. Perhaps that reminds me the yacht is more than machinery: a living story that never repeats itself exactly.
A couple of years ago, I nearly lost the season: my propeller fouled so heavily it resembled a mace, moving the yacht at 1.5 knots instead of five. Only an urgent lift-out and clean saved the situation. I decided never to leave it unprotected again. Last year, I decided to try Hempel Silic One, and the season went perfectly. But at November’s lift-out I saw worn patches, with one blade completely bare.
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A couple of years ago, I nearly lost the season: my propeller fouled so heavily it resembled a mace, moving the yacht at 1.5 knots instead of five. Only an urgent lift-out and clean saved the situation. I decided never to leave it unprotected again.
Last year, I decided to try Hempel Silic One, and the season went perfectly. But at November’s lift-out I saw worn patches, with one blade completely bare. At Düsseldorf Boat Show, a Hempel representative explained that slight wear was normal; a bare blade wasn’t.
Repairing the damage Hempel Yacht’s brochures section has a detailed guide to repairing Silic One. Damaged areas need the whole application process repeated, with each new layer slightly overlapping the old.
Once the weather suited — at least 10°C, less than a month before launch — I followed the instructions for Hempel Silic One Propeller Kit: 1. Sanded the propeller with an 80-grit pad, removing oxidation and old coating. 2. Wiped with alcohol immediately afterwards. 3. Before the metal could oxidise, applied the first Hempel Light Primer epoxy coat, thinned no more than 20%, and left at least eight hours. 4. Applied the second Light Primer coat, thinned no more than 5%, overlapping sound areas slightly. Left four to six hours, no more than eight. Used excess primer for sealing the joint between keel and hull. 5. Applied Hempel Tiecoat, also overlapping. Left sixteen hours, no more than forty-eight. 6. Finished the whole propeller with Silic One. 7. A day later, covered it with a bag against hull-paint splashes.
Useful details • Two or three days overall, but under thirty minutes of actual work. Each coat must go on before the previous one cures fully. • Material use is tiny: one kit lasts several seasons. Mixing small quantities of two-part primer is the challenge. I use 5ml medical syringes and plastic cups: usually 5ml base and 2.5ml hardener are enough. • Out of water, Silic One dries and loses protection in about a month, so the propeller needs a fresh coat each season. This winter, though, Hempel introduced Hempel Infinity, which reactivates the old coat. Apply overnight, wash off in the morning. I plan to try it next season.
On a visit to the show in Düsseldorf, I could try different non-slip finishes. Epifanes sold polypropylene beads separately to mix with paint, or ready-mixed paint. I’d had a bad experience with something similar: during training at Moscow’s Sailing Academy years ago, a man-overboard exercise on that coating cut my palms and scratched my Apple Watch. Unpleasant. Ruled out immediately. Nearby was KiwiGrip. I went to feel their finish.
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On a visit to the show in Düsseldorf, I could try different non-slip finishes. Epifanes sold polypropylene beads separately to mix with paint, or ready-mixed paint. I’d had a bad experience with something similar: during training at Moscow’s Sailing Academy years ago, a man-overboard exercise on that coating cut my palms and scratched my Apple Watch. Unpleasant. Ruled out immediately.
Nearby was KiwiGrip. I went to feel their finish. Pleasant to touch and look at, which settled my choice.
What I needed • A €196 kit: four litres of white KiwiGrip in four one-litre pouches, a textured roller and multilingual instructions. My boat took exactly three litres. Four people at the marina had already used it and were very pleased, boosting my confidence. • A €2 brush • Sander and 80-grit disc • An 80-grit abrasive pad, €0.50 • Alcohol and cloth, always aboard • A €1 roller handle • Personal protective equipment
Applying it 1. Masked the areas. Surprisingly laborious: a good half-day. 2. Sanded with 80-grit. Mostly by machine, astonishingly on one disc. Awkward areas by hand with the pad. About three hours. 3. Cleaned and degreased with leftover Epifanes Fibreglass Prep Cleaner, though alcohol would do. About thirty minutes. 4. Shook the paint pouch thoroughly, about ten minutes. 5. Squeezed several thick blobs onto the surface. 6. Spread evenly with the brush. Crucial: too thin gives weak texture; too thick creates bubbles and irregularities that collect dirt. 7. Formed the texture carefully and very slowly with the roller. Any speed created bubbles and splashes, complicating and dirtying everything. Painting took about five hours. 8. The instructions allow walking on it the next day, but recommend longer drying in cool, humid conditions, out of direct sun. The shed was 12°C, humidity about 70%. I returned after a day. 9. Removed the masking tape. Harder than expected: constant tearing, requiring screwdriver and fingernails. Almost six hours, sore fingers and a thirty-litre bag of tape scraps. 10. Refitted hatch, locker lids, vents and other fittings, generously bedding every bolt in marine UV-resistant sealant. Usually Sikaflex 591; this time, similar Tikalflex Contact 12.
How it felt When I finished and looked closely, the emotion overwhelmed me. Two months’ work justified in a moment. Photographs can’t convey it: I was literally breathless with happiness. A passing marina employee looked at the deck and asked if I was proud. Then I knew: absolutely!
The result Painting protects the fibreglass and simplifies upkeep as well as improving appearance. Every five to ten years, I can lightly sand and add another coat. No annual polishing: just wash with water. Am I pleased? Overall, yes. Close up, my mistakes show. Perhaps I’ll fix them in a few years. For now, looking at my little yellow swallow fills me with warmth and happiness.
My yacht still had her original 1975 gelcoat, oxidised and aged, with a collection of chips and scratches exposing the fibreglass. Some were my own doing. I wanted to freshen her up and, above all, fulfil an old dream: a yellow yacht! Knowing the difficulties of two-part systems, I chose one-part paint, easier for an inexperienced sailor like me. Comparing Hempel, International and Epifanes, I chose the last simply because the guide was clearer.
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My yacht still had her original 1975 gelcoat, oxidised and aged, with a collection of chips and scratches exposing the fibreglass. Some were my own doing. I wanted to freshen her up and, above all, fulfil an old dream: a yellow yacht! Knowing the difficulties of two-part systems, I chose one-part paint, easier for an inexperienced sailor like me. Comparing Hempel, International and Epifanes, I chose the last simply because the guide was clearer.
Preparation Made a shopping list and bought everything. As far as possible, repaired the gelcoat chips and scratches. Removed everything removable: locker lids, handles, locks, hatches. Masked off the underwater hull, wood and metal.
Sanding the gelcoat First, connecting the sander to the vacuum. I felt old: for the first time in ages, I had to read the manual. I learnt to open that mysterious vent on the vacuum hose when sanding — a childhood mystery solved. Three days, over a hundred 320-grit discs, and an abrasive pad for awkward areas. I liked my new Makita BO5041. A neighbour let me try his Mirka: faster and more efficient, but the Makita’s side grip tired my arm less. I tried three disc types: denser material worked better, with ceramic-alumina discs best. Afterwards, washed with Hempel Pre-Clean and degreased with Epifanes Fibreglass Prep Cleaner.
Priming The hardest stage, richest in mistakes. Every action brought difficulty. First, an untidy coat of Epifanes Multi Marine Primer left unevenness and runs. Sanding clogged discs quickly, formed lumps and scratched the surface. Degreasing with Epifanes Fibreglass Prep Cleaner rolled patches of primer into clay-like pieces. Instead of removing imperfections, I added more.
Painting This knocked me completely off balance. I’d badly overestimated myself.
For three weeks, every Friday meant polishing with compound equivalent to 400-grit paper, while manually smoothing primer mistakes with the same grit. Nine in the morning to nine at night, then degreasing again with Epifanes Fibreglass Prep Cleaner.
Saturdays were white deck paint: the cabin area, coachroof and foredeck. Then onto the ladder for side decks and the coachroof sides. About one and a half 750ml tins of Epifanes Mono-urethane per coat.
Sundays were yellow topsides, again about one and a half tins per coat. Once, the tray fell — paint-side down, naturally. A good reminder to keep a spare tin and not pour everything into the tray at once.
My technique: roll on a strip, spread it across the surface with crossing strokes, then level the thickness with light horizontal strokes.
Getting aboard means bringing the boat against land or another boat. Called ‘berthing’, it often becomes a little adventure. If lucky, just a fright; if not, deep scratches in both memory and hull. Last year, for instance, I fell overboard, leaving the yacht to the wind, which happily rubbed her against a steel ferry. That soured my mood for the whole season. Why do chips matter?
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Getting aboard means bringing the boat against land or another boat. Called ‘berthing’, it often becomes a little adventure. If lucky, just a fright; if not, deep scratches in both memory and hull. Last year, for instance, I fell overboard, leaving the yacht to the wind, which happily rubbed her against a steel ferry. That soured my mood for the whole season.
Why do chips matter? Most yacht hulls are made of epoxy resin reinforced with many layers of glass cloth, sometimes with a plywood core. Osmosis lets water enter, causing fibreglass delamination and rotten plywood. A protective layer, such as two-part gelcoat, keeps it out. Scratches and chips damage that protection and expose the hull to the elements.
A quick repair As soon as the scratches appeared, I tried to fill them with gelcoat. But its runny consistency doesn’t suit vertical surfaces: it flows like thick honey. It also needs over 15°C and takes one or two weeks to dry. Almost impossible in cold weather. How does anyone manage? This winter, I decided on a proper repair, paying extra to keep the yacht in a dry shed. Preparation First, open out the damage and deepen it by a millimetre. I bought a Dremel 4250 rotary tool for €90. Excellent, though a light and air blower would help. Filling Because of the cold, I used €26 Hempel epoxy filler instead of gelcoat. It dries in two days at 5–10°C, suits vertical surfaces, but needs Hempel Light Primer afterwards. Very thick: my flat Japanese filling knife filled the grooves well, but lifting it pulled material away, exposing the edges. I had to overfill, leaving little mounds. Sanding Once dry, level with 180–240-grit paper, keeping the whole sander disc flat. Dust can envelop you like fog, so vacuum extraction, goggles and a filtered mask are essential. Mistakes and lessons 1. The yard pointed out that groove edges should taper gently for even filling. Mine had vertical walls, making everything harder. They drew it on a piece of wood, and I immediately saw my mistake. 2. I hadn’t mixed the epoxy and hardener thoroughly enough. Two consequences: – the mixture was too thick, creating bubbles that opened during sanding – little unmixed ‘rice grains’ broke away during sanding Who knew mixing epoxy components could be so difficult?
Despite the flaws, valuable experience. The yacht improved, and I learnt plenty.
A neighbouring owner recently said, ‘Every hour of summer sailing costs an hour of winter boat repairs.’ Spending another weekend in the shed, I can’t disagree. I’ve taken on the hardest jobs and left smaller ones to the marina team. Winterising This included winterising, which I wrote about earlier. The invoice recently arrived, listing work and consumables from 13 December 2024. Details: 1.
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A neighbouring owner recently said, ‘Every hour of summer sailing costs an hour of winter boat repairs.’ Spending another weekend in the shed, I can’t disagree. I’ve taken on the hardest jobs and left smaller ones to the marina team.
Winterising This included winterising, which I wrote about earlier. The invoice recently arrived, listing work and consumables from 13 December 2024. Details: 1. Basic engine inspection and preparation — €136.85 – five litres of engine antifreeze, −25°C — €43.73 2. Engine oil and filter change — 45 minutes, €69.62 – 2.1 litres Marine 4T 15W40 oil — €21.67 – H97 W06 oil filter — €11.67 3. Gearbox oil change — thirty minutes, €46.41 – 200ml Marine 4T 15W40 oil — €2.06 4. Two fuel filters replaced and beneath-engine cleaning — one hour, €92.82 – H31 WK01 fuel filter — €13.80 – R12 pre-filter, supplied by me, €10 on Amazon 5. Impeller replacement — fifteen minutes, €23.21 – 09-810B impeller — €15.01 6. Alternator belt replacement — fifteen minutes, €23.21 – new belt — €13.28 7. Heads winterising — fifteen minutes, €23.21 – two litres of sanitary antifreeze, −30°C — €11.88 8. Battery servicing and anode replacement — declined: – I charge the batteries myself periodically – the anode was sound; I just sanded it lightly
Total: – engine preparation, including reading the manual — €136.85 – three hours’ labour — €278.48 – consumables — €133.10 – total — €548.41 This invoice is a useful job guide. Next year, I’ll try doing some myself.
Keel problems Besides winterising, the keel needed attention. Before lift-out, I noticed orange marks between the two central keel bolts, somewhere outside water couldn’t reach. During the lift-out bubbling appeared at three places along the keel joint. Apparently, pressurised water had seeped along the bolts into the bilge.
The keel is fundamental. It makes the yacht behave like a self-righting toy, always returning upright. Usually attached by about ten metre-long bolts, its loss can capsize the boat. So bolts need protecting from corrosion, keeping dry and replacing every fifteen years for zinc or fifty for stainless steel.
Perhaps the damage followed the impact with a rock or the grounding . But as the marina had already serviced this joint last year, they agreed to fix it free.
What they did: – opened up the leaks – treated against corrosion – sanded the surfaces – sealed with two-component Hempel Light Primer Hopefully, that’s the end of it.
Halyard replacement Their last job was replacing the main halyard. At Biltema in Copenhagen I’d bought thirty metres of 10mm rope for €50. But my boat had a different arrangement: ten metres of rope extended by fifteen metres of 6mm steel wire, common on old Swedish yachts.
Changing meant replacing the worn masthead sheave with a larger one. Three hours’ labour, plus €33 for the new sheave.
How about you? If you’re doing winter maintenance too, how does your list compare? What do you do yourself, and what always goes to professionals?
Next came two halls of equipment, clothing and souvenirs, a maze of stands. An AI-based collision-detection system stuck in my mind. A pity prices start at €11,000. I liked fabric-covered solar panels for guardwires. At the Epifanes and Hempel stands, I asked about painting the yacht and discussed their products. Premium Ropes were demonstrating rope splicing, but I couldn’t get near. I enjoyed Ultra’s stand, where you could test different anchors’ grip.
Equipment and souvenirs Next came two halls of equipment, clothing and souvenirs, a maze of stands. An AI-based collision-detection system stuck in my mind. A pity prices start at €11,000. I liked fabric-covered solar panels for guardwires. At the Epifanes and Hempel stands, I asked about painting the yacht and discussed their products. Premium Ropes were demonstrating rope splicing, but I couldn’t get near. I enjoyed Ultra’s stand, where you could test different anchors’ grip. My Bruce did quite well. Endless souvenir stalls too: keyrings, earrings, bracelets, crockery. My favourites were the winch-shaped spice mills .
The rest I almost ran through the motorboat halls, looking aboard only a couple. I felt out of place among the superyachts, though everything was beautiful. Perhaps no helicopter landings, but some could certainly have their own gym. I liked the maritime-art hall too.
The result It can be dull in places. When it is, approach someone on the nearest stand for a chat. Those conversations are what make the show valuable. Don’t overlook them, or visit as though it’s a museum. One day is enough overall, though it leaves a pleasant feeling that another wouldn’t hurt. That’s what makes me want to return to Düsseldorf next year.
On Friday, 24 January 2025, I visited the Düsseldorf Boat Show. My first boat show: I had no idea what to expect. Practicalities Two ICE tickets at €30 each, €21 admission and a €90 hotel room. That room would have cost €120 at the weekend, €70 a week before or after. Google Maps integrates public transport and accurately shows routes and times. The exhibition centre has a cloakroom and plenty of food trucks and food courts.
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On Friday, 24 January 2025, I visited the Düsseldorf Boat Show. My first boat show: I had no idea what to expect.
Practicalities Two ICE tickets at €30 each, €21 admission and a €90 hotel room. That room would have cost €120 at the weekend, €70 a week before or after. Google Maps integrates public transport and accurately shows routes and times.
The exhibition centre has a cloakroom and plenty of food trucks and food courts. Schnitzel, rice, vegetables, bread and Coke cost €28. The same at the canteen near my work usually costs €8. At least the portions were large.
An astonishing amount for children to try: Optimist dinghies, kayaks, scuba diving in a pool, and a university talk on microplastics. Plenty of places to rest too.
The first hall At the ISSA stand, I met people from Sila Vetra. A chat and an amusing souvenir. Then a big screen caught my eye, showing the Vendée Globe and Virtual Regatta. They invited me to race other players online in a virtual Kiel Fjord. I finished first! A pity there were no other players. A German weather lecture was taking place nearby. I also met the charming older gentleman Peter Reichelt, who’d built the plywood trimaran he’d brought in eighteen months.
Sailing yachts The next hall was full of yachts, and I got carried away exploring each. Outside: keel design, propellers, seacocks, water intakes. Inside: furniture, engine, electrics, plumbing, galley and heads. All in search of interesting engineering solutions. After about ten boats, they blurred together. My main conclusion was disappointing: almost all the ‘wood’ was poor-quality chipboard, worse-looking than IKEA’s and sure to swell when wet. Some models even had doors and cupboards made of heavy fabric.
Thirty-five-footers cost €120,000–200,000: half upfront, the rest over fifteen years. Mainly aimed at lakes and coastal sailing; hardly any ocean-category boats.
By noon, visitors had multiplied so much that yacht visits first required bookings, then were deferred until the next day. On a weekday! Arrive at opening and head straight to this hall to get aboard the new Hallberg-Rassys and X-Yachts.
Schools, charters and marinas The next hall had charter companies and schools. I found Ardent Training and had a photo with Ed, whose lectures I’d watched online. Lovely to thank him in person. A woman at the Swedish marinas stand suggested a west-coast route and gave me their pilot guide. At ADAC, I tried berthing a sailing boat in strong wind using a VR headset.
(Continued in the next post)
Notes
My work
Photos and video9 photos
Imagine eighty-year-old wartime shells lying beneath the sea, capable of exploding at any moment, disrupting subsea work and destroying expensive equipment. That’s one of the problems my work touches. Broadly, I’m a big-data programmer. ‘Big’ means too much for one computer: storage might need several petabytes. My job is to use a whole cluster’s resources efficiently to process it.
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Imagine eighty-year-old wartime shells lying beneath the sea, capable of exploding at any moment, disrupting subsea work and destroying expensive equipment. That’s one of the problems my work touches.
Broadly, I’m a big-data programmer. ‘Big’ means too much for one computer: storage might need several petabytes. My job is to use a whole cluster’s resources efficiently to process it. Previously, I worked at Megaputer Intelligence, Mail.ru Search and Odnoklassniki, and taught courses I’d developed at GeekBrains and Peter the Great St Petersburg Polytechnic University. My LinkedIn — if you connect, please mention you came from here.
For the past couple of years, I’ve worked at north.io GmbH as Big Data Lead Architect. It’s a research-focused startup building a cloud catalogue of marine data, allowing vessel surveys to be uploaded, stored and shared securely.
Marine data often consists of recorded sensor signals: NMEA, GPS, accelerometers, echo sounders and other equipment. A little maths turns them into detailed bathymetry, mapping the seabed to centimetre accuracy. We also build tools to analyse it: finding suspicious objects, creating detailed elevation maps and classifying seabed areas. I’ve even seen a sunken aircraft in the images. An unusual case, sadly; usually, the screens show uniform sand with faint ripples.
Besides mapping, we digitise Second World War archives. During the war and Germany’s subsequent disarmament, people found nothing better to do than dump munitions into the water. Storms and currents spread them across the bottom and buried them in sand. Today, these shells are beginning to release toxins into marine ecosystems, while obstructing wind-farm construction and gas, oil and fibre-optic cable routes. Companies therefore survey the seabed carefully before construction to avoid accidental detonations.
I enjoy solving difficult problems and feeling that my work contributes to protecting the environment and developing renewable energy.
December is for looking ahead as well as back. This was my second year as a boat owner. Looking back, I see how much I’ve done and how much remains. On the eve of Western Christmas, here’s my list for 2025.
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December is for looking ahead as well as back. This was my second year as a boat owner. Looking back, I see how much I’ve done and how much remains. On the eve of Western Christmas, here’s my list for 2025.
Hull: • In spring, the yacht suffered an impact at the stem. I stabilised the damage then; now it needs restoring: open it up, sand, laminate fibreglass, apply gelcoat and fair it. • On the autumn Wismar trip, I struck a rock with the keel, causing a small leak at the keel joint. Clean back, degrease, apply polyurethane, prime and paint. Losing the keel is among the most frightening scenarios, so corrosion and further damage must be prevented. • The original 1975 gelcoat has oxidised and dulled. I plan to sand, prime and paint it.
Mast and sails: • Line the inside of the mast opening with cushioning material to soften impact loads. • Replace the bent wind indicator. • Replace the main-halyard masthead sheave too. It’s designed for 8mm rope; I’ve already bought thirty metres of 10mm. • Buy a spinnaker sock, spreader boots, a new mainsail-tack shackle, another for the anchor chain, and telltales for more precise trimming.
Engine: • Replace filters, oil, impeller and gasket, and alternator belt. • Add sound insulation between the port locker and engine for comfort. • Water seems to enter the bilge through the exhaust. Reseal its connection to the through-hull fitting, just in case.
Inside and out: • I carelessly scratched the acrylic portlights with a sponge in summer. Polish with plastic polish. • Oil all the wood again and grease the winches. • Replace the guardwires and add soft covers for leaning against. • Renew mattress and cushion covers.
Postponed another year: • Replacing seacocks, shrouds, turnbuckle covers and topping lift. • Sewing a lazy bag, tiller cover and winch covers. • Replacing the starter battery and putting it in a protective box. • Making a shelf for electrical equipment, fitting a proper circuit-breaker panel, and routing everything through it. • Fitting Bluetooth speakers and a barbecue, and finding a sensible place for the fridge.
Travel plans: • Bornholm via Rügen, returning through Sweden and the Danish South Sea. About two weeks. • Join a crew for a long passage or delivery, gaining watchkeeping, tidal navigation and offshore experience. • Find a Kiel berth and make several Kiel Canal trips to Rendsburg and back. • Visit Boot Düsseldorf — Europe’s largest boat show. • Attend the start of The Ocean Race Europe in Kiel on 10 August, as I did a year and a half ago.
Of course, I’ll write about it here.
2025 looks busy, perhaps as busy as 2024. The yacht has become a living project, needing attention, knowledge and love.
Happy holidays! Share your goals and wishes for the coming year in the comments.
There aren’t many Russian-language channels about the sea and sailing. Each is precious. There’s more in English, though still less choice than I’d like. English-language channels: • Sail-World — a British channel with daily two- to eight-minute news videos on sailing worldwide. Currently covering the Vendée Globe closely. • Jakob Lang Sailing — an eighteen-year-old Austrian on a solo circumnavigation via the Drake Passage in a German Dehler Optima 92.
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There aren’t many Russian-language channels about the sea and sailing. Each is precious. There’s more in English, though still less choice than I’d like.
English-language channels: • Sail-World — a British channel with daily two- to eight-minute news videos on sailing worldwide. Currently covering the Vendée Globe closely. • Jakob Lang Sailing — an eighteen-year-old Austrian on a solo circumnavigation via the Drake Passage in a German Dehler Optima 92. I hope he succeeds. • Erik Aanderaa — a Norwegian sailing solo in a Contessa 35 from Norway to Shetland, the Faroes, Iceland and Greenland in harsh conditions. Loves beer and Norse gods. • Team Malizia - Boris Herrmann — perhaps Germany’s best-known sailor, author of several books, currently racing in the Vendée Globe 2024 and already a meme. Daily three- to seven-minute videos. Interesting to compare his reports with his actual position and the weather. • Veronica Skotnes — a Norwegian exploring northern latitudes. Only one video so far, but wonderfully warm and cosy. • The Low Cost Sailor — a Spaniard’s DIY channel for ‘budget’ repairs. From him, I learnt how to build an active AIS transmitter for only €50. • Alluring Arctic Sailing — a Finn living aboard with his girlfriend, earning his living translating and sailing mainly at high latitudes. Recently sailed Alaska to Greenland along Canada’s coast. • Sailing Sula — a Briton making solo passages along Scotland’s coast. • Water People Expedition — a British couple’s very professionally filmed circumnavigation vlog. Lovely to watch. • Sailing Therapy — a Dutch sailor tackling burnout through sailing. One video so far, crossing Biscay; apparently enough for his ‘therapy’.
Educational channels in English: • Carpe Diem Sailing — a Canadian instructor’s channel with short, practical five- to ten-minute videos. An online berthing course is available on his website. • searching for coconuts — drew me in with accessible, clear graphics explaining windvane steering and other technical subjects. • Premium Ropes — a Dutch rigging company’s channel, full of useful ropework. • Met Office — Britain’s weather agency, with clear graphics explaining how weather forms.
Still grateful for recommendations: heartfelt sailing blogs, determined solo sailors, unusual routes or useful learning resources. What have you found?
In winter, sitting with hot coffee, all I can do is remember sailing days. To ease the longing for waves and whistling wind, here’s my best medicine: favourite YouTube channels and videos. Let’s begin with silent films, with no unnecessary words, just a contemplative, inspiring immersion in the atmosphere: • Pandorak — a French sailor’s channel. Only two videos, but I watch them countless times. They recharge me whenever I forget why I’m doing all this.
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In winter, sitting with hot coffee, all I can do is remember sailing days. To ease the longing for waves and whistling wind, here’s my best medicine: favourite YouTube channels and videos.
Let’s begin with silent films, with no unnecessary words, just a contemplative, inspiring immersion in the atmosphere: • Pandorak — a French sailor’s channel. Only two videos, but I watch them countless times. They recharge me whenever I forget why I’m doing all this. • TUPAIA — this French couple’s early videos recall Pandorak: beautiful North Sea passages and warm, heartfelt scenes full of smiles. They’ve now headed for the Drake Passage. • Guirec Soudée — especially his video of wintering in Greenland with… a hen aboard! An interesting skipper generally, now battling storms in the Vendée Globe. • Timelab Pro — masters of FPV filming. Don’t miss Greenland and Franz Josef Land. Images approaching art. • patrick lombardi — a beautiful, inspiring FPV drone video filmed from a sailing boat. • Harmen Hoek — no sailing, but the same harmony with nature. Hiking in the wildest, most remote corners of the planet.
Russian-language channels: • Antares — enthusiasts from Khabarovsk built an inflatable sailing catamaran and made three expeditions: to Vladivostok, Iony Island in the Sea of Okhotsk, and Chukotka. Beautifully filmed, with heart. • Krugosvetchiki — two 35-year-old Muscovites bought a yacht on credit and set off round the world, hoping video-making would pay for her. It didn’t. After dozens of excellent episodes, their exhaustion and fraying patience with each other show. But the early videos are excellent. Last week, they celebrated three years of travelling, having reached New Zealand. • Stas Tolstnev — a lovely account of a videographer father and his son travelling round Baikal on a motorised inflatable catamaran. Spectacular and atmospheric. • Sergey Krotov — skipper and charter agent, with excellent films of one- and two-week charter itineraries. A pleasure to listen to. • Captain German — from Odesa, with several circumnavigations aboard Mushu. Good stories to have on in the background during routine jobs.
Educational channels in Russian: • Gleb Semerenko — IYT instructor and founder of Sailing Time. Possibly the best, most substantial sailing lessons on Russian-language YouTube. Rewatching his reefing lesson this summer finally made it click for me. • Sailing lessons at Black Sea School — Black Sea School’s channel. Their material led me to go there to study in 2021. A rigorous, very informative approach.
Probably the best channels for Russian-speaking viewers. Next time, English-language ones. What inspires you? I’d be grateful for recommendations.
The first outing wasn’t what I’d hoped. In Travemünde, I leaned awkwardly and fell overboard. The boat drifted downwind onto a steel ferry. All I could think was ‘My first and last yacht…’ Thankfully, the consequences were limited to servicing the lifejacket and repairing the stem. On the next outing I just tried to enjoy coffee, wind and sunset. Feeling braver, I tried my first night outings and unexpectedly fell in love with their atmosphere.
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(2024 review, continued)
Passages The first outing wasn’t what I’d hoped. In Travemünde, I leaned awkwardly and fell overboard. The boat drifted downwind onto a steel ferry. All I could think was ‘My first and last yacht…’ Thankfully, the consequences were limited to servicing the lifejacket and repairing the stem. On the next outing I just tried to enjoy coffee, wind and sunset. Feeling braver, I tried my first night outings and unexpectedly fell in love with their atmosphere. Step by step, I reached a solo forty-mile passage to an anchorage off Neustadt, in rain and a thunderstorm. It exposed a gap in my knowledge of reefing.
In June came one of the largest maritime festivals, Kieler Woche. Grigory and I took the opportunity to explore the naval base and join the closing sailing parade .
In July, in Britain, I completed an intensive RYA Coastal Skipper practical course, where I experienced seasickness for the first time. I also received the RYA First Aid certificate.
Back home, I made my longest solo passage: sixteen hours and 85 miles from Lübeck to Kiel. With the yacht there for a month at €200, I relaxed, but still found time to go sailing with friends and colleagues. I returned at the end of August via the Danish archipelago: berths, food and fuel cost only €100. In October, I sailed to Wismar to explore its waters.
Dangerous moments – fell from a stepladder while polishing — my arm still hurts - fell overboard and the yacht drifted away – almost went overboard in Denmark - hit a rock – ran aground
End of season Autumn flew by in a bustle: repairing the compass, packing the sails, unstepping the mast, lifting out and winterising the boat. No empty feeling, though: in a couple of months, preparations begin again.
Statistics According to my SailTies profile I covered 600 miles over 27 days in 2024, almost as much as all the previous years combined.
The channel grew from seventy to 170 subscribers. Thank you to everyone interested in my experience and writing. I’ve chatted privately with many of you: choosing yachts, marinas, services, routes, paperwork, winter preparation, repairs, training and seamanship. Anton came for a week’s passage, and Grigory and I seemed to meet every month or two.
Afterword A year of challenge and inspiration. Every mile, day and difficulty taught me something, sometimes happily, sometimes nervously. Above all, I was reminded of the untamed freedom the sea offers, beyond miles and certificates.
A year ago, I summed up 2023. But 2024 became a year of discoveries and challenges, and I’d like to share a brief account. Paperwork Winter is a quiet time for plans. While cold kept me ashore, I prepared for the season: obtained a radio licence (€60), registered the boat (€35), and ordered my first yacht stamp (€15). Small steps that kept me connected to the sea. Training I also looked for sailing courses to develop my skills.
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A year ago, I summed up 2023. But 2024 became a year of discoveries and challenges, and I’d like to share a brief account.
Paperwork Winter is a quiet time for plans. While cold kept me ashore, I prepared for the season: obtained a radio licence (€60), registered the boat (€35), and ordered my first yacht stamp (€15). Small steps that kept me connected to the sea.
Training I also looked for sailing courses to develop my skills. I chose the scheme called RYA: I studied and passed RYA Coastal Skipper & Yachtmaster Offshore theory with Ardent Training (€350). With Alexander Guskov at ForceSail, I took seminars on sails (€75) and marine weather forecasting (€75). No regrets about the knowledge gained: it helped me regularly throughout the sailing year.
Maintenance The marina did the winter service (€503), discovering that the crankshaft had bent the oil dipstick. My heart sank: ‘No season? Thousands in repairs?’ I practically lived on forums and chats, gathering advice and encouragement. The mechanics explained: pull it out myself at my own risk, or dismantle the engine. Leaving it was out of the question. Grigory, author of the Meerbär blog, came to the rescue with a substantial toolkit and helped solve the problem.
Calmer, I contacted the sail loft. New sprayhood window and stitching (€110), reinforced genoa stitching and advice against replacing its UV strip (€132), and a new storm-jib zip (€150).
Meanwhile, hull preparation. Cleaned, polished and waxed the gelcoat. Sanded below the waterline, applied primer and antifouling coating. Separately, treated the propeller. Sander, paint and other materials: around €700.
Spring brought launching and stepping the mast. But the small repairs continued: - replaced radar reflectors, wind indicator and LED bulbs – set up Garmin inReach and AIS - serviced and greased the winches - resealed the portlights and oiled the wood - renewed the Victron charging system: Blue Charger and Orion-Tr - installed navigation instruments - repaired the Wallas paraffin heater – fitted a fuel pre-filter and renewed the stern-tube seal’s grease - fitted a rail-mounted anchor holder - cleaned the water tank I learnt all sorts of skills I’d never even considered before. (Continued below)
Mattresses are essential aboard, but sometimes bring more trouble than comfort. I have five, plus a dozen cushions, and they regularly give me a headache. First, they’re so soft your fingers almost meet when you squeeze them, yet so bulky that transport becomes an epic. Seats down, car packed to the roof: a mattress-mobile. Around €40 in fuel and a whole day. Second, the covers ‘made by Erik’s girlfriend’. The previous owner said she’d sewn them recently.
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Mattresses are essential aboard, but sometimes bring more trouble than comfort. I have five, plus a dozen cushions, and they regularly give me a headache.
First, they’re so soft your fingers almost meet when you squeeze them, yet so bulky that transport becomes an epic. Seats down, car packed to the roof: a mattress-mobile. Around €40 in fuel and a whole day.
Second, the covers ‘made by Erik’s girlfriend’. The previous owner said she’d sewn them recently. But the emerald corduroy was so thin it split at the seams within months. It now looks as though it’s weathered several storms.
An unexpected answer to the first problem: vacuum storage bags. Four large 80 × 120cm bags for €18. Folded a mattress in half, packed it, connected the vacuum cleaner and hissed the air out. Four to six times smaller, fitting comfortably under my arm. I plan more bags, a dedicated €10 vacuum pump and silica gel, so bedding can stay aboard through winter without mould worries.
For the covers: make them or buy ready-made? Initially, I fancied a second-hand sewing machine, fabric and zips, and a winter of sewing. From Grigory and ChatGPT, I learnt the fabric should resist moisture, UV and bacteria. Suitable material was expensive, from €20 a metre. Eventually found €10 material at esvo. Even then, thirty to fifty metres would be a sizeable bill.
Then I stumbled on ready-made stretch covers at temu.com — an AliExpress-style site — for €7. Ordered a couple of sizes to try. They worked! Freshened the mattresses nicely. Not a perfect fit everywhere, but elastic or a little stitching would fix that.
Now the mattresses look respectable, and storage and transport no longer need be a headache — or necessary at all. Two simple, inexpensive solutions saved time, money and nerves.
Unfortunately, unstepping the mast and lifting out aren’t enough for winter at our latitude. 1. Remove what you can Anything that absorbs moisture — sails, mattresses, cushions, blankets, towels, clothes — is better taken home. Otherwise, hang it or stand it upright. Put out moisture absorbers and, budget permitting, a solar-powered fan for airflow. Outside, a large tarpaulin and strong rope are essential.
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Unfortunately, unstepping the mast and lifting out aren’t enough for winter at our latitude.
1. Remove what you can Anything that absorbs moisture — sails, mattresses, cushions, blankets, towels, clothes — is better taken home. Otherwise, hang it or stand it upright. Put out moisture absorbers and, budget permitting, a solar-powered fan for airflow. Outside, a large tarpaulin and strong rope are essential. Leave cupboards and lockers open: mould shouldn’t make itself at home, as happened to me last year.
2. Protect pipes from freezing Buy antifreeze. Add it to the emptied water tank, sinks and toilet, pumping it through to displace the water. Protect the engine too: feed antifreeze through the strainer or directly through the impeller pump’s hose, then run until it emerges from the exhaust.
3. Diesel tank and fuel Fill to the brim to prevent condensation and bacteria. Add LIQUI MOLY Marine Diesel Protection for extra protection against spring surprises.
4. Engine and component servicing In spring, change oil and filters and check the batteries. If you can’t store them somewhere warm, visit to charge every month or two. Check rigging, impeller, alternator belt and seacocks. Replace the impeller every 200 engine hours. Really, it’s a good time to reread the engine manual.
The result In last year’s preparations, everything felt chaotic. Now I tackle each item confidently. I can wait for spring, knowing the boat is in excellent shape. Thank you to Grigory for helping bring the mattresses and sails home.
22 November 2024. I woke to a cold that gripped everything. Frost on the sprayhood, thin ice on the lockers, breath like a dragon’s. Hot tea and chemical warmers, then off to the marina. The harbourmaster told me I was fourth to lift. Time to prepare mentally. Back aboard, I prepared long bow and stern lines to control rotation during lifting. Closed the seacocks to prevent water entering through the sink.
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22 November 2024. I woke to a cold that gripped everything. Frost on the sprayhood, thin ice on the lockers, breath like a dragon’s. Hot tea and chemical warmers, then off to the marina. The harbourmaster told me I was fourth to lift. Time to prepare mentally.
Back aboard, I prepared long bow and stern lines to control rotation during lifting. Closed the seacocks to prevent water entering through the sink. Marked sling positions: one between the last window and bow, clear of the keel; the other between the sheet winches and first window, protecting the propeller.
When my turn came, the staff passed the slings beneath the hull and lifted. I’d expected anything, but the bottom was almost clean: only a little orange film. Last year, she’d been so fouled that she barely made two knots, while I spent a month trying to repair the engine. Over winter, I’d thoroughly renewed the antifouling. The result speaks for itself.
The propeller disappointed me. The coating of Silic One had come off one blade. Where it remained, no growth at all. The intake grille was protected too, though barnacles grew between its bars.
The new electromagnetic log had stopped reading speed two months after launch. Barnacles completely covered the sensor, turning it into a hedgehog on its way to becoming a coral reef. Perhaps I’ll need to remove it every time I leave the boat.
The marina staff scraped off the remaining barnacles and pressure-washed the growth away. Mesmerising, pure pleasure for a perfectionist. Note to self: yacht-washing videos could go on TikTok. Then the harbourmaster towed her to winter storage with the tractor.
Sailing season over. Repair season only just beginning.
18 November 2024. Time to unstep the mast, a necessary part of winter preparations in Germany. A cool day, rain easing and returning as drizzle. Running rigging first: neatly coiled and hung in the saloon to dry faster. A 17mm spanner disconnected the boom heel from the gooseneck. Boom into the forecabin. At eleven, I berthed by the mast crane. Electrics first: disconnect every wire from the mast to prevent damage during lifting.
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18 November 2024. Time to unstep the mast, a necessary part of winter preparations in Germany. A cool day, rain easing and returning as drizzle.
Running rigging first: neatly coiled and hung in the saloon to dry faster. A 17mm spanner disconnected the boom heel from the gooseneck. Boom into the forecabin.
At eleven, I berthed by the mast crane. Electrics first: disconnect every wire from the mast to prevent damage during lifting.
Two DAVIDSWERFT Nord GmbH staff arrived, and work began. Thankfully, the rain stopped. Wire rigging supports the mast: shrouds athwartships, stays fore and aft, sometimes doubled for security. We began with the babystay and lower shrouds from the spreaders. With everything loosened, we positioned the crane arm, wrapped a lifting strop round the mast and hooked on. Raised the hook slowly so the strop slid towards the spreaders without catching lights or other vulnerable fittings, using the spinnaker halyard to pull it clear.
Then loosened the cap-shroud, backstay and forestay turnbuckles. To keep the wires out of the way, we passed 6mm cord through the turnbuckles and tied it to the gooseneck. Once ready, removed the mast-heel pin and lifted carefully onto two supports.
With the mast down, we removed spreaders and cap shrouds, which I stored in a locker. Tied the remaining rigging to the mast every one to one and a half metres, then wheeled it to the shed. I measured it: 12.15m, about 1.8m of that inside the saloon.
Clouds cleared, soft golden autumn sun everywhere. Mast work done, but not the day. Back at the berth, I covered the mast opening with a bag secured by a clamp against moisture, then gave the yacht a thorough wash with my Kärcher K2, removing the accumulated dirt for her winter rest.
Wet but happy, I headed home in autumn sunshine and crunching leaves, leaving a sparkling yacht in a quiet marina. That evening’s invoice: €123 for two people’s 45 minutes. Less than last year.
Friday, 8 November 2024. The icy wind cut to the bone. Almost impossible to warm up aboard. I abandoned the planned final trip to Neustadt with an overnight stay. Unbearable cold, fingers barely bending. Time to prepare for winter, starting with the sails.
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Friday, 8 November 2024. The icy wind cut to the bone. Almost impossible to warm up aboard. I abandoned the planned final trip to Neustadt with an overnight stay. Unbearable cold, fingers barely bending. Time to prepare for winter, starting with the sails.
Luckily, wind over the bow made removing the mainsail easier. 1. Hoisted the main fully and unscrewed the retaining stop that keeps the slides in the mast groove. 2. While hoisting, inspected both sides. Shield bugs, lacewings and spiders with egg sacs often hide in the folds. Brushed them away or tapped from the opposite side. 3. While lowering, undid the bolts retaining the battens, the plastic strips that give the sail shape. 4. Released reefing lines, the clew line, head and tack, photographing every knot. 5. Folding aboard was difficult, so I took it ashore and followed the method in J. Howard-Williams’s ‘Sail Care and Repair’: keeping the head along the luff, concertina-folding the cloth, then rolling from luff towards leech. 6. Put the main in its sail bag. 7. Measured it: 2.8m along the foot, nine metres up the sail. About 13m², close to the official figures of 3m × 9.2m.
While packing, I noticed an old inscription on the bag:
O 29 Fullstar 170
O 29 — Ohlson 29, the boat model; 170 — the sail number. Fullstar was probably my Rassvet’s first name. When I bought her,the stern already said Montezuma.
The genoa was harder: wind up to sixteen knots. 1. Unfurled fully to leeward and tensioned the sheet. 2. Eased the halyard gradually to control the drop. 3. Usually, insects need brushing off. The wind did it for me. 4. Kept pulling the sail aboard so it wouldn’t hang over the guardwires. 5. Ashore, folded using the same method: first along the luff, then along the foot from tack to clew. 6. Secured with nylon sail ties, Segelbinder, and bagged it. 7. Genoa measurements: 5.2m × 9.8m × 9.6m, about 24.5m². Documentation gives the Ohlson 29’s maximum as 5m × 10.8m, 25.5m².
Day over. Looking at the neatly packed sails, I felt satisfied and thought about the hot coffee waiting at home.
Every outing used to be an event. Now, fewer new impressions: solo berthing and beating upwind have become routine practice. This could have been another ordinary outing, but for an unexpected turn. Friends I hadn’t seen in ages came to visit, and I decided to take them out. 22 October 2024. We began with a tour of Lübeck, Germany’s oldest city, known for marzipan and brick Gothic architecture.
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Every outing used to be an event. Now, fewer new impressions: solo berthing and beating upwind have become routine practice. This could have been another ordinary outing, but for an unexpected turn. Friends I hadn’t seen in ages came to visit, and I decided to take them out.
22 October 2024. We began with a tour of Lübeck, Germany’s oldest city, known for marzipan and brick Gothic architecture. Its historic centre is UNESCO-listed, and famous for Café Niederegger, founded in 1806 and one of Germany’s best.
After a briefing, we set off. Following wind, sail straight up, delighted guests. They were surprised how readily the yacht answered the tiller. Golden trees on both banks, hungry swans upended among fallen leaves. At Travemünde, we turned back. I handed the helm to the guests and got absorbed in conversation, then something felt odd. Masha said the yacht seemed to touch bottom. I looked towards shore. Aground.
Reverse first. Not a millimetre of movement. Remembering last year’s experience, I put the tiller hard over and gave her forward throttle. She began rotating. Aimed at mid-river, I prepared to set sail for extra pull, but just then she came free. Surprisingly, the guests hadn’t even noticed the drama.
Lucky, I think: soft mud and a fin keel. I’m sure that manoeuvre wouldn’t work on a long-keeler. Adrenaline was so high I didn’t even check the sounder. My main mistake was leaving its shallow-water alarm unset. That would probably have prevented it.
Day four. Up at six. Granola, toothpaste, Shipping forecast, change clothes, start the engine. Breath steaming. Frost in the air. 06.10.2024, 0316 UTC, Western Baltic light and variable winds, later SE 4, at times coastal fog patches, sea 0,5 meter. I left as nearly perpendicular to the shore as possible, to avoid another rock. Full sail. Wind came and went, yet somehow I overtook every boat around. A relaxed, uneventful return to the marina.
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Day four. Up at six. Granola, toothpaste, Shipping forecast, change clothes, start the engine. Breath steaming. Frost in the air.
06.10.2024, 0316 UTC, Western Baltic light and variable winds, later SE 4, at times coastal fog patches, sea 0,5 meter.
I left as nearly perpendicular to the shore as possible, to avoid another rock. Full sail. Wind came and went, yet somehow I overtook every boat around. A relaxed, uneventful return to the marina.
That ended my short trip around Lübeck and Wismar bays. I liked Wismar’s waters: several small, picturesque marinas, a couple of hours apart. Ideal for a family holiday with inexperienced crew, apart from the 26 miles — six to eight sailing hours — from Lübeck.
Eighty-eight miles in four days. Magical weather, like midsummer rather than early October. The route is on SailTies.
P.S. This post describes 6 October, but is published on the 31st, my 35th birthday 🎂. Greetings from Copenhagen. Thank you for reading, commenting and reacting. Your responses give the work more meaning, encourage me to take on harder challenges and keep improving how I tell the stories. I hope you enjoy them; I’ll try to make them more interesting still.
Day three. Alarm at eight. The harbourmaster had asked for the facilities keys back at 9.30. Milk onto granola, wash, keys returned, checked the Shipping forecast: 05.10.2024, 03:26 UTC, Western Baltic An extensive high 1023 over northern Germany moves towards the area east of Latvia. light and variable winds, first coastal tog patches, sea 0,5 meter. No wind. No point even hoisting the sails.
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Day three. Alarm at eight. The harbourmaster had asked for the facilities keys back at 9.30. Milk onto granola, wash, keys returned, checked the Shipping forecast:
05.10.2024, 03:26 UTC, Western Baltic An extensive high 1023 over northern Germany moves towards the area east of Latvia. light and variable winds, first coastal tog patches, sea 0,5 meter.
No wind. No point even hoisting the sails. In Navily I considered destinations: • Timmendorf on Poel: small, with a beach • Hohen Wieschendorf: small and quiet, with an Italian restaurant • Boltenhagen: quite large, but rather out of the way • Poel, in the town of the same name on the island of the same name: roomy and convenient, but well off my route
Timmendorf won. A leisurely ninety minutes under engine. A large flock of swans and a passing seal’s head on the way. A red-and-white buoy marks the approach near the marina; I aimed for it. About seventy metres short, we hit something. Everything seemed to jump, including me and the shrouds. Apparently, a boulder lay at 1.6m and caught the keel. No damage inside. Hopefully none outside either.
The harbourmaster works only an hour morning and evening, so public toilets until then. Electricity takes 50-cent coins at the sockets. A pleasant place: snack bars, cafés, restaurants and souvenir shops. I ordered a burger at a bistro, but they’d added remoulade, which really didn’t suit the meat. Sandy beach to the north, stony to the south. Beyond it, you can climb the cliff and return through the woods. There, I finally felt rested, with everyday work stress lifting away.
That evening, worried the electric heater would use up my paid electricity, I lit the Wallas paraffin heater I’d repaired in spring. Less than an hour to reach 23°C. Warm when I went to bed.
Day two. Alarm at six. Granola with milk, a wash at the marina, then another check: still no harbourmaster. I’d have to leave without paying for the night. Checked the Shipping forecast: 04.10.2024, 0341 UTC, Western Baltic An extensive high 1023 over the northern North Sea moves towards northern Germany and weakens somewhat NE 3 to 4, abating for a time coastal fog patches sea first 1 meter Windy showed the high covering the whole western Baltic tomorrow. No wind.
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Day two. Alarm at six. Granola with milk, a wash at the marina, then another check: still no harbourmaster. I’d have to leave without paying for the night. Checked the Shipping forecast:
04.10.2024, 0341 UTC, Western Baltic An extensive high 1023 over the northern North Sea moves towards northern Germany and weakens somewhat NE 3 to 4, abating for a time coastal fog patches sea first 1 meter
Windy showed the high covering the whole western Baltic tomorrow. No wind. Revised plan: straight to Wismar instead of Denmark, and a closer look at Wismar Bay.
At eight, I left Grömitz under full sail, heading south-east. A calm passage. Shoals flank both sides of the bay entrance. Approaching, the AIS began beeping enthusiastically: a procession of yachts was leaving towards me.
Near town, sails down and fenders out. Three marinas ahead; I wanted the one fifteen minutes’ walk from the centre. Heading there, I spotted a forty-footer to starboard, apparently in shallow water. A man on the bow waved. I waved back. He waved again, insistently. I thought I understood. Approaching carefully, I heard his request for a tow. They threw a bow line, which I secured to my stern cleat. Fifteen minutes pulling in different directions and ways, but my fourteen horsepower couldn’t shift her. A large tourist boat passed and its skipper offered help. They thanked me; I took the marina’s last free berth. Finger pontoons, unusual in Germany.
€18 a night. Showers and laundry extra, but a kitchen available. Wismar is a beautiful historic town, largely undamaged in the war. Definitely among my favourite German places for a day visit.
3 October is German Unity Day, celebrating East Germany joining the Federal Republic. This year it fell on a Thursday, so I took a couple of days off for another sailing trip.
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3 October is German Unity Day, celebrating East Germany joining the Federal Republic. This year it fell on a Thursday, so I took a couple of days off for another sailing trip.
Grand plans: via Fehmarn to Gedser in Denmark, hire a bike, visit Biltema, renew running rigging, then back to Germany — Warnemünde near Rostock, Wismar and home to Lübeck. A tour of Mecklenburg Bay.
Day one. Up at six, aboard by eleven. Changed, noted sunrise at 7.30 and sunset at seven, checked the Shipping forecast:
03.10.2024, 0531 UTC, Western Baltic until friday morning in the Western Baltic area strong winds are expected NE 5 to 6, decreasing 4 sea first 1,5 meter
Departure at noon. A kite festival in Travemünde. Two reefs in both sails. Initially, gusts to 28 knots on the nose. I liked the sail configuration: almost no need to touch the tiller, no load on the rudder. A steady 5.5–6 knots.
Tacking upwind. Waves didn’t align with the wind: north-west, they struck the starboard side; east, we punched into them with the bow and lost half a knot.
The wind eased: twenty-two, eighteen, thirteen knots, sometimes ten. I fully unfurled the genoa to keep five knots of boat speed.
Tacking meant little progress towards the destination. I considered changing the route, even sailing into the night. But the deciding factor was one I hadn’t considered: at 6.30, the setting sun stopped holding back the cold, which penetrated three layers and a chemical warmer. I diverted urgently to the nearest marina, Grömitz.
Large, sheltered and convenient. Unfortunately, payment was only to the harbourmaster, who worked eight to four. Fortunately, the facilities, including unlimited hot showers, were freely accessible.
Giving up on the old compass, I looked for a replacement, ideally without enlarging or reducing the hole in the hull. The original Silva 100P was my first choice. On eBay and Kleinanzeigen, the local classifieds sites, I found an original Silva 100PT from the eighties, never used, for €25! New ones cost about €180. A sign from fate. Its only fault: a little oxidised metal sediment inside the bowl.
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Giving up on the old compass, I looked for a replacement, ideally without enlarging or reducing the hole in the hull. The original Silva 100P was my first choice.
On eBay and Kleinanzeigen, the local classifieds sites, I found an original Silva 100PT from the eighties, never used, for €25! New ones cost about €180. A sign from fate. Its only fault: a little oxidised metal sediment inside the bowl.
I bought €4 worth of 3mm red LEDs on Amazon, with built-in transistors for a 12V circuit. Fifteen minutes to fit and test.
My appetite for bargains persisted. Two more parcels arrived: a French Vion Mini 2000 hand-bearing compass and a Swedish Silva Type 60. €25 each.
The Vion resembled today’s popular Plastimo Iris 50. Unfortunately, half the liquid had evaporated and the tritium no longer glowed. Its little disc was removable, though, so I took it out and covered it with self-adhesive luminous tape.
The liquid was quite thin. After asking ChatGPT, I guessed purified paraffin or 70% alcohol. A sealed rubber disc sat in the side. I inserted a syringe needle and pumped air in until the bottom popped out. The room filled with a diesel smell. Washed everything with Fairy and reassembled. Filled the syringe with 70% ethanol, injected through the disc, drew out excess air, and repeated until it looked usable. Like new now. I sealed the disc with my wife’s nail varnish.
I liked the Silva Type 60 even more: two scales show both bearing and reciprocal. Its drawback was an exhausted tritium capsule I couldn’t work out how to remove. No good for night passages, then.
On my first night outing this season, I noticed the compass behaving strangely. No illumination, and the card spun wildly at the slightest movement. Without visual references, I wanted something to help hold a course. Closer inspection revealed the problem: all the liquid had leaked out. Removing it exposed numerous cracks in the back. I tried welding them together with a soldering iron, then coated the surface in Sikaflex for good measure. What to fill it with?
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On my first night outing this season, I noticed the compass behaving strangely. No illumination, and the card spun wildly at the slightest movement. Without visual references, I wanted something to help hold a course.
Closer inspection revealed the problem: all the liquid had leaked out. Removing it exposed numerous cracks in the back. I tried welding them together with a soldering iron, then coated the surface in Sikaflex for good measure.
What to fill it with? After advice and internet searches, I bought purified paraffin oil for €15. Nearly an hour with a 5ml syringe transferred half a litre of viscous liquid into the patient. Delighted — until oil began running down my hands through the sealant.
The sealant also blocked access to the plastic. I took the compass home and spent four evenings scraping off all the Sikaflex with a flat screwdriver. However much I welded, new gaps appeared. So I bought €15 two-part epoxy at Bauhaus and covered the entire back. Amazing: completely watertight.
Back at the yacht, the oil had turned white. Heat from the soldering iron, or traces of Fairy and alcohol used for degreasing? I don’t know. Another hour draining and refilling.
I fitted the compass in its rightful place and admired it, only to discover that the card had fallen off its pivot and now lay at the bottom, with no way to put it back.
Evening of day five. Awake at ten. Sailing clothes on, anchor alarm checked again. Windy forecast four to nine knots from the north-east. We recovered and stowed the anchor. Fireworks rose from the town waterfront. We watched happily, as though they were celebrating our voyage. Engine on. Main and genoa set. Onto our course. Cold, starry night. A light mist lay over the water.
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Evening of day five. Awake at ten. Sailing clothes on, anchor alarm checked again. Windy forecast four to nine knots from the north-east.
We recovered and stowed the anchor. Fireworks rose from the town waterfront. We watched happily, as though they were celebrating our voyage. Engine on. Main and genoa set. Onto our course.
Cold, starry night. A light mist lay over the water. Navigation was easy: a tall building in Travemünde, topped by a signal light, became our guiding beacon. Anton dozed, occasionally checking I was still at the tiller. Heat pads stuck to my socks kept the cold at bay. One of the best defences against cold; I’d recommend them to any sailor.
The wind followed us all the way to Travemünde, then met us head-on in the Trave. Sails furled, engine on. Halfway to the marina, a lone comet briefly lit the sky fiery orange. Then the wind died completely, turning the river into a mirror of the sky. Berthed at four. Bed.
Day six. Awake at eleven. Washed, cleaned the yacht, packed. Lunch at one at the local restaurant: coffee and schnitzel with chips and pepper sauce for me. Goodbyes, then separate ways: me to Kiel, Anton to Hamburg.
I loved this expedition: 183 miles and so many impressions of Denmark. We seemed to try everything: every point of sail, squeezing out speed, manual steering and autopilot, cooking in a seaway, poling out genoa and spinnaker, heaving to, anchoring, drifting in calm and beating into thirty knots. I’m grateful to Anton for his company, willingness to tackle any job and enthusiasm for any adventure. Alone, I’d have had half the experience.
I managed to put the material together into a video I’d like to share: • YouTube • VK Video • Dzen
Day five. Windy showed little wind, disappearing by evening. Worse, almost none for the next two days. Night breezes were our only hope. I set an alarm for 3.50am to make the most of one, then slept through until five. Breakfast underway instead.
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Day five. Windy showed little wind, disappearing by evening. Worse, almost none for the next two days. Night breezes were our only hope. I set an alarm for 3.50am to make the most of one, then slept through until five. Breakfast underway instead.
Shipping Forecast promised a steady force 4. I looked from it to Windy. One of them was lying. Or the Shipping Forecast meant overnight.
30.08.2024, 02 GZ, Western Baltic NW, Bft 4, backing↺ W, decreasing⇩ to light later on East locally showers⛆ squals
Six o’clock. Departure, with about four other crews. Langeland astern, onto our course. Eight knots on the anemometer, 3.8 on the log. We decided on the pole. Anton enthusiastically volunteered to do it all himself. With the genoa poled out, another half-knot.
Granola and milk for breakfast while I explained repacking the spinnaker in the saloon. Forehatch open, genoa furled, guys and spinnaker halyard passed down the hatch to attach to the sail corners. Once ready, a quick hoist. Another half-knot. By then, every yacht around had a spinnaker up.
Even crossing the Baltic between Denmark and Germany, we never lost sight of land on both sides at once. Under spinnaker, we made excellent progress, catching the boats ahead. One particularly interested me: I was sure it was the all-women crew that had left Bagenkop twenty minutes before us. We caught them in German waters near Fehmarn. To my surprise, an older man helmed. Not a woman in sight. A pair of porpoises escorted us ahead of the bow instead.
Noon. Anton suggested carrying on. Fine by me. We passed beneath the bridge under spinnaker. With a favourable current, nearly six knots, overtaking everyone around. Such a pleasure: the number on the wind instrument matched the boat speed on the log.
At six, we anchored off Grömitz and tested the holding in reverse. Instant mash, smoked sausage and crackers for dinner. We agreed to leave at ten that night: a night breeze might get us to Lübeck before the calm. Alarm set; bed.
Day four. Up at 5.50am. A short distance today: an extra hour’s sleep allowed. The usual routine: three-in-one coffee, granola, milk, flask and kettle, then record the Shipping Forecast. 29.08.2024, 0306 UTC, Belts and Sound H1029 from English Channel to Western Baltic Sea SE veering↻ NW, Bft 4 for a time decreasing⇩ a little later thundery↯ gust, sea 0.5 meter On deck, I enjoyed a gentle breeze towards the marina exit.
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Day four. Up at 5.50am. A short distance today: an extra hour’s sleep allowed. The usual routine: three-in-one coffee, granola, milk, flask and kettle, then record the Shipping Forecast.
29.08.2024, 0306 UTC, Belts and Sound H1029 from English Channel to Western Baltic Sea SE veering↻ NW, Bft 4 for a time decreasing⇩ a little later thundery↯ gust, sea 0.5 meter
On deck, I enjoyed a gentle breeze towards the marina exit. Tempting to leave without starting the engine. A couple of minutes’ planning, and I decided to try. We released the bow lines, gently pulled on the stern lines to start moving out, then turned downwind and unfurled a little genoa. In complete silence, we glided past neighbouring boats into the open sea.
Anton went below for an online German lesson. I unfurled the genoa and set our course. West of Langeland is unnerving: shallows and large submerged rocks everywhere. To cut a corner, I crossed one three-metre-deep patch. No incident.
At the fairway, we had to start the engine: the south-easterly was dead ahead, leaving the sails flapping. Near Marstal, swans covered the water. Magnificent. The closer we came, the stronger the smell of smoked fish. Later, Grigory from Meerbär told me the smoking there was among the best he’d encountered.
Unfortunately, the farther we went, the more the wind faded. Anton suggested relaxing in the calm. For nearly four hours, we drifted on a sea like oil. Crisps and Danish apple spritzer, a book for me, then soup and crackers. Yachts kept motoring past towards Bagenkop. That worried me; I decided to follow.
Hardly any berths remained. We found the last three narrow ones, 2.9m wide. Despite the width signs, the machine charged by length. Electricity included, unlimited showers. From the marina tower, we watched arriving yachts search. Some tried to squeeze beside us but couldn’t fit between the piles; some asked to raft alongside neighbours; others left empty-handed.
Not much to do. A village is a village. A beach nearby, though. We visited the Catholic church and ate instant mash with smoked sausages.
Day three. Last night, we studied the charts after Windy forecast a south-easterly. We couldn’t sail to Rudkøbing as originally planned. We agreed to change the route to Ærøskøbing, then Bagenkop, as Marstal was too close. Up at 5.50am. Breakfast had changed: the same three-in-one coffee, but now two bowls for granola and milk. Making a flask of tea with breakfast became a tradition. Shipping Forecast entered in the log.
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Day three. Last night, we studied the charts after Windy forecast a south-easterly. We couldn’t sail to Rudkøbing as originally planned. We agreed to change the route to Ærøskøbing, then Bagenkop, as Marstal was too close.
Up at 5.50am. Breakfast had changed: the same three-in-one coffee, but now two bowls for granola and milk. Making a flask of tea with breakfast became a tradition. Shipping Forecast entered in the log.
28.08.2024, 0321 UTC, Belts and Sound SE, Bft 3→4, for a time increasing a little, sea 1 meter
Departure at 7.30. One reef in both sails, with the option to unfurl more genoa. Into the wind all day. Fun playing with the mainsheet traveller, judging how far we could turn, competing with other boats on speed and pointing, and squeezing out every little bit of performance.
About halfway, we hove to for lunch: smoked salmon, rye bread and remoulade, made into sandwiches. We drifted towards shore at 1–1.5 knots, so continued after half an hour. Later, I realised we could have deployed the sea anchor.
Into the marina at 2.30pm. Wind up to twenty knots, twisting the yacht round inside the berth. Difficult berthing. Anton tried to put on the stern line; it fell in the water. He looked at it awkwardly, calmly turned and went forward to secure the bow, leaving it sinking. I didn’t know how to react: the engine was still in slow ahead and could catch the rope. I asked him to retrieve it before going forward.
Ærøskøbing was fantastically beautiful, historic and compact. Unlimited showers and Wi-Fi in the marina. Beside the showers, a twenty-hole minigolf course; a ball cost just a couple of euros at the nearby bar.
Smoked herring and potato salad at a nearby restaurant for dinner. I spent the rest of the evening reading.
Day two. Alarm at 5.50am. Boiled eggs, instant porridge, three-in-one coffee. More water in the kettle this time, to fill the flask straight away. Weather entered in the log. 27.08.2024, 0246 UTC, Belts and Sound SW shifting SE later, Bft 3→4, sea 0.5 meter We left at 6.30 under full sail, close-hauled almost directly towards the rising sun. About 4.8 knots. At ten, we rounded Als and changed course. The wind came aft, costing us a whole knot.
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Day two. Alarm at 5.50am. Boiled eggs, instant porridge, three-in-one coffee. More water in the kettle this time, to fill the flask straight away. Weather entered in the log.
27.08.2024, 0246 UTC, Belts and Sound SW shifting SE later, Bft 3→4, sea 0.5 meter
We left at 6.30 under full sail, close-hauled almost directly towards the rising sun. About 4.8 knots. At ten, we rounded Als and changed course.
The wind came aft, costing us a whole knot. We decided to pole out the genoa. It was new to Anton, who struggled to untangle the pole on the foredeck. I checked around, engaged the autopilot and went forward. Cramped with two of us. Concentrating on a jammed shackle, I missed a wave that bounced us slightly. My foot slipped on a rope by the bulwark. I searched for support as the jolt pushed me sideways. My thigh pressed against a guardwire. A fraction of a second later, it snapped, and my legs went overboard. Everything inside tightened. I couldn’t breathe or make a sound. My eyes searched desperately for a handhold as I slid out centimetre by centimetre. Realising I could reach the forestay, I lunged with my right hand. My feet were fully in the sea. I pulled myself up a little, trying to work out how to climb back. By then, Anton seemed to wake from a dream: he grabbed my shoulder and hauled me onto the deck.
Shaking at the knees, I returned to the cockpit. No strength or desire left for the pole. Anton decided to finish it himself. Once fitted, the sail’s shape changed at once, giving us half a knot.
Tinned soup and crackers for lunch.
Approaching Fåborg, I searched carefully for a berth. I didn’t want to pay twice the price because of Danish quirks, as in Sønderborg. I chose the narrowest berth I could find; the hull even scraped the wooden piles. At the machine, we discovered… no width-based pricing here, only length. €32 for our size, with electricity and showers extra.
In town, we ate fresh seafood, visited an interesting natural-history museum, walked an old railway, saw a miniature town, bought provisions at Netto and admired traditional sailing boats along the waterfront. Fish balls with rye bread and remoulade for dinner. Anton’s view of the day is on his channel.
A couple of hours before arrival, I found the marina’s number in Navionics and called: Hello. I'm Andrei Iatsuk, sailing yacht Rassvet. My length overall is 8.8 meters, breadth is 2.7 meters, draught is 1.6 meters, and mast height is 12 meters. ETA is 2 o'clock. Can I book a berth place for tonight? They heard me out and said they didn’t take reservations. The pontoons were almost full. Anton stood forward, looking for green berth signs. We were lucky to find one.
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A couple of hours before arrival, I found the marina’s number in Navionics and called:
Hello. I'm Andrei Iatsuk, sailing yacht Rassvet. My length overall is 8.8 meters, breadth is 2.7 meters, draught is 1.6 meters, and mast height is 12 meters. ETA is 2 o'clock. Can I book a berth place for tonight?
They heard me out and said they didn’t take reservations.
The pontoons were almost full. Anton stood forward, looking for green berth signs. We were lucky to find one. Wind over the bow: easier berthing and a more comfortable cockpit afterwards.
At the payment machine, you could pay by boat length or berth width. I chose length, under thirteen metres. €50. Exploring the menus, I realised a 2.9–3.2m berth would cost at least half as much. Back aboard to attach the paid sticker to the rail, I saw [>3.2<] beside the green square. Every berth has its width marked. Later, I learnt the town quay was cheaper too.
Google Maps directed us to Biltema. We waited at the bus stop. You can pay in euros on the bus; change comes in kroner, lovely coins with holes in the middle.
Biltema was smaller than Kalmar’s, but had everything needed, at far lower prices than Germany. No fenders in the model I wanted, but new sheets: polyester, 24m long, 12mm diameter, with a sewn-in Dyneema eye, for €40! The cheapest equivalent at SVB was €150, typically around €200. The same pattern across the shop.
We ate there too. Honestly, I expected little from a hardware-store café. A burger, potatoes and Coke for 120 DKK. An enormous burger arrived in a beautifully soft bun, covered in meat sauce and fried onions. A boat-shaped dish of potato wedges with any sauces I wanted, and a cup for unlimited drinks. New furniture, huge panoramic windows several storeys high. Very pleased with both shopping and lunch.
A small, cosy town, easily explored on foot. A castle, bike hire. Shops close at five. Unlimited showers and a kitchen at the marina. An excellent stop.
Day one. Up at 4.50am. Water on, three-in-one coffee and instant porridge ready, two boiled eggs on the table. While the kettle boiled, I wrote down the Shipping Forecast.
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Day one. Up at 4.50am. Water on, three-in-one coffee and instant porridge ready, two boiled eggs on the table. While the kettle boiled, I wrote down the Shipping Forecast.
26.08.2024, 0331 UTC, Western Baltic H1023 from West Germany moves to Russia H1024 from Biscay moves to East Germany SW backing↺ S, Bft 4→5, decreasing⇩ about 3, locally showers squalls, sea 1 meter
Plenty of wind forecast, though following. Since my 2022 RYA Day Skipper course I’ve had my own sail-configuration rule: – force 1–3, one to ten knots: spinnaker – force 4, ten to fifteen knots: full sail – force 5, fifteen to twenty knots: first reef – force 6, twenty to twenty-seven knots: second reef – force 7–8, twenty-seven to forty knots: third reef or storm sails – force 9, over forty knots: stay home And after Alexander Guskov’s lecture I know the headsail should be less reefed than the main. So this time I chose two reefs in the main and one in the genoa.
Places needing attention: traffic off Eckernförde, Kappeln and Sønderborg. Shoals begin near Sønderborg too: watch the cardinal marks.
Little wind in Kiel Bay. Anton went below to study German. In open water, the breeze freshened and we made 5.5–6.5 knots. The reefs seemed right.
The second thing England taught me was a rhythm of feeding the crew. Breakfast at six, departure seven, and at nine I went below for tea and oat bars. At 11.30, I heated tinned Thai soup and filled a tea flask, which we drank from with salted pretzel sticks until arrival. Keep hot tea available so the crew stay warm.
Towards the end, we headed closer to the wind. The anemometer touched 28 knots several times. The autopilot couldn’t cope; I helmed all the way to the marina. Berthed at two.
Anton and I arranged to meet aboard on Sunday. He even wrote a post about it. No Heligoland on the route, but he still wanted to come. I printed a crew list and passage plan in case of an inspection, like the recent one described by Grigory.
After England, I wanted to experience tides and currents on my own. That meant the Kiel Canal, NOK, into the North Sea. Plans included Cuxhaven, Heligoland and any Frisian island. The last part was difficult. I studied Navionics, Imray’s Germany and Denmark cruising guide, marina websites, the German pilotage site https://www.skipperguide.de/wiki/Wangerooge, Google and Telegram chats. Nowhere could I find the information I needed for Wangerooge or Spiekeroog.
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After England, I wanted to experience tides and currents on my own. That meant the Kiel Canal, NOK, into the North Sea. Plans included Cuxhaven, Heligoland and any Frisian island. The last part was difficult.
I studied Navionics, Imray’s Germany and Denmark cruising guide, marina websites, the German pilotage site https://www.skipperguide.de/wiki/Wangerooge, Google and Telegram chats. Nowhere could I find the information I needed for Wangerooge or Spiekeroog. Eventually, I emailed the marina:
Dear Mr Peter,
I'm Andrei Iatsuk. I've found your contact on the Wangerooge Yacht-club website here:
I'm planning to visit your marina on Monday, 26.08.2024 for a night. My boat is Ohlson 29: 8.8 m LoA, 2.7 m width, 1.6 m draught, 12 m mast. I'm worrying about depth in the marina due to a low tide. There are no specific depths in different cruise almanacs from Imray or on Navionivs charts. So I decided to write to you directly and ask about it. I will really appreciate for a short answer from you about is it enough depth for my boat or not?
I'm looking forward to hearing from you and wishing you to have a nice day.
Kind regards, Andrei Iatsuk
Thankfully, a reply came the next day:
that's no problem. However, it is best to approach the harbor at high tide or a maximum of 2 hours after or before.
Route planned. On https://wsv.webshop.bund.de I paid €12 for the canal transit and printed the emailed number on A4. I’d already walked to the canal, picked up an English leaflet, and watched the signals: • red or green: no entry • red and white: entry will be permitted in fifteen minutes • white: fifteen minutes to enter the lock White usually appears within the first ten minutes of each hour. Daylight only, maximum 10km/h. No autopilot or sailing. About ten hours in total. You can call on VHF channel 12, but they won’t tell you anything new.
The day before departure, Anton @nerekong, asked to join so he could see Heligoland. We agreed I’d pick him up in Cuxhaven on Saturday. After work on Thursday, I bought provisions, showered, went aboard, unpacked and went to bed.
At six on Friday, I opened Windy for the first time to check. Gusts to 35 knots, dead ahead all day. Under engine into that, I’d manage only two or three knots. Worse, Sunday’s Cuxhaven–Heligoland leg could mean 45 knots on the nose. Time to abandon the North Sea plan and start again. I told Anton.
Getting from my front door in Kiel to the pontoon in Lübeck takes up to three hours. Usually, an alarm at 7.20 gets me there by noon. But after moving the yacht to Kiel, a fifteen-minute ferry ride takes me straight to the marina. In four weeks in Kiel, I visited the yacht… four times. Three with colleagues I’d invited sailing, once to move berths as agreed with the harbourmaster. Over those 28 days, I reached three main conclusions.
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Getting from my front door in Kiel to the pontoon in Lübeck takes up to three hours. Usually, an alarm at 7.20 gets me there by noon. But after moving the yacht to Kiel, a fifteen-minute ferry ride takes me straight to the marina.
In four weeks in Kiel, I visited the yacht… four times. Three with colleagues I’d invited sailing, once to move berths as agreed with the harbourmaster. Over those 28 days, I reached three main conclusions.
First, anything close at hand starts to feel less special. ‘Fifteen minutes to the yacht’ is relaxing, followed by ‘There’s always time.’ Three hours each way focuses you: you’ll spend your time aboard and won’t just head home. Household jobs stay at home.
Second, there isn’t much to do around Kiel. The nearest marinas are Laboe, five miles; Damp, eighteen; Eckernförde, twenty; Bagenkop, thirty-one; Marstal, thirty-five. From Travemünde, by comparison: Niendorf, seven; Neustadt, nine; Grömitz, eleven; Wismar Bay with four towns, eighteen to twenty-five; and Fehmarn with five towns, twenty-six to thirty-five. Lübeck Bay is ideal for weekend sailing.
Third, a nearby boat becomes a warm, sociable place, full of friends’ and family’s smiles and excited exclamations. Lovely to see their curiosity exploring the hull, and hear them compare steering under engine and sail, motion and heel, and passing other vessels. Their enthusiasm and thanks filled me with warmth and joy. I’d like to bring the yacht to Kiel again next year.
Another advantage: from my marina, Travemünde is seven river miles away. In Kiel, sails can go up straight outside the marina. I miss that. Switching off the engine after just ten minutes is worth a lot.
Back from my RYA course, I was full of energy. To use some up, I decided to take the yacht from Lübeck to Kiel. First, finding a berth. I wrote: Dear sir or madam, I'm going to arrive in Kiel on the weekend and would like to have a berth place for the next 2–4 weeks. My sailing boat is 8.8 m length, 2.7 m width, 1.6 m draught, 12 m mast. Would it be possible to book a place for the period from 27th of July to 9th of August or 23rd of August?
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Back from my RYA course, I was full of energy. To use some up, I decided to take the yacht from Lübeck to Kiel.
First, finding a berth. I wrote:
Dear sir or madam,
I'm going to arrive in Kiel on the weekend and would like to have a berth place for the next 2–4 weeks. My sailing boat is 8.8 m length, 2.7 m width, 1.6 m draught, 12 m mast. Would it be possible to book a place for the period from 27th of July to 9th of August or 23rd of August?
I'm looking forward to hearing from you.
Kind regards, Andrei Iatsuk
Then emailed it to marinas: • laboe.de — no reply • gwh.sh — no reply • schiffswerftlaboe.de — asked me to wait, then said the next day that nothing was available • sporthafen-kiel.de — asked which of nine marinas I wanted, then ignored ‘any of them’ • wvm-online.de — replied that they’d reserved four weeks for €200
On 26 July 2024, I arrived in Lübeck, prepared the yacht and set off at ten that night. A fair distance. Losing one knot would add three or four hours. I realised how much even a quarter-knot mattered. I tried to get the sail configuration perfect, eyes fixed on the log. When wind was lacking, the engine helped.
Then fatigue. I switched to interval sleep: an alarm every twenty minutes. Wake, check other vessels, fishing nets, depth, course, wind and sails; reset for another twenty minutes. Cold despite three layers, I sat wrapped in a sleeping bag. That was most of the night.
At five, I approached Fehmarn. The hardest section: darkness, narrow fairway, unlit buoys and… current! About 1–1.5 knots against us. Unexpected in the Baltic. I helmed by hand until 7.30, when the island was astern.
Kiel greeted me with busy traffic. After two, I berthed in an extraordinarily beautiful marina. Eighty-five miles in sixteen hours. Track here.
The day after finishing at BOSS, I had to be in London. At nine on 13 July 2024, I walked beside a lovely canal to First Class Sailing’s office for RYA First Aid. It’s required for the RYA Yachtmaster exam. The certificate lasts three years and covers first aid and a Category C medical kit, with an emphasis on conditions at sea, helicopter evacuation and VHF communication. Our lecturer was Spanish, with a strong accent. Twelve people attended with me.
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The day after finishing at BOSS, I had to be in London. At nine on 13 July 2024, I walked beside a lovely canal to First Class Sailing’s office for RYA First Aid.
It’s required for the RYA Yachtmaster exam. The certificate lasts three years and covers first aid and a Category C medical kit, with an emphasis on conditions at sea, helicopter evacuation and VHF communication.
Our lecturer was Spanish, with a strong accent. Twelve people attended with me. Seven hours covered the essentials: – stopped breathing – open and closed fractures – hypothermia and heatstroke – primary and secondary, or ‘dry’, drowning – burns – heart attacks – allergies, diabetes and asthma – nearly thirty more injuries and illnesses
Each topic covered what happens in the body, symptoms, and action in mild and severe cases. On dummies, we practised defibrillation, chest compressions, rescue breaths and the Heimlich manoeuvre for choking. We put each other in the recovery position. An interesting point: wrist-pressure bands, ginger sweets or a soundproof earplug in one ear can sometimes help seasickness. Stress, coffee and fatty food can trigger or worsen it.
Lunch was memorable. A woman passed a sheet round the tables: meat, cheese or meat-and-cheese options, all €10. After paying, each of us got a plate with a couple of spoonfuls of sweetcorn, five cherry tomatoes, one sliced lightly pickled gherkin, five cucumber slices, spinach with balsamic glaze, five transparent slices of ham, and a bread roll. My neighbour had a little triangle of blue cheese instead of ham. Tasty. Expensive. Small.
Emotionally, I found the day very hard. We discussed how each injury leads to death and what to do if our actions don’t help. My main takeaway: first aid is about preventing someone from dying in the last one to ten minutes of their life, even at the cost of a lung, limbs or ribs, long enough to reach resuscitation care.
Useful, of course. A lot of information. The lecturer advised repeating it every year rather than every three. I can see his point.
A few thoughts after the RYA Coastal Skipper course, and about British Offshore Sailing School, BOSS, in particular. Everyone on the course, including me, had chosen the school on recommendations. I was surrounded by British people. Even the Canadian couple had British parents and a thoroughly British outlook. I understood everything they said.
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A few thoughts after the RYA Coastal Skipper course, and about British Offshore Sailing School, BOSS, in particular.
Everyone on the course, including me, had chosen the school on recommendations. I was surrounded by British people. Even the Canadian couple had British parents and a thoroughly British outlook. I understood everything they said. They, though, were clearly less used to talking to someone whose first language wasn’t English, which made me a little withdrawn. Still, everyone was friendly and respectful.
The practical was intensive, very different from Kabestan. We slept six or seven hours, had an hour for washing morning and evening, and spent the remaining fifteen hours training. Sometimes there wasn’t even time to call home. The logbook says it all: as many miles in five days as in ten at Kabestan. Five days really are enough to wear you out.
Five morning jobs: • check engine oil • pump the bilge • fill the water tank • remove the mainsail cover and prepare the lines • enter the Shipping Forecast and tide times in the log Everyone had to do at least one.
Each day had about three passages. One of us became skipper and prepared a passage plan, then gathered the crew round the table for a briefing covering: • the route • navigational hazards • the forecast • where to hoist and lower sails, and their configuration: reefs and points of sail Then the skipper assigned roles and rotated them underway. They took the tiller only for departure and berthing, which they also planned. The rest of the time went on supervising the crew, knowing our position and keeping the log.
We used sail whenever possible. If we could leave an anchorage or mooring under main without starting the engine — currents didn’t always allow it — we did.
Planning was thoroughly traditional: chart, protractor, pen and compass. What a joy when, in zero visibility, my calculations brought us to the right spot every time.
So far, I consider this one of the best schools I’ve attended. I’m also proud of all the training I received from Denis Mironov at Black Sea School. He made me an exceptionally competent crew member, whose knots and rigging work often earn approval.
Most importantly, I gained the confidence, and the required tidal miles, to sit the next qualification’s exam.
The full five-day, 105-mile route can be viewed on SailTies.
Drawbacks: joining at eight on Monday morning effectively requires a hotel night. Also, the yacht’s appearance, the worst of any I’ve sailed so far. But that impression fades in the first couple of days.
Day five. 12 July 2024. Up at eight. The usual croissants and toast with jam. I checked the engine oil. The instructor spotted contamination in the fuel filter and decided to drain out the water and bacteria. We discussed planning long offshore passages around tidal gates, the sort typically required for a Yachtmaster Offshore exam. Surprisingly, he also gave very positive feedback on my night passage yesterday. Jen planned our route to Netley buoy.
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Day five. 12 July 2024. Up at eight. The usual croissants and toast with jam.
I checked the engine oil. The instructor spotted contamination in the fuel filter and decided to drain out the water and bacteria. We discussed planning long offshore passages around tidal gates, the sort typically required for a Yachtmaster Offshore exam. Surprisingly, he also gave very positive feedback on my night passage yesterday.
Jen planned our route to Netley buoy. There, we practised heaving to. The instructor said it was one of the techniques he used most on his own boat: to ride out weather, rest, cook or simply use the loo. Then each of us tried a man-overboard recovery using the same heaving-to technique, as recommended by the RYA.
Clive gave me the tiller, asked us to stow the sails and pick up a nearby buoy for lunch. For the next hour, the crew laughed that I’d chosen the filthiest, most disgusting buoy of the lot.
Lunch was tuna mixed with sweetcorn and mayonnaise, stuffed into rolls with cheese and crisps.
Roland planned the route to the fuel berth and marina. Meanwhile, Clive spoke privately with each of us, offering advice for further development. He said my crew organisation and boat handling were excellent, but I should use more navigation techniques. Always use a hand-bearing compass, for example. I don’t have one, incidentally. I thanked him and said the course had been ‘fascinating’. He laughed for some reason. I never understood why.
On the way back, he told us: ‘A skipper’s job is to organise the crew. If you’ve become a Yachtmaster and still do most of the work yourself, you’re doing something wrong.’
Finally, Clive signed our logbooks, we cleaned the boat, and collected certificates at the office. I’m now an RYA Coastal Skipper.
Day four. 11 July 2024. Up at seven. Toast and croissants. Weather and tide times entered in the log. We removed the torn genoa for the sail loft. While awaiting a replacement, the instructor covered restricted visibility: types of fog, planning for it, sound signals and watches. Put a lookout on the bow, where it’s quieter. Only one: two start chatting. Change every twenty minutes: prolonged listening and staring lead to imagined sights and sounds.
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Day four. 11 July 2024. Up at seven. Toast and croissants. Weather and tide times entered in the log.
We removed the torn genoa for the sail loft. While awaiting a replacement, the instructor covered restricted visibility: types of fog, planning for it, sound signals and watches. Put a lookout on the bow, where it’s quieter. Only one: two start chatting. Change every twenty minutes: prolonged listening and staring lead to imagined sights and sounds. Then we moved on to heavy-weather techniques.
A knock on the hull: the sail had arrived. My quick bowline caused quite a stir while fitting it. We temporarily set the storm jib over it and discussed its use.
We practised coming alongside from a 90-degree bow-on approach. My turn coincided with peak tidal stream. Astonishingly different from Baltic berthing, like a strong wind.
Roland took us to Osborne Bay for tea. A pleasure sailing with a fresh sail. I dropped the anchor. We heard a Mayday — on the video — while a rainbow-coloured cloud, a rather rare phenomenon, passed overhead.
Clive demonstrated poling out the headsail. He told me to get us underway and head off the wind. We rigged the pole and a mainsail preventer while moving, sailed downwind, headed up onto a close course, then bore away again and took everything down. Jen fixed our position and planned back to Osborne Bay, allowing one metre under the keel at low tide.
Once she came up with her plan, I was tasked with a night passage to Ocean Village Marina in Southampton. With a break for pasta with tomato sauce and chorizo, I finished by nine. Lingering memories from my Day Skipper practical course helped. The sounder showed exactly a metre under the keel. I had Bramble Bank to cross in darkness. Almost all the way across the shoal, I mistakenly used a flashing building instead of the buoy. A spectacular failure. I realised only when the crew spotted the correct buoy abeam. Otherwise, a quiet passage. They applauded my perfect berthing: lovely and embarrassing. One in the morning.
Word of the day: slack — hanging without tension, of a mooring line
Day three. 10 July 2024. Up at 6.30am. Toast and croissants with jam; Phil had cereal. Clive began with theory: tidal gates, quickly plotting a course to steer with one ruler, and tricks with waterproof charts and pilot books. Lifejackets, cold-water shock and dry drowning. We entered the forecast and tide times in the log and discussed departure options from our berth. In the marina, finger-berth approaches, once or twice each.
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Day three. 10 July 2024. Up at 6.30am. Toast and croissants with jam; Phil had cereal.
Clive began with theory: tidal gates, quickly plotting a course to steer with one ruler, and tricks with waterproof charts and pilot books. Lifejackets, cold-water shock and dry drowning. We entered the forecast and tide times in the log and discussed departure options from our berth.
In the marina, finger-berth approaches, once or twice each. Then to a buoy for tea and biscuits while Philip planned farther up the river. There, more buoy approaches under sail. Being the youngest worked in my favour: I got 90% of the foredeck jobs and more practice than the others.
Lunch there too: cucumber, tomatoes, avocado, hummus, mayonnaise, pepper, cheese, ham and tortillas. We chopped vegetables and made wraps, with juice to drink. Jen planned Portsmouth to the Beaulieu River.
Third reef in main and genoa. Wind 21–27 knots. Waves broke against us, slowing and knocking us sideways. We unfurled the genoa to the first reef and gained enough speed to hold our course. I helmed. At Bramble Bank, we met two ferries, a cruise ship and two tankers. We circled for twenty minutes between the channel and shoal, letting them pass.
On the mooring, I noticed the genoa had torn along the leech; Phil spotted a broken furling-line fairlead. We fixed the fairlead together, but the sail changed tomorrow’s plans.
Dinner: lasagne, garlic bread and chocolate cake, with fruit squash. A seal swam past.
Meanwhile, Phil planned a night passage to Hamble. Departure at nine. A fascinating three-hour passage with intricate navigation. The Solent has an extraordinary number of lights, and Phil tracked our progress brilliantly by them. Berthed, then hot chocolate and a debrief.
A couple of phrases from the day: Pumpy — bumpy, uncomfortable conditions on the water Good catch — spotting or catching something in time
Day two. 9 July 2024. Up at six. As promised, Roland had snored all night. Croissants and toast with jam. Checked oil and bilge water, filled the water tank. I handled departure. Not straightforward in England: you have to plan the release of every line for the current wind and stream. Leaving Yarmouth, Clive diverted us to the moorings. Each of us approached a buoy. Phil and I needed one attempt, Jen and Roland two. Then the same under sail.
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Day two. 9 July 2024. Up at six. As promised, Roland had snored all night. Croissants and toast with jam. Checked oil and bilge water, filled the water tank.
I handled departure. Not straightforward in England: you have to plan the release of every line for the current wind and stream.
Leaving Yarmouth, Clive diverted us to the moorings. Each of us approached a buoy. Phil and I needed one attempt, Jen and Roland two. Then the same under sail. Two attempts for me, three each for Jen and Phil. Roland dropped a tethered bucket over the stern and picked it up first time.
With my plan out, I assigned roles. Almost immediately, torrential rain reduced visibility to a hundred metres. We followed the compass from waypoint to waypoint, meeting the turn of the tide. Tomato and bean cup soup on the way.
At the final waypoint, after changing to engine power in a large swell, something strange happened. Headache. Blinding light. Couldn’t concentrate. I was sent to lie in the saloon, missing the narrow approach to St Helens and anchoring. Roland began planning for Portsmouth. They suggested I come out to look at the horizon. Standing in the rain with trembling legs, I knew any movement would turn me inside out. My first bout of seasickness.
Plan finished, Roland put me at the helm. At the tiller, the sickness eased. We sailed off the wind in a heavy sea. Another downpour removed all landmarks. I simply held the course: any deviation risked grounding. Fifteen minutes later, the cloud passed, revealing a harbour churning with three opposing streams.
I brought us alongside going astern. Curry, rice and cake for dinner, then an instructor’s debrief.
A little terminology: Slip = cast off = gently release, when referring to a mooring line
Quite unexpectedly, I decided to take the RYA Coastal Skipper practical course in the Solent. At 8.30am on 8 July 2024, I arrived at British Offshore Sailing School’s office in Hamble marina. Our yacht, Intuition of BOSS, was a 1996 Westerly Fulmar 32: tiller-steered, moderately battered.
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Quite unexpectedly, I decided to take the RYA Coastal Skipper practical course in the Solent. At 8.30am on 8 July 2024, I arrived at British Offshore Sailing School’s office in Hamble marina. Our yacht, Intuition of BOSS, was a 1996 Westerly Fulmar 32: tiller-steered, moderately battered.
Introductions first. Jennifer and Philip, a Canadian couple on an eight-week fast track from zero to Yachtmaster Coastal; Roland, British; and our instructor Clive. All retired. They actually had much less experience than I’d expected. Apparently, the real requirements are less daunting than those in my head. Safety briefing: gas, electrics, heads, hatches, pyrotechnics — as he put them away, Clive said, ‘Hope we don’t see those again’ — lifejackets, seacocks, running rigging and WOBBLE engine checks.
Our first outing was engine-handling exercises, about three attempts each: 1. Stopping the boat while underway 2. Stopping on a transit 3. A tight turn 4. Going astern
As the most experienced, I berthed us afterwards. Lunch was reheated baked beans and chicken pie: meat, pepper and potato in puff pastry. After lunch, we studied the forecast on synoptic charts. Force 3–4 today, eight to twelve knots.
Philip was tasked with planning and skippering the passage to the Newtown moorings. A gentle sail. I helmed into the river. The opposing stream was so strong it knocked the rudder from my hands, with water boiling at the edges. Picking up the buoy took about five minutes.
Tea, then Clive’s feedback on what had gone well and what hadn’t. Roland planned the passage to Yarmouth. An hour’s sail, followed by more feedback.
Chicken strips, green beans and potato cakes for dinner. Clive cooked everything.
For overnight homework, I had to plan our passage to the Seaview anchorage. Ideally, we would have gone round the outside of the Isle of Wight, but too much wind was forecast. Planning finished at nine. Everyone went to bed.
On 29 July 2024, I met Grigory, Askold and their friend Sergei again.
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Boats gather from nine; the parade starts at eleven. They then head towards the mouth of Kiel Fjord at about four knots, many using engines to maintain the pace. Around one or two, they turn at the fjord entrance and head back, continuing until five.
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On 29 July 2024, I met Grigory, Askold and their friend Sergei again, this time aboard Meerbär. The occasion was the festival’s closing sailing parade. Historic sailing ships and ordinary pleasure boats alike take part.
Boats gather from nine; the parade starts at eleven. They then head towards the mouth of Kiel Fjord at about four knots, many using engines to maintain the pace. Around one or two, they turn at the fjord entrance and head back, continuing until five.
Crowds lined the shore, every patch with a sea view occupied. From land, the boats might have seemed only a couple of metres apart. In reality, there was room: almost always about a hundred feet between hulls, enough to manoeuvre.
We joined from Sporthafen Wik. The wind gave us only two or three knots, letting others gradually overtake and giving us a view of the whole parade from inside. We shared sailing and sea stories. Grigory and Askold provided dried-meat sausages, ham and vegetable sandwiches, sparkling water and juice. Hot weather, light wind.
Back in the marina, we kept chatting, successfully tried fitting the Garmin Nexus instruments that would stay aboard Meerbär, bought groceries and walked the waterfront. Germany were playing Denmark that evening, and the streets were packed.
In 2024, Kieler Woche ran from 22 to 30 June. One of the world’s largest sailing festivals, transforming the city from the station to its farthest streets. This year, 3.5 million visitors, about 3,500 of them sailors. Last year I hadn’t liked it at all, mainly because of the crowds. People in the comments and at work disagreed, advising me to avoid the centre. I’d arranged with Grigory from Meerbär to meet on Sunday, 23 June, near Sporthafen Wik.
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In 2024, Kieler Woche ran from 22 to 30 June. One of the world’s largest sailing festivals, transforming the city from the station to its farthest streets. This year, 3.5 million visitors, about 3,500 of them sailors. Last year I hadn’t liked it at all, mainly because of the crowds. People in the comments and at work disagreed, advising me to avoid the centre.
I’d arranged with Grigory from Meerbär to meet on Sunday, 23 June, near Sporthafen Wik. That day, Kiel’s naval base opens its gates to everyone from eleven to five.
Busy, but bearable. An enormous site. Along the quays were vessels of all kinds: a three-masted sail-training ship, buoy tenders, police and customs boats, tankers and landing ships. Plenty of nationalities too: Colombia, Spain, Poland, the Netherlands, Denmark, Norway, the US and, of course, Germany. Most ships were open to visitors, which created queues. Some let you wander; others offered guided tours.
There were plenty of food stalls, paid separately, plus military equipment ashore: two helicopters, a tank, howitzer and armoured personnel carrier. Every half-hour, a SAR helicopter took off to demonstrate water rescues and manoeuvres over the visitors.
Afterwards, we walked to Meerbär, and Grigory showed us round. An excellent German-built sailing yacht with an unusual layout. The amount of work her current owner puts into her deserves particular admiration.
From Meerbär, we walked the waterfront towards the centre. Approaching from the north really is quieter. The crowds build gradually; just stop before the main throng. The festival came down to endless fast-food and alcohol stalls, interspersed with live-music stages. Not bad, actually.
21 June 2024. Cast off at ten. A headwind meant tacking up the river every two or three minutes. Five miles in two and a half hours. About halfway, AIS warned of crossing courses. A seven-metre motor yacht approached from starboard, its owner ignoring me. I expected him to slow and pass astern of the sailing boat. With only a couple of metres left, I had to head up. Simultaneously, he turned sharply to starboard.
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21 June 2024. Cast off at ten. A headwind meant tacking up the river every two or three minutes. Five miles in two and a half hours. About halfway, AIS warned of crossing courses. A seven-metre motor yacht approached from starboard, its owner ignoring me. I expected him to slow and pass astern of the sailing boat. With only a couple of metres left, I had to head up. Simultaneously, he turned sharply to starboard. An older man came into the cockpit and shouted furiously. Unfortunately, that level of German is beyond me. I pointed at my sail, then at him, and tapped my temple. He remained adamant he was right. I hope his marina neighbours can remind him of the COLREGs.
Near Travemünde, the wind died and I started the engine, hoping to sail again in open water. It worked: at the bay entrance, the anemometer showed a steady twelve knots. I set sail towards the safe-water mark. The wind rose to a steady 20–22 knots, well above forecast. The boat heeled and tried to round up; I held about fifteen degrees of tiller to bear away. Six knots on the log. I should have put in the first reef, though it wasn’t obvious to me then. Later, I refreshed my knowledge with this Sailing Time video.
At Neustadt, I anchored off the beach and put on some gentle jazz. Listen to Nate Smith – Fly (For Mike) with me. Hot coffee, lunch and a rest.
An hour and a half later, I weighed anchor and headed home. Naturally, a downpour arrived and wiped out visibility. Thankfully, without the forecast lightning. At one point, I suddenly spotted another sailing boat ten metres astern. That was unsettling. Later, the clouds cleared in time for a sunset. Berthed at eleven. Forty miles on the log.
That evening, 14 June 2024, I went out to test the Winchers.
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That evening, 14 June 2024, I went out to test the Winchers. Following my new tradition, sail out just beyond the marina. No engine. I even reefed a little at first, but the wind soon eased. Completely relaxed, at two or three knots, I reached Travemünde and sailed into the Baltic. More breeze in open water: up to 4.5 knots. I aimed to round the safe-water mark, the red-and-white buoy marking the start of the Lübeck fairway.
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That evening, 14 June 2024, I went out to test the Winchers. Following my new tradition, sail out just beyond the marina. No engine. I even reefed a little at first, but the wind soon eased. Completely relaxed, at two or three knots, I reached Travemünde and sailed into the Baltic.
More breeze in open water: up to 4.5 knots. I aimed to round the safe-water mark, the red-and-white buoy marking the start of the Lübeck fairway. Large commercial ships passed, met and escorted by pilot boats. Deciphering their navigation lights and following them on the plotter’s AIS was a pleasure.
Night sailing is no more frightening than sailing by day. I’d go further: lovelier than sailing at sunset. A warm breeze from the land wraps round you, moonlight catches the wave crests. Magical. I wish I could describe more, but I was simply enjoying myself.
On the way back, the wind died completely. Sail furled, steaming light on, engine rattling. Homeward course. Time to calibrate the log against GNSS speed over ground. The boat glided through total darkness. Sleeping swans lay on either side, faint in the moonlight. A golden-lilac Milky Way filled half the sky, crossed now and then by aircraft and satellites. The highlight was a comet burning in the atmosphere with a bright orange flame.
Back at exactly two in the morning. Berthed like a ninja: quietly and carefully.
What separates discomfort from pain? A sheet slipping round the winch so you need the handle to grind it in: discomfort. Coming off altogether: a nuisance. Coming off every ten minutes: pain. My 10mm sheets barely hold in the cleats. The cleats are plastic, probably worn smooth and spread slightly with age. Replacing them is a whole project I’d rather avoid. Thirty metres of new 12mm sheet would cost €150–200, hardly cheap.
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What separates discomfort from pain? A sheet slipping round the winch so you need the handle to grind it in: discomfort. Coming off altogether: a nuisance. Coming off every ten minutes: pain. My 10mm sheets barely hold in the cleats. The cleats are plastic, probably worn smooth and spread slightly with age. Replacing them is a whole project I’d rather avoid. Thirty metres of new 12mm sheet would cost €150–200, hardly cheap.
I decided to buy Barton Wincher self-tailing attachments for €90. The quest began with ‘Will they fit?’ I learnt that my winches were Australian, their drums 7.4cm wide, and their manufacturer long gone. But an old Barton brochure PDF said ‘Size M fits Barlow 22’ — photo one.
14 June 2024. Following the instructions, I poured boiling water over them to soften the rubber. Then passed a strap through the centre, looped it round the winch and pulled. Every last breath left me. I couldn’t decide which worried me more: tearing them or never getting them on. I had to hang my full weight on the strap, bracing against the side. Millimetre by millimetre, the attachment slid over the drum. I doubt it’ll come off without cutting it in half.
They work brilliantly, gripping the rope like a vice. Almost like a big yacht’s winches. A completely different experience. Recommended.
While soaking the rubber, then puffing through the fitting, I watched a lovely scene: an Optimist tacking around the marina, a little sailing boat like a washing-up bowl with a bedsheet. A father lay aft, with his young daughter nearer the bow, learning to sail downwind. A parent sharing his passion with his child. It made me smile. I only photographed them as they pulled the boat ashore.
I’m still a novice sailor. The first thousand miles in my logbook haven’t brought the confidence I wanted. Whenever the forecast shows 26–27 knots, something inside tightens into a pulsing knot. My head bargains with itself: at least a short motor out? I worry I’ll miss something and broach, as in Croatia in 2017. It was the same on 8 June 2024. From the marina pontoon, I watched whitecaps form. The surrounding masts broke up the wind into a humming whistle.
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I’m still a novice sailor. The first thousand miles in my logbook haven’t brought the confidence I wanted. Whenever the forecast shows 26–27 knots, something inside tightens into a pulsing knot. My head bargains with itself: at least a short motor out? I worry I’ll miss something and broach, as in Croatia in 2017.
It was the same on 8 June 2024. From the marina pontoon, I watched whitecaps form. The surrounding masts broke up the wind into a humming whistle. Halyards beat an anxious rhythm like war drums. I let go the lines.
Practice settles it. Now the boat is in the middle of the backwater. Some motion, nothing serious. Wind from astern. Perhaps it eased, perhaps not, but the anxiety vanished. Up with the sail. Jib fully unfurled. The yacht made 5.5–6.5 knots. Exhilarating. I left the autopilot off and handled sheets and tiller myself.
After an hour, fatigue arrived. At the next bend in the river, I needed to tack. No luck. The port sheet caught beneath the babystay and wouldn’t let the sail across. Several more failed attempts. I decided to furl and head back. Not the sort of adventure I wanted in strong wind.
Berthing was quite something. The bow leaned against the neighbouring motorboat and scraped along her side while I secured lines to the piles. Without her, I’d have ended up sideways across the pontoon. Still, I’d like to avoid touching other people’s property in future.
After berthing, I inspected the babystay. The shackle’s eye caught my attention: apparently, that was snagging the sheet. It should probably face aft to reduce the chance. I didn’t want to rearrange the stay that day, so I took a plastic lid, melted holes in it with the heat gun, fitted it over the shackle and secured it with white insulating tape. It’ll do.
One joy of a yacht is being able to anchor and catch your breath…
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One joy of a yacht is being able to find sand or mud, drop the anchor and catch your breath. There are many types of anchor for different seabeds. Common ones are shaped like hooks with flat tips. Once lying horizontally, a little pull digs them into the bottom and creates holding power. A seven-kilo anchor holds a three-tonne yacht. Pulling up the warp straightens the ‘hook’, letting you lift it off the bottom by hand.
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One joy of a yacht is being able to find sand or mud, drop the anchor and catch your breath.
There are many types of anchor for different seabeds. Common ones are shaped like hooks with flat tips. Once lying horizontally, a little pull digs them into the bottom and creates holding power. A seven-kilo anchor holds a three-tonne yacht. Pulling up the warp straightens the ‘hook’, letting you lift it off the bottom by hand. That’s why enough rope matters: you want the pull reasonably horizontal. Usually three to ten times the depth. Better still, make some or all of the rode chain: its weight keeps it down.
My anchor, four metres of chain and thirty metres of rope live in a locker. The anchor is larger than the lid, so it only comes out at an angle, awkwardly and with a risk of scratches. I wanted a rail-mounted holder to avoid that, but they cost €150–250. Recently, though, I saw an advert from Finland’s Nawa: they’d begun making holders for €50.
A couple of weeks later, the parcel arrived. Despite the simple kit, I couldn’t work out what to do with the spare pieces. I called the manufacturer for a PDF manual — final photo. To bring the retaining halves together, I wrapped a mooring line round the fitting and pulled it tight against the rail. A snug connection. With no crossbar available, I also tied it to the upper rail with a short cord.
The anchor now sits firmly without wobbling. Much easier. Next dream: a steel tube for four to six metres of chain, also rail-mounted, so I won’t have to fetch it from the locker each time. But those prices hurt.
While the gelcoat cured, I turned to the stern-tube seal.
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While the gelcoat cured, I turned to the stern-tube seal. It keeps water out where the propeller shaft enters the hull. The usual maintenance involves applying grease to the shaft and pushing it under the seal with a special rounded attachment. I’m lucky: I have a brass greaser that forces grease through a connection straight into the seal. 8 June 2024.
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While the gelcoat cured, I turned to the stern-tube seal. It keeps water out where the propeller shaft enters the hull.
The usual maintenance involves applying grease to the shaft and pushing it under the seal with a special rounded attachment. I’m lucky: I have a brass greaser that forces grease through a connection straight into the seal.
8 June 2024. I found diagrams of the greaser online, undid it with a 22mm spanner, removed the old grease and backed the pressure plate right off. Filled it with fresh grease using a spoon, about 150g. Reassembled and began screwing the piston in to fill the feed line. It went in almost two centimetres.
After a couple of outings, I can say no water is entering the bilge any more. Previously, a trip could leave a couple of cups in there.
After the post about falling overboard, Leonid commented. We moved to private messages and discussed the hull damage. Fibreglass was exposed at the stem, and I didn’t want to wait for moisture to cause delamination. He suggested masking the scratches, sanding, degreasing with acetone, and filling with colloidal silica and gelcoat. The yard suggested two-component varnish or a 3M plastic patch. Enough until autumn, with a proper repair over winter.
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After the post about falling overboard, Leonid commented. We moved to private messages and discussed the hull damage. Fibreglass was exposed at the stem, and I didn’t want to wait for moisture to cause delamination. He suggested masking the scratches, sanding, degreasing with acetone, and filling with colloidal silica and gelcoat. The yard suggested two-component varnish or a 3M plastic patch. Enough until autumn, with a proper repair over winter.
Any of those options would cost about €15. I wanted to try gelcoat, so bought a small tin containing: – 200g of cream-coloured paste – 20g of liquid hardener – a small roll of tape – a plastic sheet – a spatula – instructions
I started on 7 June 2024. First, I opened out the chips with a screwdriver. A small sander or rotary tool would have been the proper tool for neat, deep grooves. Then I masked the area and sanded the chips with coarse 80-grit paper. Repeated for every damaged patch. Two hundred grams of gelcoat was far more than enough.
Mixed the hardener and paste. It became a porous, sticky, runny cream that stained everything. I somehow applied it to the bow and shaped it with the plastic sheet, held on with tape. It kept trying to run under its own weight. Three attempts produced an acceptable result. Alcohol cleaned my hands. After twenty minutes, everything left in the tin had turned rubbery and was unusable.
Then I waited for it to cure fully. Twenty minutes, four hours, twelve hours: still tacky. It took about a day to harden completely. Far from perfect, even before considering the colour mismatch. I’ll think about it in autumn. It’ll do for the season.
The ForceSail sail webinar left mixed impressions.
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The webinar on sails from ForceSail left mixed impressions, but was useful. So I booked the next one, on weather. A few things I took away: • most weather models are based on GFS and refine its forecast • models divide the globe into cells and forecast average conditions for each. GFS uses squares 27km across • many countries have local models accounting for regional effects.
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The webinar on sails from ForceSail left mixed impressions, but was useful. So I booked the next one, on weather.
A few things I took away: • most weather models are based on GFS and refine its forecast • models divide the globe into cells and forecast average conditions for each. GFS uses squares 27km across • many countries have local models accounting for regional effects. Prefer those forecasts • wind bends round land into its lee from the sides, something to consider when anchoring • one of the worst things for a sailor is meeting a front. On a wind map, look for two opposing flows meeting along a line. Apps show it as calm, treating the vectors as cancelling each other out — photo 3. In reality, there’s turbulence and squalls — photo 2 • Windy.app — the blue app — displays fronts, but these forecast lines update only every six hours. Between updates, the actual front will be elsewhere • a dedicated weather section of the website was prepared for us, covering the topic
That’s it. Nothing more from roughly fifteen hours of webinars. Alexander likes to savour his words; I wanted triple-speed playback. For some reason, he claimed the Coriolis force doesn’t affect wind direction in cyclones and nobody knows the truth. Yet all three of my meteorology books rely on that force. He didn’t mention the jet stream, which we covered at Ardent Training . In the second webinar, we spent four hours pointing at places in a cyclone and listing clouds, pressure, precipitation, wind direction and so on. An eternity.
Unfortunately, that’s my last ForceSail experience for now. An intelligent, experienced instructor, but not open to others’ experience and prone to endless discussion of the same points. I’m not that devoted to theoretical fine detail yet.
Although I hadn’t chosen ForceSail’s course, I still wanted to learn from them.
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Although I hadn’t chosen to study with ForceSail, I still wanted to learn from them. The owner, Alexander Guskov likes arguing with everyone in sailing chats, but his reasoning is hard to dispute. Alongside his course, he runs webinars on sail trim, weather, berthing and other topics. €70 each, covering two five-hour sessions. I considered taking them all, but started with sail theory. The first session was incredibly useful.
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Although I hadn’t chosen to study with ForceSail, I still wanted to learn from them. The owner, Alexander Guskov likes arguing with everyone in sailing chats, but his reasoning is hard to dispute. Alongside his course, he runs webinars on sail trim, weather, berthing and other topics. €70 each, covering two five-hour sessions. I considered taking them all, but started with sail theory.
The first session was incredibly useful. We began with how wind exerts forces on different shapes, working towards hull and sail shapes. We covered each sail’s role, its relationship with the keel, and the order of reefing. Interesting points: • to reduce rolling in waves, you need either high speed or a large heel angle • the headsail provides drive and the main balances the boat, so reef the main first • a 150% genoa takes on the mainsail’s function, allowing comfortable sailing under genoa alone • knowing true wind strength aboard is useless; apparent wind is what matters • trim primarily by the upper third of the sails • lower speed lets you sail closer to the wind • when weighing anchor, you can set the main to give a little movement into the wind
A couple of things bothered me. Alexander is dismissive of Russian sailing terminology, rejecting staksel — from stagsegel, a sail on a stay — yet immediately talking about a headsail, which amounts to much the same thing. He also leaned heavily on maths and formulas, complicating the material unnecessarily.
For the second session, he set website tests on wind and sails. Here lay the catch: we spent the entire second session, six hours, going through those tests. So tedious I almost fell asleep with my eyes open.
Overall, I’d recommend the first sail session. Useful practical advice and the necessary background, presented together in concentrated form.
I began RYA Coastal Skipper & Yachtmaster Offshore Theory on 10 November 2023.
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I began RYA Coastal Skipper & Yachtmaster Offshore Theory on 10 November 2023. As a confident Day Skipper, I wasn’t sure I’d find much new. The amount of new material astonished me: • how to behave around wildlife • Latin cloud names and how clouds form • using radar • atmospheric pressure’s effect on water level and how tide tables are compiled • heavy-weather sailing techniques • the principles of passage planning Every topic brought a small revelation.
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I began RYA Coastal Skipper & Yachtmaster Offshore Theory on 10 November 2023. As a confident Day Skipper, I wasn’t sure I’d find much new.
The amount of new material astonished me: • how to behave around wildlife • Latin cloud names and how clouds form • using radar • atmospheric pressure’s effect on water level and how tide tables are compiled • heavy-weather sailing techniques • the principles of passage planning
Every topic brought a small revelation. Worth every penny; I wholeheartedly recommend it. Now I don’t really understand Coastal or Offshore Skipper qualifications in IYT and ISSA. They don’t have such a comprehensive course, do they?
Difficult and fascinating. I replayed some topics repeatedly before properly understanding them. I’d expected to finish in a month, but dragged it out until 9 May 2024. I wasn’t studying every week, of course: boat repairs and my day job kept me busy too.
There was no feedback during the course, even where comments on answers were promised. Disappointing. But as soon as I emailed my drawn pilotage plan, I received a friendly, detailed PDF reply, including a review of the online test.
The exams took two days: • ninety minutes of rules-of-the-road questions, including particularly tricky cases involving fishing gear extending from trawlers and different towing arrangements • 120 minutes of chartwork: mainly fixing position and calculating currents’ effects over long passages. I needed another hour • 360 minutes to plan and execute a passage. I took about 400. This was interactive: plan it properly first, then deal with problems introduced ‘during’ the passage. For example, work out where you could get with a failed engine and justify each suggestion
Five weeks after the exam, on 29 May 2024, an envelope arrived with my certificate. My review on Trustpilot.
After looking for recognised RYA online training centres, I shortlisted:
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After looking for recognised RYA online training centres, I shortlisted: 1. NavAtHome — photos 1–2 2. Skippers Online — photo 3 3. Sailing Course Online — photos 4–5 4. Ardent Training — photo 6 onwards About £350 for a year’s access. As every review praised only the school its author had attended, I asked all four for trial access. NavAtHome The most popular RYA online school, with 3,000 reviews on Trustpilot.
About £350 for a year’s access. As every review praised only the school its author had attended, I asked all four for trial access.
NavAtHome The most popular RYA online school, with 3,000 reviews on Trustpilot. The good impression lasts exactly until you enter the learning portal. It probably hasn’t changed since 1995: terrible layout, primitive pictures and animations, like an old HTML textbook.
Skippers Online Second in popularity, with 2,000 reviews. They went a step further: a narrator reads the text in a robotic voice. Pictures went into a PowerPoint presentation, narration was added, and the result exported into clips of forty to 150 seconds. Not something I feel like paying for. Incidentally, the full course is on the NNM-Club torrent tracker.
Sailing Course Online Another frequently mentioned platform, since rebranded as Urban Truant. 750 reviews. I liked it: convenient navigation, scanned materials, and a balanced mix of short texts, mini-tests and videos. The imitation folder-and-file structure was irritating: up to seven clicks to open the right section. And again, 90% of the content was text.
Ardent Training Only four years old, but already 550 reviews. Their Instagram adverts reminded me of Sila Vetra. I opened the site, found a broken layout and briefly thought they’d closed. My ad blocker was to blame. The course offers two presentation formats: click through slides or watch a full video course, like at Black Sea School. Videos are filmed on yachts, with instructors speaking natural British English. A test follows each topic. I liked the approach, paid for full access that day, and received the study pack by post a week later.
I had a yacht, some solo passage experience, and a strong desire to sail offshore…
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I had a yacht, a little experience of long solo passages, some technical knowledge, and a strong desire to sail offshore. Winter was the time to back it up with books. In the RYA scheme, theory alternates with practice through these stages: 1. Essential Navigation prepares crew to work under someone else’s direction. 2. Day Skipper gives skippers the basic minimum. They shouldn’t venture more than twenty miles from shore or sail in more than force 5. 3.
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I had a yacht, a little experience of long solo passages, some technical knowledge, and a strong desire to sail offshore. Winter was the time to back it up with books.
In the RYA scheme, theory alternates with practice through these stages: 1. Essential Navigation prepares crew to work under someone else’s direction. 2. Day Skipper gives skippers the basic minimum. They shouldn’t venture more than twenty miles from shore or sail in more than force 5. 3. Coastal Skipper/Yachtmaster Offshore requires prior sea time and supports the practical qualifications Coastal Skipper, commercial Yachtmaster Coastal and commercial Yachtmaster Offshore. It covers everything a skipper should know. Oddly, after looking through several IYT schools’ programmes — BlackSeaSchool, Yes Nautic and GoodStream — I couldn’t find mention of theory courses for their Coastal or Offshore qualifications. 4. Yachtmaster Ocean. The final stage, requiring YM Offshore. It covers celestial navigation, global currents and multi-day passage-making.
My question: where could I take a Coastal Skipper course and be sure of learning something new?
First, I visited the website of ForceSail and contacted its owner, Alexander Guskov. He presents his own theory course as based on the official RYA syllabus, but it carries no official certification.
Next, I wrote to Vladimir Semchenko, reputedly a gifted navigation teacher. Unfortunately, after Kabestan closed, he hadn’t joined another school and no longer taught. He suggested British Offshore Sailing School, BOSS, or Hamble School of Yachting.
BOSS offers online theory through NavAtHome. I thought: if it’s a popular platform recommended by British schools, why not explore the online-course market?
31 May 2024. In the morning, I brewed coffee in a cezve and read the forecast. North-easterly: nine knots, force 3, gusting sixteen, force 4, during the day. Easing to six knots, force 2, gusting twelve, force 3, in the evening. A good sailing day. My marina is on the Trave between Lübeck and Travemünde, seven miles from Lübeck Bay. A busy river, regularly used by cargo ships and enormous ferries.
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31 May 2024. In the morning, I brewed coffee in a cezve and read the forecast. North-easterly: nine knots, force 3, gusting sixteen, force 4, during the day. Easing to six knots, force 2, gusting twelve, force 3, in the evening. A good sailing day.
My marina is on the Trave between Lübeck and Travemünde, seven miles from Lübeck Bay. A busy river, regularly used by cargo ships and enormous ferries. About 100m wide, but with backwaters at least 500m across, convenient for anchoring. The marina is in one of these. Along the river, the wind is either in your face or at your back.
I motored to the bay. Waves about half a metre. Beyond the lateral marks, I engaged the autopilot and unfurled the jib. The furling line disappeared from my hands. I followed the fairleads along the stanchions with my eyes. A little tail stuck out twenty centimetres from the drum. I must have wound it too far when I fitted the jib in May. Without it, I couldn’t furl the sail. A resigned ‘…fuck’ escaped with my breath.
I freed the sheets, clipped my tether to the jackstay and went forward. The waves bounced me several centimetres clear of the deck. I had to pull the furling line until it came right out, wrapping the sheets round the sail about eight times. On my knees, I untied them, then tied them on again and led the furling line back through the fairleads to the cockpit.
Sail set again, the autopilot began misbehaving: it couldn’t hold a course. Tiller in one hand, jib sheet in the other. After about an hour, I decided to sail that way all the way home.
Wind from astern. Sometimes a gust filled the sail and gave us four knots; sometimes calm caught us. The return took three and a half hours. But what hours! An extraordinary sunset giving way to dusk, full of buoy lights and passing boats. A symphony for the eyes.
Sometimes it feels as though the boat jobs will never end. But I seem to have finished almost everything I’d planned. First, I tried adjusting the Windex and finding where rain entered the mast. I used the neighbouring marina’s mast crane for €15, with its large, convenient ladder. All I got were a couple of nice photos and the discovery of a hole I couldn’t reach. I did enjoy berthing with the bow line already led back to the cockpit.
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Sometimes it feels as though the boat jobs will never end. But I seem to have finished almost everything I’d planned.
First, I tried adjusting the Windex and finding where rain entered the mast. I used the neighbouring marina’s mast crane for €15, with its large, convenient ladder. All I got were a couple of nice photos and the discovery of a hole I couldn’t reach. I did enjoy berthing with the bow line already led back to the cockpit.
The yard team came over and offered help. We used our own crane to lift one of them to the masthead. He filled the hole with Sikaflex and held the wind vane pointing over the bow while we followed the instructions, shorting two contacts with a blade to calibrate it.
The last problem was the Wallas heater, which leaked paraffin in heating mode. I reached an area with a large red gasket, but wasn’t sure it was the culprit. I emailed a photo to distributors in Finland, Sweden, Denmark and Germany, translating the text with deepl.com. They all agreed I’d found the right place: the old gasket apparently no longer held fuel back, and the discontinued model had no replacement available. That was enough for me. I coated both sides of the gasket with liquid fuel-resistant sealant, reassembled the heater and tested it. Leak gone.
For the third weekend running, Lübeck has been at the centre of a high-pressure system.
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First, new foam seals for the hatch and lockers. Cleaned and degreased with alcohol, then laid strips along the old marks. The hatch needed thicker 20mm × 15mm strip, two metres long, for a tight fit. The lockers took thinner 25mm × 5mm strip, three metres, cushioning contact without preventing closure.
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For the third weekend running, Lübeck has been at the centre of a high-pressure system. No wind. But there’s always something to do aboard.
First, new foam seals for the hatch and lockers. Cleaned and degreased with alcohol, then laid strips along the old marks. The hatch needed thicker 20mm × 15mm strip, two metres long, for a tight fit. The lockers took thinner 25mm × 5mm strip, three metres, cushioning contact without preventing closure.
I cleaned the water tank. Following the instructions, added 250ml of treatment to eighty litres, filled the pipes and waited a day. Then filled and drained three times. A full water tank lowers the centre of gravity and improves stability. But when I pressurised the system and looked for leaks, I found empty pump connections and a leaking hose beside them. Apparently, they’d been disconnected for winter drying. I pumped the bilge with a pump driven by an electric drill.
Then electrics until two in the morning. I ran 6mm² AWG10 cable to the AIS and plotter to stop them suffering from voltage drop.
Marine electronics use NMEA data standards: the older NMEA 0183 and newer NMEA 2000. AIS can send vessel details to the plotter, the plotter can initiate a radio call, and the radio can broadcast coordinates from the GPS antenna. In NMEA 0183, each device has four wires: a high-speed TX1/RX1 pair and a normal TX2/RX2 pair. In principle, connect one device’s high-speed TX1 to the other’s high-speed RX1, and vice versa.
My experience: 1. I couldn’t connect the radio to the AIS GPS feed 2. The plotter lets you choose which pair is high-speed. I discovered that after resoldering everything 3. The wires are finer than hair. I had to solder them with the insulation still on 4. AIS had four wires for each high-speed and normal connection: TX+, TX−, RX+, RX−. A Garmin guide helped: leave TX− unconnected, RX− to ground 5. Check each device’s documentation for wire colours
Now the plotter displays nearby boats and gives warnings. Unlike Navionics, it also calculates time to closest approach.
After going overboard I needed to service the automatic lifejacket. It works with a gas cylinder and a firing cartridge: a water sensor triggers the piercing pin. First, I deflated it by pressing the valve in the oral inflation tube with my finger. Removed and discarded the used cylinder and cartridge. Rinsed the fabric with running water and dried it. Once dry, check all reflective patches are present, then inflate by mouth and make sure it holds air.
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After going overboard I needed to service the automatic lifejacket. It works with a gas cylinder and a firing cartridge: a water sensor triggers the piercing pin.
First, I deflated it by pressing the valve in the oral inflation tube with my finger. Removed and discarded the used cylinder and cartridge. Rinsed the fabric with running water and dried it. Once dry, check all reflective patches are present, then inflate by mouth and make sure it holds air. Ideally, leave it for at least twelve hours.
Meanwhile, I ordered a €25 rearming kit, chosen from the specifications printed on the jacket. Mine needed a 33g CO₂ cylinder and a cartridge for a UML MK5 mechanism.
Once it arrived, I fitted the parts and repacked the jacket. Take care: it opens rapidly under considerable pressure. Avoid complicated folds; aim for concertina folds. A second jacket makes a useful reference. I arranged the folds from the cover’s outside edge towards the centre, avoiding lumps once closed.
18 May 2024. First passage. The engine held its revs. AIS warned of approaching vessels. On the Garmin inReach the waypoints were named after buoy characteristics. Handy. Its compass also showed course error, letting me adjust the autopilot to within a degree. Speed: 5.5 knots. The antifouling was working. Only my windbreaker wasn’t enough for the sixteen knots on the anemometer. Off the fuel berth in Travemünde, I decided to refill the diesel cans.
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18 May 2024. First passage. The engine held its revs. AIS warned of approaching vessels. On the Garmin inReach the waypoints were named after buoy characteristics. Handy. Its compass also showed course error, letting me adjust the autopilot to within a degree. Speed: 5.5 knots. The antifouling was working. Only my windbreaker wasn’t enough for the sixteen knots on the anemometer .
Off the fuel berth in Travemünde, I decided to refill the diesel cans. The wind meant a second approach. I secured the stern line with the RYA OXO method and threw it to the person waiting, then went forward with the bow line and boat hook. The bow began blowing off. I reached towards the shore cleat with the hook…
In a second, everything turned emerald-black. A brief crack and hiss: the automatic lifejacket inflated. My glasses went to the bottom. I had other concerns. Boat hook in one hand, coil of rope in the other.
The yacht was drifting away. I had a couple of seconds to hook on, but the hook kept slipping. The stern line had come undone. Away she went. I searched for a ladder to climb ashore, about ten metres’ swim away. People had apparently gathered, and the water was 10°C, but I noticed neither.
Luckily, the wind blew towards the shore. Fifty metres away, the yacht hit a steel ferry and kept scraping against its sharp platform in the waves. I reattached the mooring lines and pulled her towards the fuel pumps.
Time to change shoes, trousers and lifejacket. Twenty-nine litres of diesel cost €67. The owner said it was pure petroleum diesel, safe from bacteria. I’d had enough adventure for one day.
My mistakes: • I ended up in the water without my inReach. It should have been clipped on • I forgot three points of contact • I didn’t use a safety harness and tether • A solo skipper should prepare mooring lines before departure, leading the bow lines back to the cockpit • Fenders should be along the sides, rather than tied aft • Carry a complete change of clothes and a spare lifejacket
The yacht lacks the usual instruments for wind, depth and speed. Sailing with only Windy and Navionics isn’t very comfortable.
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The yacht lacks the usual instruments for wind, depth and speed. Sailing with only Windy and Navionics isn’t very comfortable.
In January, Grigory from Meerbär offered me his new NASA Marine Clipper instruments. I gladly bought them: • EML-2 electromagnetic log — no paddlewheel to worry about painting over — €150 • Wind: anemometer and wind vane, unfortunately apparent wind only, €290 • Depth sounder, €185
I asked the yard to install them. Painful prices: €800 for the transducers, €1,100 for the displays. Looking back, I could probably have fitted the displays myself. At least I got useful advice: fit a fuse ahead of the batteries, sized for the cable’s current capacity.
The wind sensor is riveted to the mast. They drilled through the hull for the log. I was fascinated by how thick the laminate was, with a mixture that looked like granite particles. There are two ways to install the depth transducer vertically: 1. Make a recess, without going through the hull, and mount the sensor in an oil-filled bath. Only possible with solid GRP like mine, without a wood-cored sandwich. 2. Drill through and bond on an external fairing block to align the transducer vertically. No suitable fairing block was available for my NASA Marine Clipper Depth, leaving the oil-bath option.
The wind sensor points to port, so I currently have to rotate the displayed direction 90 degrees clockwise. The log underreads by 0.4–0.5 knots. The sounder shows 3.2–3.3m. I lowered the anchor chain to the bottom, counted the submerged links and multiplied by their length: 4.15m below the waterline, or 2.55m beneath the keel. Time to read the calibration instructions. One useful feature: upper and lower depth alarms, handy for following depth contours.
Along with the Garmin inReach Mini 2, came an em-trak B954: a 5W SOTDMA Class B AIS transponder with built-in active splitter, Wi-Fi and NMEA 0183/2000 support, for €1,050.
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Along with the Garmin inReach Mini 2, came an em-trak B954: a 5W SOTDMA Class B AIS transponder with built-in active splitter, Wi-Fi and NMEA 0183/2000 support, for €1,050.
What it does: – receives details of nearby vessels: name, MMSI for radio calls, course, speed, type, dimensions and flag state – broadcasts the same information about you – sends the information to a chartplotter over NMEA and to Navionics Boating over Wi-Fi – AIS-capable devices can warn of collision risks when courses cross or vessels approach, using CPA and TCPA alarms
Unfortunately, only commercial vessels are required to carry it. Even so, together with radar reflectors, it makes you more visible and gives you earlier warning.
AIS connects to the radio and antenna. I hadn’t switched them on this year and couldn’t test them alone. Nobody answered my RADIO CHECK calls on channels 69 and 72. Thankfully, a neighbour had a handheld radio, and everything proved fine.
For now, I installed it without NMEA, as the whole network needs resoldering. At the hardware shop, I bought two switches: power and silent mode, which stops AIS transmitting our details.
Following the instructions, I fitted a 3A supply fuse. Power goes into a junction box feeding the battery monitor, radio and chartplotter. But the multimeter, battery monitor and plotter all showed different voltages on the same circuit. With all four devices running, they began to switch off. Later, I’ll run a separate supply cable to each.
In use, AIS was excellent. It showed almost every boat nearby and loudly warned of crossing courses, turning the targets red. I’d never imagined Germans fitted it even to little 24-footers. MarineTraffic also picked me up and now shows me on its maps.
Fuel pre-filter, air in the system and the impeller
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The technical work was done. Route planned. Another couple of hours went on putting away tools, fitting mattresses and checking the Victron Orion-Tr. The engine had warmed for twenty minutes. I cast off, but it stalled as we left the berth. I rushed forward, grabbed a mooring pile and guided the yacht back to the pontoon. Berthed again, I restarted. It died after fifteen seconds. I asked the marina mechanics for help and read the manual while waiting.
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The technical work was done. Route planned. Another couple of hours went on putting away tools, fitting mattresses and checking the Victron Orion-Tr.
The engine had warmed for twenty minutes. I cast off, but it stalled as we left the berth. I rushed forward, grabbed a mooring pile and guided the yacht back to the pontoon.
Berthed again, I restarted. It died after fifteen seconds. I asked the marina mechanics for help and read the manual while waiting. It recommended leaving the engine control in reverse while sailing. The engine also needs starting every six hours to lubricate the stern-tube seal.
The team suspected air from the new fuel filter. They loosened a bolt on it and operated the priming lever until diesel seeped out. I ran the engine for forty minutes, all fine. Too late to leave, though.
New day, new attempt. Warmed up, cast off, covered five cables — about a kilometre. Something was wrong: revs rising and falling. I slowed and turned back, but stalled in the middle of the marina. Hooking the boat hook onto anything within reach, I made it back to my berth.
I decided to install the fuel pre-filter with water separator I’d bought last summer. At least I’d be able to see the diesel. One detail: oiling the gasket made it screw on more easily. After installation, the sealant in the fittings needed time to cure. Meanwhile, I stopped the impeller pump’s leak with PTFE tape, as I didn’t have the right gasket. It worked perfectly.
I could try running from a jerrycan. But they were all empty. Perhaps I could drain a litre of diesel into a bottle. I went to close the outlet valve. Stuck solid. I tried turning both ways; it moved towards open. But wasn’t it already open? Apparently, I’d shut it for winter, and the engine had been running on the fuel left in the hose all this time. At least I now have a pre-filter.
The best app for finding places to stop is navily. I browse marinas and anchorages I want to reach, or could use as ports of refuge. Google Maps satellite images let me see what they actually look like. Then I plot the route in Navionics Boating. In manual planning mode, I set the start and finish, then intermediate waypoints to follow. First, though, I export the result as a GPX file. I check the weather in the red windy.
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The best app for finding places to stop is navily. I browse marinas and anchorages I want to reach, or could use as ports of refuge. Google Maps satellite images let me see what they actually look like.
Then I plot the route in Navionics Boating. In manual planning mode, I set the start and finish, then intermediate waypoints to follow. First, though, I export the result as a GPX file.
I check the weather in the red windy. At €20 a year, it offers more than the blue windy and windhub at €100 each. I open the route planner, load the GPX, enter a speed of 3.5 knots, and see what conditions to expect along the way.
In December, I bought a Garmin inReach Mini 2 for €300. Matchbox-sized and attached by a carabiner, it uses the Iridium satellite network to: – send an SOS – send and receive forty included messages a month by SMS and email – show heading error in degrees and cross-track error in metres for a GPX route – track your position and send it to the servers by satellite every ten seconds – provide a week’s marine weather forecast for €1 Besides the device, there’s €45 a year for life and search-and-rescue insurance, €40 a year for an Iridium account, and €40 for each month of active use.
Before leaving, it’s good to have someone ashore with a plan for what to do if I stop checking in. Alternatively, use SafeTRX. Enter the expected arrival time and route. If you don’t confirm arrival by that time, your details go to the coastguard.
After the passage, you can upload the recorded GPX from Navionics or Garmin Explore to the logbook in SailTies.
Electrics again. First, the starter battery could only be charged using clips. Second, the 7A CTEK Zafir 100 clearly wasn’t designed for a 220Ah bank. Third, charging domestic AGM batteries directly from the alternator is undesirable: the voltage is unstable and too low. In January, I bought a 25A Victron Blue Smart IP65 charger for €180, plus a battery-terminal connector with a 30A fuse for €10.
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Electrics again. First, the starter battery could only be charged using clips. Second, the 7A CTEK Zafir 100 clearly wasn’t designed for a 220Ah bank. Third, charging domestic AGM batteries directly from the alternator is undesirable: the voltage is unstable and too low.
In January, I bought a 25A Victron Blue Smart IP65 charger for €180, plus a battery-terminal connector with a 30A fuse for €10. Connected the charger to shore power, ran the connectors to the batteries, and selected the AGM preset over Bluetooth.
In February, I bought a 2.5m extension lead for the CTEK charger for €14, plus a terminal connector with charge indicator and 15A fuse for €9. That reached the starter battery in the starboard locker. Now both starter and domestic circuits charge from shore simultaneously.
The final wish was alternator charging. In April, I paid €160 for a Victron Orion-Tr Isolated 12-to-12V 30A on the local classifieds site. If only the box alone had been enough. I also needed ferrules and crimping pliers for 0.08–16mm² cable, €34; five metres of 16mm² cable, €22; five metres of 6mm² cable, €10; a 60A fuse, €17; three sets of cable lugs at €12 each; and crimpers for up to 50mm² cable, €23. I already had a 30A fuse and heat-shrink tubing. At least something I didn’t need to buy. Installation took a full day, plus a couple of evenings working out whether an isolated model could be used in a non-isolated installation, and which fuses and cable sizes were needed.
All this helped consolidate my knowledge of marine electrics, especially calculating cable sizes. I updated the wiring diagram I’d drawn earlier. It’s in this post, together with cable-sizing tables for length and expected current. Last year’s version of me would have found it invaluable.
In autumn, I bought a small Kärcher K2 pressure washer for €70.
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I enjoyed blasting green growth off the safety lines, mooring lines, portlights, wooden handrails, tiller and other woodwork. The pleasure faded when the mooring lines went furry, sealant came off the portlights and the wood began to erode.
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In autumn, I bought a small Kärcher K2 pressure washer for €70. No miracles: the previous owner’s paint splashes remained. No disasters either: the chips didn’t get bigger. On the plus side, it removed dirt.
I enjoyed blasting green growth off the safety lines, mooring lines, portlights, wooden handrails, tiller and other woodwork. The pleasure faded when the mooring lines went furry, sealant came off the portlights and the wood began to erode.
The mooring lines will last a season. The safety line is fine. Water began seeping through the hatch, but its old seal was cracked. I bought three metres of self-adhesive 20 × 10mm rubber strip for €16. Before fitting it, I cleaned the surface with a scraper and alcohol. Pleased with the result; the lockers need the same treatment.
I scraped the remaining sealant off the windows, cleaned with alcohol, and bought black UV-resistant Sikaflex 591 for €15 and a €12 sealant-finishing tool set. Applied it with a caulking gun and smoothed it with the tools. In practice, I smeared myself and everything nearby. Gloves and masking tape would have helped. Once cured, the surface was easy to clean with a scraper and alcohol.
The wood was harder. Removed old varnish with 60-grit, levelled the grooves with 80, smoothed with 240 and polished with 600. Watching the texture change and details emerge as the grit gets finer is priceless. I applied three or four coats of teak oil with a foam brush. It looks like wood stain. Perhaps it is. Sticky and reddish, turning walnut-coloured once dry, and giving the wood water resistance. I hadn’t thought to protect the surroundings with masking tape. A scraper removed it from the gelcoat, but neither alcohol, paraffin, acetone nor white spirit shifted the marks on the non-slip surface.
The wind can put over a tonne of load on a sail, and that load needs controlling. Hence the two jib-sheet winches in the cockpit. They should turn easily with a satisfying click from the mechanism. Mine didn’t: the port one was stiff and silent, while the starboard one’s clicking wasn’t as crisp as it should be. On 20 April 2024, I decided to service them. They’re Australian Barlow 22s. Unfortunately, the maker has closed, so spares are unavailable.
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The wind can put over a tonne of load on a sail, and that load needs controlling. Hence the two jib-sheet winches in the cockpit. They should turn easily with a satisfying click from the mechanism. Mine didn’t: the port one was stiff and silent, while the starboard one’s clicking wasn’t as crisp as it should be.
On 20 April 2024, I decided to service them. They’re Australian Barlow 22s. Unfortunately, the maker has closed, so spares are unavailable. After watching a video of the dismantling, it looked straightforward. But I got stuck at the first retaining screw: it turned with the winch. I found another video whose maker had the same problem. He put four turns of sheet round the drum to stop it rotating. That worked for me too.
Dismantling was simple. A full service could take ten to fifteen minutes. Not in my case.
First, the old grease had turned into modelling clay and clogged everything. My best idea was a flat screwdriver, vigorously scraping every flat surface.
Second, the roller bearings were stuck inside the drum. The rollers are metal, but their cage is plastic. I carefully tapped it out with a screwdriver, trying not to break it. I couldn’t remove all the old grease. Only afterwards did I remember a video by Evgenia Lyubimova where she soaked them in diesel.
Third, be extremely careful with the tiny pawl springs. They aren’t attached to anything. One slipped from my hand; thankfully, not far.
Reassembled, the winches clicked beautifully. From now on, I plan to service them every spring before launch. An hour for four winches, adding years to such important equipment.
The Davidswerft team offered to step the mast that same day, 12 April 2024.
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The Davidswerft team offered to step the mast that same day, 12 April 2024. I berthed at the mast crane. They brought the mast on a two-wheeled support, pinned on the spreaders and shrouds, and passed the slings beneath them. They lifted it and carefully lowered it through the deck opening into the step in the saloon. The opening was wide, so I packed the gaps with rubber strips. We stood on the opposite side to keep the mast from leaning against the crane.
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I berthed at the mast crane. They brought the mast on a two-wheeled support, pinned on the spreaders and shrouds, and passed the slings beneath them. They lifted it and carefully lowered it through the deck opening into the step in the saloon. The opening was wide, so I packed the gaps with rubber strips. We stood on the opposite side to keep the mast from leaning against the crane. Tightened the shrouds and backstay at the turnbuckles, adjusting the tension to align the mast. Removed the slings.
Two days later, I returned to fit the sails.
First, the boom: up on the topping lift, kicker fitted, mainsheet secured, lazyjacks tensioned to catch the sail on the boom.
I slid the mainsail’s foot into the boom groove, secured the tack to the gooseneck horns, and tensioned the clew to the boom end with a trucker’s hitch. The mast has a groove too. I released its stop and began hoisting on the halyard, feeding in the luff slides. The wind made it difficult: blowing from astern, with whitecaps visible outside. The forecast showed force 8, 70km/h. I waited for lulls and hauled half a metre at a time. With the stop secured beneath the final slide, I eased the main down to rig the first and second reefs. Then lowered, folded and covered it.
A neighbour helped with the jib. I fed the luff into the furler’s groove and secured tack and head with shackles, tying the sheets with bowlines. While my neighbour held the sail, I hoisted on the halyard, then used the furling line to roll it round the forestay.
I arrived in the morning. Time for a few jobs while the harbourmaster managed the queue according to a system known only to him. Eventually, someone waved and said they’d get to me in about forty minutes. I asked which side would face the pier. Starboard.
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I arrived in the morning. Time for a few jobs while the harbourmaster managed the queue according to a system known only to him. Eventually, someone waved and said they’d get to me in about forty minutes. I asked which side would face the pier. Starboard.
Up aboard to prepare two starboard mooring lines: first to control the boat’s rotation on the crane, then to secure her to the pier. Back down, ladder and surrounding gear cleared away. I found a dried roller and poured some remaining antifouling into a tray.
A tractor with a platform arrived and lifted the yacht’s cradle, then took her to the crane. They put her in the slings and lifted. Square patches on the sides and strips beneath the keel, inaccessible during painting, were now exposed. I had time to paint them with the tray and roller.
The yacht was moved over the water, lowered and secured alongside. With the slings still in place, I was invited to check for leaks. Bilge, seacocks, keel bolts: all dry. Slings removed.
I switched on the engine supply, started it, and gave it five minutes to warm up. Checked smoke and cooling water at the exhaust, then went below to see water entering the strainer and check the impeller pump for leaks.
By then, the crane had started lifting the next yacht. I pushed off and headed for the mast crane.
I replaced the incandescent navigation bulbs — made in 1975, consuming 105W altogether — with LEDs at €10 each. Four bulbs: stern, two sidelights and steaming light. Consumption dropped to 15W. Fine, except opening the light housings was so difficult I had to heat the plastic, then tap it with a blunt screwdriver bit.
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The hull is ready. Time for the other systems.
I replaced the incandescent navigation bulbs — made in 1975, consuming 105W altogether — with LEDs at €10 each. Four bulbs: stern, two sidelights and steaming light. Consumption dropped to 15W. Fine, except opening the light housings was so difficult I had to heat the plastic, then tap it with a blunt screwdriver bit.
Next, I removed the anti-siphon valve from the engine’s cooling system . First, the newly fitted strainer duplicated its function. Second, the impeller delivers water in pulses, making it seep through the valve’s air vent onto the engine. That had caused oxidation in a couple of places.
Using hose clamps, I attached two radar reflectors, €45 each, to the shrouds near their mast attachments. They should make the yacht appear as a larger target on radar.
I replaced the €50 Windex. My antenna is a Glomex, and they sell a compatible wind indicator that mounts directly on it.
I also wondered what was inside the fuel tank. In autumn I’d filled it to the brim and added treatments. I tried the inspection camera but saw only an emerald blur. A test run seemed fine. Later, I realised I should have disconnected the fuel hose and drained some diesel to check for condensation water.
Finally, a visual check of standing and running rigging for broken wire strands and damaged rope fibres.
The propeller needs attention too. You can simply polish it. Apparently, if it contains enough copper and has a mirror finish, barnacles can’t attach. Another option is propeller antifouling, available as brush-on paint or aerosol. I decided to try something a little different: Hempel Silic One Proppeler Kit. How it went: 1. 23 February. Removed the sacrificial anode. 2. 23 February. Began stripping back to bare metal.
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The propeller needs attention too. You can simply polish it. Apparently, if it contains enough copper and has a mirror finish, barnacles can’t attach. Another option is propeller antifouling, available as brush-on paint or aerosol. I decided to try something a little different: Hempel Silic One Proppeler Kit.
How it went: 1. 23 February. Removed the sacrificial anode. 2. 23 February. Began stripping back to bare metal. While sanding the hull I did the blades with the same 80-grit paper. 3. 2 March. Used the belt sander with 60-grit paper in the narrow spaces between the blades. 4. 23 March. On the day I applied the primer, I went over all the metal again with 40-grit paper. 5. 23 March. Cleaned the propeller with Hempel Pre-Clean, just as before polishing and priming. 6. 23 March. Mixed half the two-component Hempel Light Primer and brushed it onto the dry propeller. At 10°C, leave at least eight hours. 7. 29 March. A week later, before painting the hull I mixed the remainder and applied a second epoxy-primer coat. 8. 29 March. About five hours had passed by the time I finished the first hull antifouling coat. Time for Hempel Silic One Tiecoat, which needs sixteen hours to cure. Home for the night. 9. 30 March. First, the second hull antifouling coat, finishing that job. By then, the tiecoat had dried at least eighteen hours. I carefully brushed on the final Hempel Silic One coat. It needs at least a day and a half before immersion, but no more than a month. 10. 5 April. Used a flat screwdriver and a narrow strip of 80-grit paper to clean dried paint drops off the shaft, then refitted the anode.
Four coats, four brushes. The manufacturer says Silic One lasts two years; after that, I should only need to wash it and apply another topcoat. We’ll see.
Antifouling goes over the primer. It contains toxic biocides to prevent barnacles. Last summer, I had so many that the boat lost half her speed and the propeller turned into a mace. I wrote about it here, here, here, here and here. Some countries and individual marinas are now moving to ban biocidal paints, Sweden and the Netherlands among them.
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Antifouling goes over the primer. It contains toxic biocides to prevent barnacles. Last summer, I had so many that the boat lost half her speed and the propeller turned into a mace. I wrote about it here,here,here,here and here. Some countries and individual marinas are now moving to ban biocidal paints, Sweden and the Netherlands among them.
What’s available: — hard antifouling for fast boats, over 30 knots — soft, self-polishing or self-eroding antifouling: the conventional option, shedding thin layers and their attached growth as you sail — Coppercoat, copper powder mixed with epoxy. Very expensive and not environmentally friendly, but needs attention only every ten to fifteen years. Reviews suggest application mistakes can mean doing it again — Hempel Silic One mentioned in the article I linked earlier. An expensive, environmentally friendly biocide-free coating that creates a smooth protective layer. Growth slips off. I couldn’t find reviews.
I chose the conventional route. On 29 March 2024, I set out six 0.75-litre tins of Hempel Mille NCT a brush for awkward spots, two rollers and a protective suit. Two coats required; a roller lasts one coat. I noticed no difference between foam and wool rollers. Antifouling is generally said to go on just before launch, though mine recommends eight hours’ drying before immersion.
It went on less easily than the primer. After a few roller strokes, it began sticking to the roller and flying off in fine strands, covering me and the floor in droplets. Now I’m wondering how to remove it from clothes: the protective suit failed its job. On the first pass, I accidentally used only one tin for the whole boat. I immediately went round again, applying generously and making no more than three roller strokes per patch. That used another two tins. Perhaps a brush would be easier. The next day, I repeated the process with two more tins. The sixth stayed unused.
On 23 March 2024, I returned to the underwater hull.
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On 23 March 2024, I returned to the underwater hull. A visual inspection showed no damage, so I planned no fibreglass or filler work. Broadly, two coatings go on the hull: primer and antifouling. The first protects the laminate against water ingress and osmosis; the second prevents barnacle growth. You can apply fresh antifouling over the previous coat, but ideally the paints should be compatible. Any areas where the old coating has cracked should be primed first.
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On 23 March 2024, I returned to the underwater hull. A visual inspection showed no damage, so I planned no fibreglass or filler work.
Broadly, two coatings go on the hull: primer and antifouling. The first protects the laminate against water ingress and osmosis; the second prevents barnacle growth. You can apply fresh antifouling over the previous coat, but ideally the paints should be compatible. Any areas where the old coating has cracked should be primed first.
Primers come in one- and two-component types. Two-component products can go only over other two-component coatings; one-component products are less particular. As I knew neither the brand nor type of the old paint and primer, I followed the manufacturer’s recommendation and coated the entire underwater hull with a one-component primer.
A Practical Boat Owner article comparing paints appeared at just the right time. After reading it, I chose Hempel. They have an excellent website with guides and documentation for every product, and a YouTube channel with videos to accompany the instructions.
First, clean the surface with Hempel Pre-Clean and let it dry, as when polishing. My 29-foot fin-keeler took a litre of Hempel Underwater Primer and three hours. I used a foam roller. The primer went on easily in a thin, even coat. I’d recommend a roller extension pole: much easier on large areas. The specification says that at 10°C it must dry for at least eight hours and no more than thirty days. So I left the yacht another week.
Straight after sanding I turned to the topsides. They need protection from both the marine environment and UV. Three steps: — prepare the surface with cleaner — polish — apply wax, optionally Arriving early, I diluted Hempel Pre-Clean 1:20 with water: three batches of 100ml in two litres. It behaved rather like Fairy: foamed, dried quickly, cleaned and degreased well. Photos 1–3. Then polishing.
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Straight after sanding I turned to the topsides. They need protection from both the marine environment and UV. Three steps: — prepare the surface with cleaner — polish — apply wax, optionally
Arriving early, I diluted Hempel Pre-Clean 1:20 with water: three batches of 100ml in two litres. It behaved rather like Fairy: foamed, dried quickly, cleaned and degreased well. Photos 1–3.
Then polishing. Not knowing which pads would work best, I’d bought five each of foam, felt and wool for the sander. All proved useful: foam to apply Hempel Custom Marine Polish, felt to work it in, wool to finish. The gelcoat gained a mirror shine; ingrained streaks vanished. About half a bottle of polish and three pads of each kind. Photos 4–6.
Yachtcare Boat Wax left me puzzled. I tried applying it with a foam pad. It used so little that the tin might last ten years. I got an opaque white layer with circular marks, then worked it with wool pads. Either I rubbed the wax in or took it off and polished the yacht some more. I’m not sure I’ll bother next year. Photos 7–10.
There were mishaps. After a day with the sander, your arms buzz. While waxing, my forearm cramped a couple of times. The finale was the stepladder slipping from under me. I caught the gunwale with my right hand, still holding the running machine in my left, then dropped onto my knees and fell sideways. That was 8 March. It’s now 1 April, and my right shoulder still hurts. After a hard day’s work, slow down and take care.
The first job for the new season was sanding below the waterline.
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The first job for the new season was sanding below the waterline. I bought: — a budget Bosch sander for €50 and 25 discs of 80-grit paper — masking tape — plastic sheeting — a headtorch — protective suit, mask, goggles and gloves First, I masked the waterline. I’d barely started before the neighbours stopped me: could I enclose the boat somehow? They didn’t want to choke on dust. Fair enough.
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The first job for the new season was sanding below the waterline. I bought: — a budget Bosch sander for €50 and 25 discs of 80-grit paper — masking tape — plastic sheeting — a headtorch — protective suit, mask, goggles and gloves
First, I masked the waterline. I’d barely started before the neighbours stopped me: could I enclose the boat somehow? They didn’t want to choke on dust. Fair enough. At the nearest Bauhaus, I found 25m × 2.5m sheeting with a built-in strip of masking tape.
Sanding was slow, hard work, perhaps because of the cheap machine. About fifteen hours and as many discs. The dust cloud was so thick I could barely see my fingertips at arm’s length. The main aim was removing yellow barnacle marks from the paint. In places, I reached the primer. I sanded the propeller blades back to metal. For tight spaces, I also bought a Black & Decker belt sander for €52.
The worst part was fogging goggles. Ten seconds, and everything disappeared into mist. I needed something to leave an anti-condensation film. I considered oil or Fairy washing-up liquid. The Fairy worked perfectly.
What I missed: first, put plastic sheeting under the boat. Sweeping up the dust took over an hour. Second, the dust is nasty and gets through the mask. Washing it off my face and hands, it rolled into sticky clay. In Grigory’s comments I saw advice to wet-sand instead. Some neighbours had sanding machines that extracted the dust straight into a water-filled drum.
Why bother? Barnacles happily settle on every irregularity. Too many paint layers can also flake away, exposing the laminate and potentially leading to osmosis. Some people don’t bother, as the final photograph of a neighbouring yacht shows.
After lifting out for winter, I had to think about caring for the sails and sprayhood.
Photos and video9 photos
After lifting out for winter, I had to think about caring for the sails and sprayhood. The recommendation is to rinse them with fresh water, dry them and store them somewhere warm. In October, I’d begun by removing them from the yacht and taking them home. I bought a €10 sail bag on eBay for storage, but still wasn’t sure I’d done everything properly. The sprayhood’s seams had opened in two places, and the window was almost opaque.
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The recommendation is to rinse them with fresh water, dry them and store them somewhere warm. In October, I’d begun by removing them from the yacht and taking them home. I bought a €10 sail bag on eBay for storage, but still wasn’t sure I’d done everything properly.
The sprayhood’s seams had opened in two places, and the window was almost opaque. Just then, Practical Boat Owner ran an article about replacing a window and how little it could cost.
In January, I took the jib and sprayhood to a sail loft in Kiel. An interesting experience: an enormous warm hall with varnished floors you can only walk on barefoot. They spread everything out, inspected it and said: — No point paying for washing. They outsource it, using special foaming shampoos, and it’s expensive. Rinsing the salt off yourself is enough. — The jib’s UV strip is on its last legs, but it’s too late to replace it. The sail has a couple of years left; a new strip would last ten to fifteen. — When I order a new sail, they recommend having a protective furling-sail sock made instead of a UV strip. It would last almost indefinitely and protect any sail. — They will, however, renew the stitching along the foot, where the guardwires have caused noticeable damage. €110. — They can replace the sprayhood window and repair the open seams, but recommend restitching the whole thing. The original thread is too thin and will keep failing. €132.
I collected the sail and sprayhood the other day. Very pleased. I also dropped off the storm jib for a replacement zip. More on that another time.
For the last two weeks, I’ve been looking for ways to solve the problem with the dipstick. Following @Kirill_Yuzhakov ’s advice, I attached a mooring line with an eye splice. I tried hanging and bouncing on it, then leading it to a winch and winding until it slipped. After a comment from @sparkgen, I ordered an inspection camera on Amazon. There are two types: a 4mm single-camera version and an 8mm version with a second camera facing sideways. €25–50.
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For the last two weeks, I’ve been looking for ways to solve the problem with the dipstick. On the advice of @Kirill_Yuzhakov I attached a mooring line with an eye splice. I tried hanging and bouncing on it, then leading it to a winch and winding until it slipped.
After a comment from @sparkgen, I ordered an inspection camera on Amazon. There are two types: a 4mm single-camera version and an 8mm version with a second camera facing sideways. €25–50. I could see the dipstick wasn’t trapped as @FinderOnline had warned it might be, but the shaft had twisted it into a double spiral, like a dough hook. The first bend was over 90 degrees.
A friend of my father said it had happened nearly ten times on his engine. But beneath his dipstick was a removable threaded fitting that widened the opening. My Nanni N2.14 has no such fitting.
I contacted @AlexMemfis. He called with the same advice as @evgen_ru79 — pull or twist the dipstick against the direction of the first bend, applying force to straighten it. He also said to check it was intact afterwards: even a tiny fragment left inside could mean an engine rebuild. One option was to flush the sump with oil.
Someone in the Sailing Club chat wrote a guide to lifting the engine with a hoist or jack supported by the boom. They explained it was fairly standard work and useful to learn yourself. The key was to record every step.
Unexpectedly, Grigory from the yacht Meerbär got in touch. He has over ten years’ experience as an owner. Despite recent surgery, he offered to help, with several extraction plans prepared and a very determined attitude. On Saturday, we went to Rassvet with three toolboxes.
The very first plan worked. Grigory clamped the dipstick and levered it up with a pry bar, using the mounting bolts as a fulcrum. The right angle, roughly 250kg of force and twenty minutes’ effort pulled it free. With an angle grinder available, we turned it into a plug to avoid the same thing happening to the new dipstick.
Thank you to everyone who responded and helped. I’m very grateful. The sailing season can start on schedule!
At the yacht, I couldn’t remove the oil dipstick from my 2005 Nanni Diesel N2.14. It comes out about four centimetres, then jams. It won’t rotate either. I called several marine service companies; only one agreed to help.
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At the yacht, I couldn’t remove the oil dipstick from my 2005 Nanni Diesel N2.14. It comes out about four centimetres, then jams. It won’t rotate either. I called several marine service companies; only one agreed to help.
Their €202 fee covered a visit to the marina, 45 minutes’ work and a replacement dipstick costing €106. Two weeks later, an older mechanic and his assistant arrived with the new part. They inspected the engine, turned the shaft and pulled the dipstick. Their conclusion: the engine sits in such a confined space that the dipstick had never been withdrawn at the right angle and had bent slightly. Eventually, the bend caught the crankshaft, which drives the pistons, and the crankshaft won. Apparently, it had twisted the dipstick into an unnatural curve. The only recommended way to remove it was to lift the entire engine out. Perhaps — only perhaps — something could then be done. The unofficial option was brute force. Either way, the engine couldn’t be used while the dipstick touched the crankshaft. They left me the spare part and went away.
I asked the marina team what lifting the engine would cost. Crane work alone, if I disconnected and reconnected everything, would be three hours at €80: roughly €250. A complete job would take at least twenty hours, about €1,600. But they had no time: launch was a month away, in April, and the schedule was full.
Back aboard, I tried force. I passed a mooring line through the dipstick ring, climbed onto the deck and put my full weight on it. The ring straightened; the dipstick didn’t move a centimetre.
I don’t know how to solve this. If anyone has any advice at all, I’d be enormously grateful.
The marina wrote at the start of February. They reported that they’d finished the keel work and sent the winter-service invoice. About the keel: they visually inspected the bolts and judged them sound. Nuts, washers and sealant were renewed. They removed the epoxy between keel and hull, sanded the joint and filled it with polyurethane. They said there had been a lot of resin; its rigidity had eventually caused a crack.
About the keel: they visually inspected the bolts and judged them sound. Nuts, washers and sealant were renewed. They removed the epoxy between keel and hull, sanded the joint and filled it with polyurethane. They said there had been a lot of resin; its rigidity had eventually caused a crack. Polyurethane is more flexible, and a thin layer won’t split under internal pressure. A small ledge now shows between keel and hull, where epoxy had previously filled the space.
The winter service included: — draining the waterlock/silencer — filling the hoses with bio-antifreeze that can safely be discharged into the sea — pumping out and disposing of the old engine oil, then refilling — the same for the gearbox oil — replacing fuel and oil filters — fitting a new zinc anode Total, including parts: €503.
Unexpectedly, they said they couldn’t remove the oil dipstick. I went straight down to see for myself. In summer, it had been tight, but it did come out.
The Düsseldorf International Boat Show, or boot Düsseldorf, took place in late January…
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At the end of January, The Düsseldorf International Boat Show took place, also known as boot Düsseldorf. One of the major boat shows, with over 1,600 stands from about 50 countries.
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• a hall of superyachts with six- and seven-figure price tags that you can walk aboard • a deep pool for diving workshops • a winding pool for kayaks and Optimist dinghies • the latest equipment and boats from major brands, to inspect, touch and climb into • service providers, from electronic logbooks and insurers to sailing schools • a chance to meet sailing ‘stars’ and bloggers such as Erik Aandera
I really wanted to go. To avoid the crowds, I chose the closing days: €300 for a hotel, €180 for return high-speed train tickets for Masha and me, and €42 for the show. A week before the trip, the news broke that German railways would strike for the whole following week. I hoped the high-speed trains might escape. On Tuesday morning, though, the cancellation email arrived. I searched every way of reaching Düsseldorf, but the remaining FlixBus, FlixTrain, BlaBlaCar and flight options were already unavailable.
That evening, I began trying to recover the money: 1. Emailed boot Düsseldorf. Refunded four days later. 2. The hotel’s free cancellation period had ended. I asked whether they could refund something, at least. They agreed to charge only 50%. 3. The train tickets were non-refundable. I submitted the claim form and am still waiting.
So: €42 back, €135 lost, €180 unresolved and not looking promising. Lessons? Don’t underestimate EU strikes, try to book hotels with cancellation up to the final day, and insure your holidays and travel. I’ll try again next year.
UPD 21.03.24: After three months, I received the €180 train fare refund.
In January, I tackled the boat’s paperwork. A year earlier, I’d written to flaggenzertifikate@bsh.de at the Bundesamt für Seeschifffahrt und Hydrographie — BSH, Germany’s Federal Maritime and Hydrographic Agency — asking how to register a pleasure boat. First, a call sign and MMSI. Go to Germany’s Federal Network Agency, Bundesnetzagentur. Download the form, fill it in and post it. A week later, the reply contains your Ship Station Licence.
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In January, I tackled the boat’s paperwork. A year earlier, I’d written to flaggenzertifikate@bsh.de at the Bundesamt für Seeschifffahrt und Hydrographie — BSH, Germany’s Federal Maritime and Hydrographic Agency — asking how to register a pleasure boat.
First, a call sign and MMSI. Go to Germany’s Federal Network Agency, Bundesnetzagentur. Download the form, fill it in and post it. A week later, the reply contains your Ship Station Licence. Annual MMSI administration bills follow, up to €5 a year. Issue cost €59, though the invoice arrived only six months later, in June.
Next, registration. Three options: 1. Entry in the ship register. Expensive, but permanent. It grants the right to fly the flag and proves ownership. Apply through BSH’s website using your Elster-issued tax ID. Only for EU citizens resident in Germany. 2. Flaggenzertifikat. €88 for eight years. It grants the right to fly the flag. It does not prove ownership. Apply through BSH’s website using your Elster-issued tax ID. Only for EU citizens resident in Germany. 3. International Boat Certificate (IBS). €35 for two years. It does not grant the right to fly the flag. It Proves ownership. Issued by the sailing association DSV — the German equivalent of Russia’s sailing federation — the motorboating association DMYV and the motoring club ADAC. DSV and ADAC accept online applications. Available to everyone resident in Germany.
I chose ADAC for its convenient website and skipper’s app. The form asks for the boat’s details and dimensions, engine and radio serial numbers, MMSI and call sign. A week later, the certificate arrives by post.
With an MMSI and registration, I designed a stamp on a whim and had it made for €15. My logbook looks more official now.
– In February, I passed the German ICC Sportbootführerschein (SBF) See exam – In March, I passed the SBF Binnen exam for EU inland waterways – In April, I passed the marine (GMDSS SRC) and inland-waterways (UBI) radio operator exams Boat search and surveys: – Read several thousand adverts and shortlisted the ones I liked – Through @Unakaru, I met @AlexMemfis, who helped me find, buy and maintain the yacht – In Kiel, I viewed a Deerberg Amethyst 27 and Haff 35, flew to Norway to see a Marieholm 32, viewed a boat in Hamburg, the Marieholm 28, and in Lübeck, the Najade 900.
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Training: – In February, I passed the German ICC Sportbootführerschein (SBF) See exam – In March, I passed the SBF Binnen exam for EU inland waterways – In April, I passed the marine (GMDSS SRC) and inland-waterways (UBI) radio operator exams
Boat search and surveys: – Read several thousand adverts and shortlisted the ones I liked – Through @Unakaru, I met @AlexMemfis, who helped me find, buy and maintain the yacht – In Kiel, I viewed a Deerberg Amethyst 27 and Haff 35, flew to Norway to see a Marieholm 32, viewed a boat in Hamburg, the Marieholm 28, and in Lübeck, the Najade 900. Alexei ruled all these out as overpriced or needing too much investment – In May, I went to Sweden on a one-way ticket to view a Lord Helmsman, Linjet 30 and Ohlson 29, which I eventually bought
Spending: – Buying the yacht: €6,200, plus €1,000 for survey assistance and €300 for three technical consultations – Annual insurance €350 + berthing and storage (summer and winter): €2,400, plus help unstepping the mast €185 + crane services for winter storage: €550 – Equipping the yacht — mooring lines, fenders, lifejackets, lifelines, jackstays, flag, diesel, tools, chemicals… around €1,500 – Losing half the boat’s speed led to quite a struggle with the engine. In the end, a hull clean for €300 solved it – Neutralising spilt acid, replacing the batteries, fitting a distribution board and partially rewiring the boat took a month and a half and €900 – Replacing the solar panel and controller cost another €350 – Repairing the keel: €1,200 Total: €15,000, beyond anything I’d expected. That’s roughly six to twelve weeks of chartering. The boat still needs navigation instruments (€1,500–2,000), a second solar panel (€150), a Victron Orion-Tr 12/12 30A alternator charging controller (€250), a starter-battery charger (€100), and the starter battery itself (€150). AIS (€800), windvane self-steering (€2,000), a liferaft (€900) and EPIRB (€900) for safe night passages are beyond even dreaming about, never mind replacing guardwires and standing rigging.
What else: – A sea of experience viewing and maintaining yachts. No charter could give me that – An adrenaline-filled voyage of 300 miles from Sweden to Germany – Several lovely outings on Lübeck Bay and the Trave with family and friends, even including diving under the boat – Saw The Ocean Race, formerly the Volvo Ocean Race, with my own eyes – Visited Germany’s major sailing event, Kieler Woche – Explored Norway on a cruise ship – Flew in a light aircraft
A packed, transformative year. Sometimes too much so. I’m a different person from last December. But I’m not stopping: I’m looking forward to more adventures and discoveries.
I recently came across an article in PBO reviewing the electronic logbook SailTies: – a pleasant interface – a personal page you can share – GPX imports from Navionics – connects users who shared a passage – statistics for countries, seas and tidal waters visited – stores and verifies your sailing documents – generates a sailing CV as a PDF to send to charter companies – free To me, it’s one of the best apps I’ve seen.
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– a pleasant interface – a personal page you can share – GPX imports from Navionics – connects users who shared a passage – statistics for countries, seas and tidal waters visited – stores and verifies your sailing documents – generates a sailing CV as a PDF to send to charter companies – free
To me, it’s one of the best apps I’ve seen. I shared my impressions in a couple of sailing chats. Seventeen people signed up through my link and immediately appeared as friends. Exploring their logbooks was fascinating.
Unexpectedly, a week later, an envelope arrived with a metal badge and a thank-you letter from the creators. Incredibly kind of them.
The surprises didn’t end there. A couple of weeks later, Captain German himself (@CGOffshore), who’d logged his latest passage to the Kingdom of Tonga, appeared among my friends. I’ve no idea how my link reached him.
On 14 November 2023, an email from DavidWerft showed mould aboard.
Photos and video9 photos
On Tuesday, 14 November 2023, an email arrived from DavidWerft with a photo of mould aboard. They’d found it during the work and recommended taking the sails somewhere warm. Only two weeks had passed since the lift-out. The moisture absorbers were still at home. I hurriedly asked colleagues whether anyone could help take the sails and mattresses home. I also packed a bag with a Chinese digital thermometer/hygrometer and Yachticon Mould Remover.
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On Tuesday, 14 November 2023, an email arrived from DavidWerft with a photo of mould aboard. They’d found it during the work and recommended taking the sails somewhere warm. Only two weeks had passed since the lift-out . The moisture absorbers were still at home.
I hurriedly asked colleagues whether anyone could help take the sails and mattresses home. I also packed a bag with a Chinese digital thermometer/hygrometer and Yachticon Mould Remover.
On Saturday morning, 18 November, we went to the marina. Dima helped load mattresses, towels, sleeping bags and sails into his car while I treated the white fuzz. The wood round the galley had suffered most. I didn’t want to keep him waiting, so I skipped charging the batteries, though ideally they should get a charge about once a month.
On 2 December, I returned to charge the batteries and check the mould. Good news: the areas I’d treated were clean. But a little fresh growth had appeared on the deckhead. The trip was complicated by Europe’s heaviest snow cover since 2010. At least I now have lovely photographs of the marina in snow.
When I lifted the boat for cleaning in September, I saw rust at the keel joint.
Photos and video7 photos · 1 video
When I lifted the boat for cleaning in September, I saw rust at the keel-to-hull joint. My heart sank: that couldn’t be good. Thoughts raced through my head, including selling this yacht I’d spent more time fixing than sailing. Once calmer, I approached the only expert I know and trust: @AlexMemfis. His consultation cost €100.
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When I lifted the boat for cleaning in September, I saw rust at the keel-to-hull joint. My heart sank: that couldn’t be good. Thoughts raced through my head, including selling this yacht I’d spent more time fixing than sailing.
Once calmer, I approached the only expert I know and trust: @AlexMemfis. His consultation cost €100. After studying the photos and video, he sympathised and said this was precisely why lifting a boat to inspect the hull before purchase mattered. I’d been unlucky. First, he suggested asking the previous owner what he knew. So I did.
Erik replied that he knew about the problem, but it hadn’t looked as serious before. He’d filled those areas with epoxy, which apparently proved too rigid and cracked. He suggested grinding away the corrosion, filling with epoxy, then applying a flexible sealant such as Sikaflex.
@AlexMemfis agreed with Erik, but suggested asking the marina for a quote and declining if it exceeded €1,000–1,500. He also said corroded keel bolts would need replacing.
When laying up the boat for winter, I asked the DavidWerft team and explained all my concerns. A week later, they invoiced €1,210, which I paid straight away. The photos show the rust marks, their removal and the sealed repair.
After lifting out, the yacht needs winterising. Here’s the jobs list: 1. Fill the diesel tank to the brim, leaving no air space for condensation. Add a biocide. Some people advise the opposite: empty the tank completely and drain off the water in spring. 2. Disconnect the engine cooling-water intake hose, flush with fresh water, then run antifreeze through. Leave it in the hoses until spring. 3. Dry the freshwater pumps and hoses. 4.
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After lifting out, the yacht needs winterising. Here’s the jobs list: 1. Fill the diesel tank to the brim, leaving no air space for condensation. Add a biocide. Some people advise the opposite: empty the tank completely and drain off the water in spring. 2. Disconnect the engine cooling-water intake hose, flush with fresh water, then run antifreeze through. Leave it in the hoses until spring. 3. Dry the freshwater pumps and hoses. 4. Change the oil filter and the oil in the engine and gearbox. 5. Change the fuel filter. 6. Replace the impeller, alternator belt and shaft seal if needed, or after 200 engine hours. The impeller draws in seawater for cooling; the belt drives the alternator; the seal sits on the shaft ahead of the propeller to keep water out. 7. Replace the sacrificial shaft anode. 8. Put moisture absorbers below. (Hopefully, I haven’t forgotten anything.)
I did the first job myself. For the eighth, I bought special bags of desiccant salts, but decided to bring them down in a couple of weeks. I left the rest to the marina team. Let professionals do the first service — especially as I hadn’t even managed to undo the fuel filter myself in summer. They had a dedicated job form, but haven’t invoiced me yet. I’ll update the post when I know the cost.
Two days later, on Friday 3 November 2023, I was back aboard Rassvet.
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Two days later, on Friday 3 November 2023, I was back aboard Rassvet. This time for the winter lift-out. There wasn’t a strict order, at least on paper. Boats were lifted one after another, and the harbourmaster gave owners about half an hour’s notice. When my turn approached, I warmed the engine and slowly prepared to leave. It was pleasing to realise I could now do this alone without difficulty, even gracefully at times.
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Two days later, on Friday 3 November 2023, I was back aboard Rassvet. This time for the winter lift-out.
There wasn’t a strict order, at least on paper. Boats were lifted one after another, and the harbourmaster gave owners about half an hour’s notice. When my turn approached, I warmed the engine and slowly prepared to leave. It was pleasing to realise I could now do this alone without difficulty, even gracefully at times. Yet only in spring, on our first day, Lyosha and I had spent about an hour berthing .
A large square frame hung from the crane, with two slings dangling beneath it. These were passed under the yacht. A marina employee asked where the propeller was, to avoid catching it. I showed photographs from the previous lift and indicated where Dima and I had dived to inspect the propeller. For the lift itself, I prepared two long mooring lines for the staff to control her angle.
Once the keel touched the ground, they pressure-washed the hull. Hardly any barnacles had appeared since the last clean. Then the harbourmaster used a tractor to position a special cradle beneath the boat and take her into the shed. Crane work cost €321.30 plus €58.31 per tonne. The displacement of my Ohlson 29 is 3.1 tonnes.
On 1 November 2023, the day after my 34th birthday, it was time to unstep the mast…
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On Wednesday, 1 November 2023, the day after my 34th birthday, I’d arranged for the DAVIDSWERFT team to help unstep the mast at ten. €79 an hour. The full procedure went like this: 1. Remove the sails and boom. Done beforehand. 2. Berth beside the crane. 3. Pass a lifting strop round the mast beneath the spreaders and take up a little tension. 4. Release the shrouds securing the mast to the sides of the boat. 5. Remove the retaining pin from the mast step. 6.
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On Wednesday, 1 November 2023, the day after my 34th birthday, I’d arranged for the DAVIDSWERFT team to help unstep the mast at ten. €79 an hour.
The full procedure went like this: 1. Remove the sails and boom. Done beforehand. 2. Berth beside the crane. 3. Pass a lifting strop round the mast beneath the spreaders and take up a little tension. 4. Release the shrouds securing the mast to the sides of the boat. 5. Remove the retaining pin from the mast step. 6. Take more weight on the crane. 7. Release the backstay and forestay securing the mast fore and aft. 8. Now three people must work together. One slowly operates the crane. Another holds the mast upright in the saloon. The third watches both, holding the forestay to stop the mast swinging. 9. Swing the crane towards the pontoon. Set up supports ashore and lower the mast carefully onto them. 10. Remove the spreaders and take them aboard for storage. Tie the remaining lines and rigging to the mast at one-metre intervals, using short lengths of cord about as long as the distance from your palm to your opposite shoulder. 11. Wheel the mast away on a special trolley.
Their help cost me €185.
Once I’d berthed again, I started washing the yacht. I’d bought a little Kärcher K2 for $75 and Yachticon cleaners at $15 a bottle. Scrubbing the hull, I remembered how I’d been made to wash my shoes before boarding in Moscow. Dirty marks really are hard to remove; only melamine sponges worked. Thanks to @krugosvetchiki for that tip in one of their videos.
28 October was a day of winter preparations. In the morning, I connected shore power to charge the starter and domestic batteries, then filled the diesel tank to the brim from cans, adding Liqui Moly Diesel Schutz and Super Diesel Additiv against bacterial growth. Below, I disconnected the mast antenna, anchor light and steaming light, and stood the mattresses upright. Then the mainsail. As I removed the lines, I photographed the blocks and knots.
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28 October was a day of winter preparations. In the morning, I connected shore power to charge the starter and domestic batteries, then filled the diesel tank to the brim from cans, adding Liqui Moly Diesel Schutz and Super Diesel Additiv against bacterial growth. Below, I disconnected the mast antenna, anchor light and steaming light, and stood the mattresses upright.
Then the mainsail. As I removed the lines, I photographed the blocks and knots. An interesting detail: there’s no separate line tensioning the clew, which is tied with a trucker’s hitch to get good purchase. I needed to release a particular block in the mast, which meant hoisting the main. As I pulled the halyard, a dozen shield bugs and spiders appeared from homes they’d made in the folds. I had to overcome my disgust and brush them into the water with a tissue. I took the sail onto the grass, folded it into the mainsail cover and carried it below.
After catching my breath, I tackled the boom: released the topping lift, sheet, kicker and lazyjacks, undid the retaining screw at the gooseneck, and carried it into the cabin.
Last came the jib. Much the same as the main: unfurl it, ease the halyard and brush off sleepy insects. Once it was on deck, I freed the other corners and took it onto the grass. Much heavier than the main. I had to move carefully to avoid catching it on anything. Eventually, it too found a place in the saloon.
On 20 October, a storm swept across northern Germany.
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On 20 October, a storm swept across northern Germany. Easterly wind, Beaufort force 10. Three- to four-metre waves and a two-metre rise in water level. The Baltic normally has only 10–20cm of tide, so it’s treated as non-tidal. The infrastructure isn’t designed for this: most defences went underwater and could no longer stop the waves. I still had Covid that day, so a trip to Lübeck was out of the question.
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On 20 October, a storm swept across northern Germany. Easterly wind, Beaufort force 10. Three- to four-metre waves and a two-metre rise in water level. The Baltic normally has only 10–20cm of tide, so it’s treated as non-tidal. The infrastructure isn’t designed for this: most defences went underwater and could no longer stop the waves.
The silence from the marina made it worse, as they normally send an update after storms. Only on Wednesday did they write: they’d contacted everyone whose yacht was visibly damaged; the rest should inspect their boats themselves. Attached was a video of their battle with the elements: https://youtu.be/i18BLk-DF2k. Look at the height of the mooring piles — normally they come up to head height.
I went straight to Lübeck at the weekend. Thankfully, my yacht escaped with a fender mark on the hull, ten litres of bilge water through a poorly closed hatch, and chafed mooring lines. There are advantages to a river berth.
A year ago, I took the RYA Day Skipper course in the Solent…
A year ago, from 4 to 14 November 2022, I took the RYA Day Skipper course in the Solent, in Capstan Sailing School’s final group, with Aubrey Wallis. I was surrounded by wonderful people, a crew it was a pleasure to sail with throughout. More importantly, I was lucky enough to learn in difficult weather. First, we had spring tides. About three times, the keel nearly touched bottom on the way to a marina at low tide.
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A year ago, from 4 to 14 November 2022, I took the RYA Day Skipper course in the Solent, in Capstan Sailing School’s final group, with Aubrey Wallis. I was surrounded by wonderful people, a crew it was a pleasure to sail with throughout. More importantly, I was lucky enough to learn in difficult weather.
First, we had spring tides. About three times, the keel nearly touched bottom on the way to a marina at low tide. The tidal streams required almost full engine power. On the penultimate day, we misjudged the increasing stream and were carried more than a mile from our calculated position. Only that mistake brought home how much tides matter to passage planning.
Second, almost the whole first week had steady winds of 25–32 knots. On the second and third sailing days, gusts reached 47 knots. Everyone did their job: no broach, no loss of course. Sometimes you simply have to experience it to realise there’s nothing to fear: the elements are raging, but the situation is predictable and manageable.
It was largely thanks to that experience that I was able to deliver my yacht from Sweden to Germany this spring, sailing her single-handed.
To mark this small anniversary, I’ve put together a video of those adventures. No commentary, just sailing.
7 October 2023. I woke unexpectedly at six to heavy rolling. That shouldn’t have happened: the forecast had the wind down to ten knots by then. I went onto the balcony. A light following wind raised only a small chop. Yet huge, long waves, a couple of metres high and stretching to the horizon, came towards us against the wind, one after another. Mesmerising. This is swell.
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7 October 2023. I woke unexpectedly at six to heavy rolling. That shouldn’t have happened: the forecast had the wind down to ten knots by then. I went onto the balcony. A light following wind raised only a small chop. Yet huge, long waves, a couple of metres high and stretching to the horizon, came towards us against the wind, one after another. Mesmerising.
This is swell. The five- to six-metre waves generated by a storm don’t vanish instantly; they keep travelling for hundreds of kilometres. I’d never seen just how large they could be. We rolled for several more hours.
Today’s bingo in the atrium theatre had a €6,000 prize: the first person to match ten numbers within the first forty calls would win. Nobody did. Then came an ABBA show and a competition for the best Instagram photo using the ship’s hashtag.
In between, I watched people wander aimlessly like zombies, swaying with boredom. Probably those in windowless inside cabins or cabins with only a porthole. A cruise is one holiday where it’s worth paying a little more for a balcony.
There really isn’t much to do: eat, sleep, watch the sea, shower, read a book, play solitaire on your phone. The complete gentleman’s entertainment package.
At seven on 8 October, after 383 nautical miles from Oslo and 1,207 in total, we returned to Kiel. One final breakfast, bags collected, down to deck five for our passports, and ashore. Holiday over.
In the morning, we visited the Historical Museum. A sparse exhibition: a couple of Viking swords, a dozen military decorations and about as many suits of samurai armour. Norwegians seem fond of Japan: several museums have whole rooms devoted to it, and every town has more sushi bars than bakeries.
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6 October 2023. Oslo. Rain greeted the new day.
In the morning, we visited the Historical Museum. A sparse exhibition: a couple of Viking swords, a dozen military decorations and about as many suits of samurai armour. Norwegians seem fond of Japan: several museums have whole rooms devoted to it, and every town has more sushi bars than bakeries.
I really wanted to visit the Viking museum, but it’s closed for rebuilding until 2025.
The contemporary art museum was open, though. No match for Erarta in St Petersburg, of course, but we had a lovely time looking at the works. Far less poverty, depression and death in them than in Russian paintings.
Afterwards, a peaceful walk through the Royal Palace park, looking at ducks and guards in national dress.
We departed at two in the morning. By then, we were asleep.
Ashore, we passed through the beautiful opera house and entered the Munch Museum. Despite its thirteen storeys, the artist’s works occupied only three rooms. His best-known versions of The Scream and Madonna weren’t even in the building.
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5 October 2023. After another 173 nautical miles, we were in Norway’s capital by eight. Architecturally, Oslo reminded me of Moscow: modernism, brutalism, a sort of Luzhkov-era neoclassicism, and original classicism.
Ashore, we passed through the beautiful opera house and entered the Munch Museum. Despite its thirteen storeys, the artist’s works occupied only three rooms. His best-known versions of The Scream and Madonna weren’t even in the building.
Next, the National Museum of Art. The exterior alone is a work of art. Inside, rooms cover everything from ancient Japanese artefacts to the design of Norway’s passport. We found Munch’s The Scream there too.
During the day, a text arrived: the passage to Aarhus was cancelled, and we’d stay another day in Oslo. Back aboard after dinner, we went to the captain’s weather talk in the atrium theatre. Tomorrow’s forecast was for gusts over 60 knots and five- to six-metre waves: Beaufort force 11. The ship could handle it, but most passengers would have found it uncomfortable, with more adventure than they wanted.
4 October 2023. Another 155 nautical miles behind us. At eight, AIDAluna entered Kristiansand. A beautiful concert hall and an old-fashioned fish market with lobsters and crabs welcomed us into town. From there, we walked to Odderøya to see the lighthouse. The island is dotted with student clubs and historic defences. We wandered the paths and admired the landscape. Watching those views is a pleasure all of its own.
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4 October 2023. Another 155 nautical miles behind us. At eight, AIDAluna entered Kristiansand.
A beautiful concert hall and an old-fashioned fish market with lobsters and crabs welcomed us into town. From there, we walked to Odderøya to see the lighthouse. The island is dotted with student clubs and historic defences. We wandered the paths and admired the landscape. Watching those views is a pleasure all of its own.
Back in the centre by lunchtime, we walked the waterfront, ate at one of the many sushi bars, visited a magnificent Catholic church, and saw an exhibition on the fifth floor of the local library. After Stavanger, Kristiansand didn’t offer much to do.
Departure at six. Dinner, a rock concert and acrobatics in the atrium theatre that evening.
3 October 2023. After 496 nautical miles offshore without internet, averaging 14.5 knots, Norway greeted us with the beautiful rocky approach to Stavanger. We greeted it over full English breakfasts and coffee, glued to phones newly connected to 5G. We stepped ashore at eight, the moment the gangway touched land. But we’d forgotten an important fact: Norwegians are lazy sods. Some shops and museums open at ten, others at noon, sometimes even three.
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3 October 2023. After 496 nautical miles offshore without internet, averaging 14.5 knots, Norway greeted us with the beautiful rocky approach to Stavanger. We greeted it over full English breakfasts and coffee, glued to phones newly connected to 5G.
We stepped ashore at eight, the moment the gangway touched land. But we’d forgotten an important fact: Norwegians are lazy sods. Some shops and museums open at ten, others at noon, sometimes even three. By ten, our legs were already tired.
Stavanger was very cosy: museums and parks, a large old town of wooden houses and cafés. One museum ticket gets you into all the others. The maritime museum on the waterfront has an old shop counter and sail loft. Near the liner were a printing museum, a canning museum and a historic house. A little farther on, we visited the city museum, with its many exhibits. Across the waterfront was an incredibly beautiful — and equally boring — petroleum museum. Banksy admirers had generously covered the buildings in graffiti.
The drawback was having to choose: explore the town or take a trip to Lysefjord. We didn’t have time for the parks either, spending longer in museums. Modern architecture also makes the centre look more like Chita than a fairy-tale Scandinavian town. The Germans are better at architecture.
Departure at six sharp. The weather had deteriorated badly: winds reached 40 knots. The pilot boat escorting us leapt up, then buried its bow in the waves. For the first time, we felt the ship move. Much like an ordinary yacht’s motion in good weather.
2 October 2023. A day at sea, and a good chance to explore the ship. Breakfast seven to ten, hot dogs on the open deck noon to one, lunch one to three, dinner six to nine. The food barely varied between meals. Eating nothing but steaks is fun at first, but after a couple of days a different soup becomes exciting. Overall, the holiday seemed aimed at drinkers who’d bought the unlimited bar package. It pays for itself above six drinks a day.
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2 October 2023. A day at sea, and a good chance to explore the ship.
Breakfast seven to ten, hot dogs on the open deck noon to one, lunch one to three, dinner six to nine. The food barely varied between meals. Eating nothing but steaks is fun at first, but after a couple of days a different soup becomes exciting. Overall, the holiday seemed aimed at drinkers who’d bought the unlimited bar package. It pays for itself above six drinks a day. There are about five bars, including a smoking bar. Everything costs extra. No shortage of customers.
On deck ten, I found a gym with treadmills and a few machines, plus an activities timetable. Every day, seven in the morning to nine at night, without a break: exercises, yoga, stretching, spin classes and more.
Deck eleven has an enclosed spa with several heated hot tubs. Access costs an extra €250. Quite popular, apparently: we kept meeting people in bathrobes. There are hot tubs on the open deck too, permanently packed with children like sardines.
The ship’s centre has a three-storey atrium theatre hosting guitar performances, pop and rock concerts, acrobatics, bingo, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, light-hearted talks about Norway and our ports of call, and interviews with crew members. A leaflet with the next day’s full programme appeared at our door at seven each evening. A pity it was all in German.
For our holiday, we decided to try a cruise on a fourteen-deck liner…
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Choosing a holiday, we decided to find out what cruising was like on one of those fourteen-deck liners. After comparing websites, itineraries and prices, we chose AIDA: seven days, four cities, full board and a balcony cabin for two, for €1,400. No need to spend another penny. At two on 1 October 2023, we arrived at Kiel’s passenger port with a backpack and were directed to the queue. People with suitcases went for extra screening and baggage drop-off.
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Choosing a holiday, we decided to find out what cruising was like on one of those fourteen-deck liners. After comparing websites, itineraries and prices, we chose AIDA: seven days, four cities, full board and a balcony cabin for two, for €1,400. No need to spend another penny.
At two on 1 October 2023, we arrived at Kiel’s passenger port with a backpack and were directed to the queue. People with suitcases went for extra screening and baggage drop-off. At check-in, they took our passports and German IDs and gave us electronic passes. These also served as credit cards: extra purchases went onto the pass, to be charged to our bank card after the cruise. On boarding, bags went through an X-ray machine and passengers through a metal detector. This happened EVERY time we boarded. Checked suitcases appeared outside cabin doors.
Sixteen lifts inside. Cabins on decks five to ten; activities on nine, ten and eleven. We were lucky to be on nine: straight out of our room into the large atrium theatre. The cabin was much like a hotel room: desk, bed, armchair, air conditioning and heating, wardrobe, towels, toilet, shower and basin.
After looking around, we completed the safety briefing: watched a ten-minute video on our phones, put on lifejackets, and walked down to deck five by the lifeboats, where a crew member ticked off that little quest.
Then lunch. Seven restaurants: four cost extra, three are included. Buffet counters offered dozens of dishes: fruit, vegetables, salads, cured pink salmon, cold cuts, pâtés, cheeses, beef steaks, lamb, chicken, prawns, fried pollock, rice, chips, jacket potatoes, soups, soufflés, ice cream, juice, milk, tea, coffee, soft drinks and beer. Unlimited.
Fed, we watched AIDAluna depart as thick fog wrapped itself round the Baltic.
A colleague has a private pilot’s licence. He also belongs to a club with a small airfield and two aircraft. Over lunch, we sometimes discuss the differences between marine and aviation radio and navigation. During one conversation, I invited myself along for a flight. He agreed, suggesting we split the costs. After work on Monday, 11 September, we went to his club.
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A colleague has a private pilot’s licence. He also belongs to a club with a small airfield and two aircraft. Over lunch, we sometimes discuss the differences between marine and aviation radio and navigation. During one conversation, I invited myself along for a flight. He agreed, suggesting we split the costs.
After work on Monday, 11 September, we went to his club. The ‘airport’ was a field with a hangar, diesel pump, a little building with an amateur radio station, and tables round a barbecue. Our aircraft weighed only 200kg; one person could push it easily. Its aluminium frame was covered with something like heavy fabric. Maximum lifting capacity: 250kg.
During the flight, Simon explained every action and manoeuvre and enthusiastically pointed out local sights. Despite the aircraft’s fragile construction, the flight was even smoother than a commercial one. At 2,000 feet — about 700 metres — we followed the Schlei to the Baltic, looking down on little sailing yachts and charming red-brick German towns. Our speed was around 220 knots.
Beautiful. But for now, I still prefer sea voyages. Thirty-five minutes of pleasure cost me €40.
I decided to replace the battery. The 30-day return period hadn’t expired yet. In the morning, I took a trolley to the yacht, disconnected the suspect battery and packed it. I measured both: 13.1V on this one, 13.4V on the good one. A trolley wheel burst as I left the marina, so dragging those 25kg to the bus stop, off the bus, onto the train, back onto another bus and into DHL took some sweating.
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I decided to replace the battery. The 30-day return period hadn’t expired yet.
In the morning, I took a trolley to the yacht, disconnected the suspect battery and packed it. I measured both: 13.1V on this one, 13.4V on the good one. A trolley wheel burst as I left the marina, so dragging those 25kg to the bus stop, off the bus, onto the train, back onto another bus and into DHL took some sweating. Sending it was painless: the clerk scanned the barcode I’d taped on beforehand and wished me a good day.
A new trolley and battery went into my Amazon basket. When they arrived, I checked the voltage: 12.6V. Very good. On Saturday, 23 September, I took everything aboard. As the new wiring lets me connect or isolate each component, the plan was to charge the new battery fully, then the existing one, then both together. The first took eight hours and ended at 13.7V; the second, another two hours, ending at 13.6V. When I connected them together, the charger surprised me by running for another two hours before finally settling down.
I didn’t get to bed until three in the morning. Protein bars kept me going. Not for the first time.
A week later, on 9 September, the weather took a turn for the worse.
Photos and video4 photos · 1 video
A week later, on 9 September, the weather took a turn for the worse. Heat and flat calm. So I invited colleagues to spend the day at anchor and learn to steer with a tiller. A peaceful day of conversation, drinks and all sorts of snacks. I enjoyed how the yacht glided along, easily making five knots. Anchoring no longer troubled me: drop it from the stern, then secure the warp at the bow cleat. Simple and tidy. The portable fridge ran all day, cooling our drinks.
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A week later, on 9 September, the weather took a turn for the worse. Heat and flat calm. So I invited colleagues to spend the day at anchor and learn to steer with a tiller.
A peaceful day of conversation, drinks and all sorts of snacks. I enjoyed how the yacht glided along, easily making five knots. Anchoring no longer troubled me: drop it from the stern, then secure the warp at the bow cleat. Simple and tidy. The portable fridge ran all day, cooling our drinks. A pleasant effect: the hotter we got in the sun, the colder they became.
After berthing, I saw that the battery voltage indicated nearly half the charge was gone. That couldn’t be right. Fitting the battery that arrived at 11.6V had probably been a mistake.
To thank Dasha again, I invited her sailing with Masha and me on 3 September…
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Once out at sea, we tried everything to coax some speed from the sails. About three knots on average, though a couple of times we held 4.5. I kept watching the battery monitor. I didn’t like the voltage staying above 13V for only a couple of hours, then jumping between 12.3 and 12.7.
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Wanting to thank Dasha again for her help, I invited her sailing with Masha and me on 3 September. A light breeze, around seven knots. Clouds filled the sky and hid the sun. We put our jackets on.
Once out at sea, we tried everything to coax some speed from the sails. About three knots on average, though a couple of times we held 4.5. I kept watching the battery monitor. I didn’t like the voltage staying above 13V for only a couple of hours, then jumping between 12.3 and 12.7.
On the way back, in the narrow channel entrance, we got distracted by a neighbouring boat’s carbon mast. The water around us grew noticeably lighter, and we gently ran aground. The engine couldn’t get us off, but it could spin the yacht like a ballerina on one toe. Once we faced the right way, I released the jib furling line and quickly set the sail. That was enough to get us moving. Perhaps that’s how beautiful, expensive yachts win races? You literally can’t take your eyes off them.
Unfortunately, the sunny day was ending, so we skipped our planned beer-and-sausages stop at anchor. Next time, perhaps.
Replacing the solar panel was the finishing touch to the electrical work.
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Replacing the solar panel was the finishing touch to the electrical work.
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Replacing the solar panel was the finishing touch to the electrical work. The main things I learnt: – polycrystalline panels are blue; monocrystalline ones are black – for the same size, blue panels cost about two-thirds as much and produce about two-thirds as much power – cheap Chinese charge controllers don’t maintain a stable voltage and slowly, irreversibly damage the battery – so it’s worth splashing out on a Victron Energy MPPT controller – choose the controller’s maximum current by dividing maximum panel wattage by circuit voltage. I chose a 15A controller, able to handle up to 200W – panels rarely produce their rated output: expect around 50W from a 100W panel much of the time – AGM doesn’t like constant topping-up, so you need a switch
I bought a 100W polycrystalline panel for €75, a Victron 15A MPPT controller for €104, a switch for €33, MC4 connectors for €26, ten metres of twin-core 4mm² copper cable for €38, metal strips to adapt the panel mounting holes for €13, an aluminium mounting frame for €35, and M8 bolts and screws for €20. €350 in all.
Halfway through the day, I went for lunch at the restaurant by the neighbouring marina. An interesting dish: two fried slices of bread topped with finely chopped pork belly and a fried egg, with traditional German pickles — cucumbers and cabbage — on the side.
And so August, and the summer of 2023, ended in a flurry of repair work.
Every single day, I read articles about lead-acid, gel, AGM and LiFePO4 batteries: their differences, characteristics, and how to connect and charge them correctly. I read the entire Victron Energy catalogue, started electrical discussions in sailing chats, and trawled Amazon reviews and comments. Three whole evenings went into draw.io to draw the wiring diagram I wanted.
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Every single day, I read articles about lead-acid, gel, AGM and LiFePO4 batteries: their differences, characteristics, and how to connect and charge them correctly. I read the entire Victron Energy catalogue, started electrical discussions in sailing chats, and trawled Amazon reviews and comments. Three whole evenings went into draw.io to draw the wiring diagram I wanted.
Eventually, I bought a €45 multimeter; two 110Ah marine AGM batteries at €145 each; two battery boxes at €25; two terminal adapter sets at €19; busbars for €31; two junction boxes at €15; three pairs of 50cm, 25mm² cables at €17; terminals for €14; two 1–2–Both–Off switches at €17; heat-shrink tubing for €14; connectors for €10; insulating tape for €8; liquid insulation for €12; three screw sets at €15; 50 metres of webbing for €35; two PVC boards for €10; and a yoga block for €6. About €750 if you know what to buy. I didn’t, so another €150 went on top.
The design has two circuits that can be combined: instruments and engine. The switches allow either battery to be connected or isolated. All the wiring is enclosed, with no exposed conductors. PVC boards reinforce the walls where the batteries are secured, wide webbing holds them firmly in three axes, and a cut-up yoga block acts as a levelling support and cushion. The alternator can connect directly to AGM batteries. Not ideal, as its voltage will charge them to only about 80%, but better than nothing.
The whole installation took four full days. On one of them, Dasha, who lives in Hamburg and loves sailing, joined me. She and her dog Lucky were a great help with the yoga block, straps and cable connectors. One thing worried me: the batteries arrived at different voltages, 12.6V and 11.6V. For AGM, 11.6V is almost fully discharged.
Dasha and I had beef doner boxes with chips and sauce. My treat.
Every night aboard had started to leave me with a morning headache.
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After watching some YouTube videos about neutralising acid, I bought plastic goggles, a respirator, litmus paper and a couple of packs of baking soda. I covered everywhere I could reach. The liquid hissed and foamed. Once the surface pH tested alkaline, I began washing away the residue and throwing out everything that had sat in the mess.
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At some point, every night aboard had started to leave me with a morning headache. Also, when I returned from Sweden, Masha met me. I put some things in a shoulder bag and handed it to her. Ten minutes later, her hands began to burn, and pale stripes appeared on her jumper beneath the straps. Back on the yacht, I found liquid around the battery, blackened wood, rusty tools, melted bags and an acidic smell. It looked as though a slipped restraint and heavy heeling on passage had tipped the battery far enough for acid to escape through a vent.
After watching some YouTube videos about neutralising acid, I bought plastic goggles, a respirator, litmus paper and a couple of packs of baking soda. I covered everywhere I could reach. The liquid hissed and foamed. Once the surface pH tested alkaline, I began washing away the residue and throwing out everything that had sat in the mess.
The batteries were also connected incorrectly. They were two metres apart, but the charger went to both terminals on one battery rather than opposite terminals on different batteries. The second battery looked slightly swollen too. There was really no option but to redo it properly.
Alongside the engine saga, I began working on the yacht’s electrics.
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Alongside the engine saga, I began working on the yacht’s electrics. On day five of the passage from Sweden to Germany, the bilge pump failed and nearly took the batteries with it. Most likely, something had knocked its switch in the motion, leaving it pumping air for hours. Tracing the circuit, I found a melted fuse, an unusually small size too. I decided to redo the whole bilge-pump installation.
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Alongside the engine saga, I began working on the yacht’s electrics. On day five of the passage from Sweden to Germany, the bilge pump failed and nearly took the batteries with it. Most likely, something had knocked its switch in the motion, leaving it pumping air for hours.
Tracing the circuit, I found a melted fuse, an unusually small size too. I decided to redo the whole bilge-pump installation. From Amazon: a new pump for €18, a fused control panel for €20, a float switch for automatic operation for €18, a wood hole saw for €5, and chemically and electrically protective gloves for €24. The hardest part was working out the float-switch wiring and finding the pump’s positive and negative supplies. Otherwise, installation went smoothly, giving me confidence in my electrical abilities.
Another flaw was that all the yacht’s equipment ran directly from shore power. After discussing it with Alexei and Vadim, I bought a ready-assembled distribution board for €97 and connected the shore supply through it. Its most expensive component was the electricity meter. I remembered how important it had been in England to Aubrey that we always used a metered shore-power lead. Perhaps mine will come in useful too.
Alexei and two authorised service centres suggested a lift-out to clean the hull.
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@AlexMemfis and a couple of authorised service centres suggested lifting the yacht to clean off the growth. Fouling might have become so bad that the propeller was working like a mixer, churning the water in circles. I wasn’t convinced. But if that didn’t help, the next steps were compression tests, investigating the injection pump, and stripping down a relatively recent engine.
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@AlexMemfis and a couple of authorised service centres suggested lifting the yacht to clean off the growth. Fouling might have become so bad that the propeller was working like a mixer, churning the water in circles. I wasn’t convinced. But if that didn’t help, the next steps were compression tests, investigating the injection pump, and stripping down a relatively recent engine.
I arranged for a neighbouring marina to do the work for €300, took a day off, and came down the evening before. At seven, I picked up my toothbrush and toothpaste, put on my waterproofs, pocketed my phone, wallet and keys, and went into the cockpit. Every surface was wet with morning condensation. I carefully put one foot on the pier. As I brought the other across, I slipped and fell backwards into the water.
After hauling myself out by a mooring line and finishing what I needed to do, I cast off. Another yacht approached, her skipper eagerly drinking coffee. Wet through and freezing, I envied him.
White haze appeared from the exhaust. My spirits sank further. My faith in barnacles slowing us down dissolved in those little white clouds. It could, of course, have been steam: it was cold outside. I reduced the revs just in case.
The lift-out was straightforward. I released the backstay, topping lift and lazyjacks, attached the slings to the crane, and went ashore. The workers scraped off the barnacles with a flat shovel and used a scraper on the propeller and rudder. Then out came the pressure washer. About an hour later, Rassvet was afloat again. I secured the backstay, started the engine and cast off.
What followed is hard to put into words. The yacht didn’t so much move as glide. The engine’s rattle became a soft, even, harmonious purr. At low revs, we glided along at nearly three knots; more throttle gave us the full 5.5. The revs themselves had nothing to do with it: still 2,400rpm under load and 4,000 unloaded. Is that happiness or what?
Trying to get to the bottom of the engine problem…
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Trying to get to the bottom of the engine problem, I wrote in Telegram sailing chats, consulted @AlexMemfis, asked marina neighbours, found every authorised Nannidiesel service centre in Germany and emailed them all. Even Evgenia Lyubimova got in touch (@Liubimova_E). The workshop at my marina checked the engine and said it was broadly fine. They tightened the alternator belt and adjusted the throttle linkage from the engine control.
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Trying to get to the bottom of the engine problem, I wrote in Telegram sailing chats, consulted @AlexMemfis, asked marina neighbours, found every authorised Nannidiesel service centre in Germany and emailed them all. Even Evgenia Lyubimova got in touch (@Liubimova_E).
The workshop at my marina checked the engine and said it was broadly fine. They tightened the alternator belt and adjusted the throttle linkage from the engine control. It made no difference to the revs.
Alexei and Evgenia suggested ruling out dirty diesel by running from a jerrycan. Modern biofuel made from organic waste can support microorganisms, which die and settle as sludge at the bottom of the tank. The circumstances fitted: the boat had sat still in the marina for nearly two months.
I shut off the diesel tank, disconnected the fuel supply and return lines, put both into a can of fresh diesel, and started the engine. After about 15 minutes at higher revs, I took measurements. They told me nothing new.
Whether anything I’d done helped, I don’t know, but the yacht’s speed in calm weather rose from 2.5 to 3.5 knots. A little better than nothing, I suppose.
Cooling system: a leaking anti-siphon valve and a missing strainer
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Unexpectedly @AlexMemfis suggested looking into the cooling system. He asked me to film the entire water route, from the inlet seacock to the outlet. Once I’d done it, he thought for about 15 minutes, then called with his observations. The inlet valve is on the bottom of the boat, just behind the engine. A hose runs from it to the impeller. Water then goes to the siphon breaker above the waterline, which prevents reverse flow from the engine.
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Unexpectedly @AlexMemfis suggested looking into the cooling system. He asked me to film the entire water route, from the inlet seacock to the outlet. Once I’d done it, he thought for about 15 minutes, then called with his observations.
The inlet valve is on the bottom of the boat, just behind the engine. A hose runs from it to the impeller. Water then goes to the siphon breaker above the waterline, which prevents reverse flow from the engine. From there, it enters the internal cooling circuit, mixes with exhaust gases, and passes through a hose into the waterlock/silencer — the green box in the video. Then it runs into the locker, up through a gooseneck bend, and overboard. The gooseneck prevents water entering backwards through the outlet when the boat heels or meets waves. The waterlock also has a second outlet for draining. The engine itself has an expansion tank containing antifreeze.
The inspection revealed two problems: – water seeped from the anti-siphon valve while the engine ran – no raw-water strainer to keep weed and other debris out of the system
I removed and cleaned the anti-siphon valve, refitted it, and adjusted its cap. I don’t know which bit helped, but the leak stopped.
I ordered a raw-water strainer on Amazon for €20.34. Fitting it was straightforward. After just a couple of outings, I found weed and a black piece of plastic inside. A satisfying result.
The engine problem was bothering me. I was 90% sure something had wrapped round the propeller. I suggested that my colleagues Lyosha and Dima bring their children for a weekend aboard and some diving under the boat. I bought a mask, wetsuit and underwater torches on Amazon. Another colleague, Simon, lent me a second wetsuit. This time, instead of carrying the anchor bucket forward, I dropped the anchor straight from the stern. Much easier.
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The engine problem was bothering me. I was 90% sure something had wrapped round the propeller. I suggested that my colleagues Lyosha and Dima bring their children for a weekend aboard and some diving under the boat. I bought a mask, wetsuit and underwater torches on Amazon. Another colleague, Simon, lent me a second wetsuit.
This time, instead of carrying the anchor bucket forward, I dropped the anchor straight from the stern. Much easier. Dima and I changed and began diving. It took a while to locate our target, but then things went smoothly. Unfortunately, we found nothing except barnacles. We could turn the blades, and I even shone a light on the shiny propeller shaft — or rather, the five millimetres visible between hull and propeller.
Climbing out, we covered the stern in blood from hands cut by barnacles. We enthused about the new experience and praised the wetsuits. The sea was 18°C, but the suits felt as though they added another five degrees. Then we heated sausages and rice and made tea. It began to pour, and I understood why you anchor from the bow: wind and rain blew straight into the saloon, but it was too stuffy to close the hatch.
The following weekend, on 17 July, Lyosha joined me for a fuel run into Lübeck Bay.
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The following weekend, on 17 July, I arranged a short fuel run into Lübeck Bay with Lyosha. Without a fuel gauge, I had no idea how much diesel remained since my passage from Denmark. Gusts to 27 knots were forecast after lunch, but the morning sun was scorching. I handed my crewmate the tiller. At the engine’s two knots, Travemünde took two hours. A queue had formed at the fuel berth, so we circled slowly.
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The following weekend, on 17 July, I arranged a short fuel run into Lübeck Bay with Lyosha. Without a fuel gauge, I had no idea how much diesel remained since my passage from Denmark.
Gusts to 27 knots were forecast after lunch, but the morning sun was scorching. I handed my crewmate the tiller. At the engine’s two knots, Travemünde took two hours.
A queue had formed at the fuel berth, so we circled slowly. A small motorboat tried to slip ahead, but the attendant pointed at us and said something, then waved us in. The skipper nodded and shouted ‘Entschuldigung!’ I approached at almost 90 degrees: a large two-deck motorboat occupied the pier ahead, and there was little space behind. Berthed on only the second attempt. Eleven litres filled the tank, another sixteen went into cans. €2.40 a litre.
Then out to open water. I hoisted the sail and enjoyed the quiet and the heel. Lyosha became sleepy and went below for a nap. Seasickness takes that form for some people. Clouds approached from the town and the wind built. There were noticeably fewer boats around. I furled the sail and turned homewards. But the yacht wouldn’t go: the plotter showed 0.7 knots, not even enough to bring the bow through the wind. In the end, I bore away and began tacking. That got us moving. We sailed that way right back to the marina.
Anchoring was straightforward. I lowered the anchor over the side by hand, and recovered it the same way. I paid out about five times the depth and secured the warp to the bow cleat. We set up the table, ate McDonald’s burgers, then went forward to relax in the refreshing breeze. The wind hid the sun’s effect; only that evening did we discover we’d burnt.
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On 8 July 2023, Masha and I decided on our first outing by ourselves. It would also be my first time anchoring Rassvet. As the anchor lives in a bucket in the stern locker, I’d even asked Alexei how best to go about it.
Anchoring was straightforward. I lowered the anchor over the side by hand, and recovered it the same way. I paid out about five times the depth and secured the warp to the bow cleat. We set up the table, ate McDonald’s burgers, then went forward to relax in the refreshing breeze. The wind hid the sun’s effect; only that evening did we discover we’d burnt.
The table was awkward to set up: bulky, blocking the tiller, and difficult to fit into two moving slots.
Everything would have been idyllic, but for one thing. As soon as I left the marina for open water and opened the throttle, our speed stopped at 2.1 knots. I pushed the engine control all the way forward, but the engine took no notice. That didn’t bode well.
My boat has a Garmin GPSMap 525 chartplotter. Its microSD card holds BlueChart g2 Vision VEU468S, Södertälje–Trelleborg, for Sweden’s east coast. Two serious drawbacks. First, deep water is yellow, just like land, so I had to peer carefully at the screen every time. Second, beyond the wind farm the chart turns grey, making it useless in German and Danish waters. I didn’t want to spend €300 on new charts.
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My boat has a Garmin GPSMap 525 chartplotter. Its microSD card holds BlueChart g2 Vision VEU468S, Södertälje–Trelleborg, for Sweden’s east coast. Two serious drawbacks. First, deep water is yellow, just like land, so I had to peer carefully at the screen every time. Second, beyond the wind farm the chart turns grey, making it useless in German and Danish waters.
I didn’t want to spend €300 on new charts. I also remembered that the plotter on the Marieholm 32 covered the whole Baltic. Some determined Googling led me to NaviTotal and a set of VEU721L charts from 2014, covering Belgium in the west, Russia in the east, and Svalbard in the Barents Sea to the north. Unfortunately, after installation the plotter showed nothing south of Aarhus, and the areas it did show still had yellow water. Searching the entire internet finally revealed the reason for the yellow: the ActiveCaptain computer application scrambles the colour scheme.
My second attempt was OpenSeaMap. Free charts, and very easy to download and install on my Garmin. You can even draw the area you want included before downloading. They’re detailed, with up-to-date buoys, beacons, marinas and structures. But no depth information: yellow land, blue water. At least it’s blue.
My third attempt was RuTracker. There I found the elusive HEU800X, matching VEU721L. Once installed, they gave me what I wanted. A quick comparison showed only small differences in depths from the current Navionics charts on my phone. I was pleased with the result.
On 18 June, I returned to the yacht for the first time since the May passage.
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First, the renaming. Montezuma would now proudly bear the name Rassvet. To remove the old lettering, I bought plastic scrapers for €5, a heat gun for €17, a couple of cloths and some alcohol. The hull sides got vinyl letters from a €12 set; a custom €43 sticker went on the stern.
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On 18 June, I returned to the yacht for the first time since the May passage. Sunshine greeted me, along with a thick layer of cobwebs everywhere imaginable. A day for small jobs.
First, the renaming. Montezuma would now proudly bear the name Rassvet. To remove the old lettering, I bought plastic scrapers for €5, a heat gun for €17, a couple of cloths and some alcohol. The hull sides got vinyl letters from a €12 set; a custom €43 sticker went on the stern.
Then I lowered and folded the Swedish flag, replacing it with the German tricolour.
The general-purpose mooring lines became dedicated berth lines. I fitted snubbers to absorb the little jerks from the boat’s movement. Three came from the previous owner; I bought another for €20. I set the lengths so I wouldn’t have to find them again each time. I heat-sealed the ends and finished them with €37 Dip-It Whip-It.
I fitted a small €35 cleat to the rail and secured the jib furling line to it. I didn’t want the sail unrolling and tearing in the wind while I was away.
Back in Bergkvara the clip holding the telescopic tiller extension had broken. I found a pack of three cable clips with a 22–25mm internal diameter for €6. A perfect replacement for the original.
I also took out the bucket of anchor warp, stretched the rope along the pier, and marked every five metres with a red permanent marker. Hopefully, it has soaked into the fibres and won’t wash off on the first outing.
P.S. I didn’t do all this in one day. Finding the right clip diameter, for instance, took a while. I’ve gathered the small jobs into one post to keep the story together.
Kieler Woche ran from 17 to 25 June 2023. Literally, ‘Kiel Week’. Probably the city’s biggest event, perhaps all of northern Germany’s. Something like Munich’s Oktoberfest, with a maritime theme. Visitors come from across the country and beyond. This year, 2.8 million people attended; before Covid, figures of seven million were mentioned. An extraordinary number of stalls lined the waterfront, rivalling Russia’s busiest Black Sea resorts for quantity and colour.
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Kieler Woche ran from 17 to 25 June 2023. Literally, ‘Kiel Week’. Probably the city’s biggest event, perhaps all of northern Germany’s. Something like Munich’s Oktoberfest, with a maritime theme. Visitors come from across the country and beyond. This year, 2.8 million people attended; before Covid, figures of seven million were mentioned.
An extraordinary number of stalls lined the waterfront, rivalling Russia’s busiest Black Sea resorts for quantity and colour. Don’t expect much variety, though. Three or four local beers. To eat: Fischbrötchen — rolls with herring, battered cod, fishcakes or falafel — currywurst, a sausage dusted with turmeric in a spicy tomato sauce, or Pommes, chips. You can easily spend half an hour queuing for the loo. Or do what everyone else does: go to the park and relieve yourself against the nearest tree in full view. About ten stages with live music were spaced along the stalls. Each evening brought a parade of hot-air balloons.
Colleagues told me there were activities at the other end, such as visits to the naval base. But crowds of people out enjoying themselves stress me terribly. There were so many that Masha and I literally shuffled along the waterfront like penguins, rocking from foot to foot.
Take a bus to the north of the city, and you could see what the festival was originally for: sailing teams from all over the world racing in different classes. Fewer people, a nicer atmosphere.
On 9 June, Masha and I went down to Kiel’s waterfront.
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On 9 June, Masha and I went down to Kiel’s waterfront. The Ocean Race 2023 yachts were coming into the bay. Their last visit had been in 2001, so we didn’t want to miss the chance. The Ocean Race is a race held since 1973, one of the world’s three biggest sporting events alongside the Olympics and America’s Cup. Previously called the Whitbread Round the World Race (1973–2001) and Volvo Ocean Race (2001–2019), it takes place every three or four years.
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On 9 June, Masha and I went down to Kiel’s waterfront. The Ocean Race 2023 yachts were coming into the bay. Their last visit had been in 2001, so we didn’t want to miss the chance.
The Ocean Race is a race held since 1973, one of the world’s three biggest sporting events alongside the Olympics and America’s Cup. Previously called the Whitbread Round the World Race (1973–2001) and Volvo Ocean Race (2001–2019), it takes place every three or four years.
In 2023, the crews started in Alicante, Spain, on 15 January, sailed to Cape Verde off West Africa, then Cape Town, South Africa. They crossed the Indian, Southern and Pacific Oceans to Itajaí, Brazil; headed north to Newport, Rhode Island, in the US; crossed the Atlantic to Aarhus, Denmark; rounded a buoy in Kiel, Germany; reached The Hague, Netherlands; and finished in Genoa, Italy, on 29 June. A total of 32,000 nautical miles, or 60,000km.
Two boats collided on the final leg on 15 June. Even so, the favourites, the US 11th Hour Racing Team, took first place. They’re the ones in my photographs.
The whole journey took exactly seven days: Kalmar – Bergkvara – Sandhamn – Karlskrona – Hanö – Gislövs läge – Gedser – Lübeck. Three countries, seven marinas, eleven berthings — alongside, at finger pontoons, between piles and to buoys — and three fuel stops. Three passages over 60 miles; 308 nautical miles in all, 130 of them single-handed. Sixty-two hours underway and continuously on watch. Conditions: Beaufort force 4–7, mostly 5–6.
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The whole journey took exactly seven days: Kalmar – Bergkvara – Sandhamn – Karlskrona – Hanö – Gislövs läge – Gedser – Lübeck. Three countries, seven marinas, eleven berthings — alongside, at finger pontoons, between piles and to buoys — and three fuel stops. Three passages over 60 miles; 308 nautical miles in all, 130 of them single-handed. Sixty-two hours underway and continuously on watch. Conditions: Beaufort force 4–7, mostly 5–6.
The hardest passage was on day three, when the wind was close to force 8. The loveliest was the reward the following day: sunset among the islands and wild landscapes. The most beautiful place: Hanö. The least pleasant: Gislövs läge.
On arrival, I was exhausted, elated, fulfilled — and wondering why I needed any of it. I left the yacht alone for several weeks.
Now, two months later, I remember the trip with extraordinary warmth and a little shiver of excitement. I’d even like to do it again. Every fear came from a lack of experience. Now the miles in my logbook have doubled, and so has my experience. The adventure was absolutely worth it.
Gedser. Sunday, 21 May 2023. I was too tired to want to leave, but tomorrow’s forecast promised gusts to 29 knots. Today’s 25 seemed positively kind. Overcast sky. Humming masts. An oppressive atmosphere. Fuelled by instant noodles, I cast off. The wind pinned us against the pier, so I needed some throttle to get clear. I surfed down waves all the way. Many had whitecaps, with crests above my head.
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Gedser. Sunday, 21 May 2023. I was too tired to want to leave, but tomorrow’s forecast promised gusts to 29 knots. Today’s 25 seemed positively kind. Overcast sky. Humming masts. An oppressive atmosphere.
Fuelled by instant noodles, I cast off. The wind pinned us against the pier, so I needed some throttle to get clear.
I surfed down waves all the way. Many had whitecaps, with crests above my head. Each swung the yacht sideways by nearly 40 degrees, and the autopilot corrected with almost as much swing the other way. From outside, we must have looked drunk, zigzagging along. I’d prepared the second reef in advance. Speed kept varying between five and ten knots.
It was frightening. I clipped on with two safety tethers. After a few hours, though, I realised the situation was steady and the boat was behaving well.
Every 15 minutes, a timer prompted me to check our course, sail trim and the plentiful traffic around us. Then I dozed until the next alarm.
At nine in the evening, I berthed in Lübeck. Lyosha met me, having come home by FlixBus yesterday and had a good sleep. He collected his bag; I stayed aboard. After a proper rest, I got the marina facilities keys from the harbourmaster, had breakfast in a café, packed, and waited for my wife.
Gislövs läge. Saturday, 20 May 2023. I made noodles and wandered round the marina with my bowl, asking neighbours whether there was a local service that could repair the pump. Unfortunately, there wasn’t. Back aboard, my crewmate said he’d reached his limit. His first sailing experience had been dreadful: cold, damp, endless motion and cramped space. On top of that, long passages and a worsening cold. No chance to use the loo properly or explore a town.
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Gislövs läge. Saturday, 20 May 2023. I made noodles and wandered round the marina with my bowl, asking neighbours whether there was a local service that could repair the pump. Unfortunately, there wasn’t.
Back aboard, my crewmate said he’d reached his limit. His first sailing experience had been dreadful: cold, damp, endless motion and cramped space. On top of that, long passages and a worsening cold. No chance to use the loo properly or explore a town. He’d help me fuel up here, but after that I was on my own.
After fuelling, the plan was simple: reach Denmark’s southernmost point. A following wind, 16 knots gusting 24. I clipped on to both sides of the boat, hoisted the sail and set off. Large ferries and cargo ships crossed my route. Ten miles off Sweden, my phone lost reception. Seeing Denmark’s rocky coast and watching it pass was a joy. A little later, an enormous offshore wind farm appeared. The turbines stretched to the horizon, with no end in sight.
That evening, I came alongside in Gedser. I realised sailing gloves protect not only against rope burns but against the wind too. Face cream was no longer helping: my skin peeled and bled, and my nose looked like a tortoise shell. I managed to buy a Coke at a restaurant as it closed, satisfying both thirst and a need for sugar. Shower. Collapsed into bed.
Hanö. Friday, 19 May 2023. Up at 5.50am. Lyosha and I had already agreed to leave earlier so we could explore each evening’s destination. The constant motion, cold and damp were also making him ill, and his winter sleeping bag wasn’t warm enough. But I had bad news. On Tuesday, we’d sailed into a cold front. Behind it comes cool weather and a light breeze, as we’d seen over the past two days. A warm front often catches up with it.
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Hanö. Friday, 19 May 2023. Up at 5.50am. Lyosha and I had already agreed to leave earlier so we could explore each evening’s destination. The constant motion, cold and damp were also making him ill, and his winter sleeping bag wasn’t warm enough.
But I had bad news. On Tuesday, we’d sailed into a cold front. Behind it comes cool weather and a light breeze, as we’d seen over the past two days. A warm front often catches up with it. From tomorrow and throughout the following week, rain and gusts to 25 knots were forecast. Today, we had to cover as much ground as we physically could, or risk getting stuck somewhere for a week.
Washed and fed on flatbread with jam, we left the island at eight. Almost no wind. We motored into it for the first six hours. Then I hoisted the sails and altered onto a deep broad reach, gaining a knot and a half.
Partway through, the chartplotter sounded a critical battery warning: 11.7V. I panicked: without the autopilot, I couldn’t handle the sails alone. I switched off every electrical load, started the engine, increased the revs and connected the domestic battery to the starter battery. Nothing helped. A couple of minutes later, the charge recovered. That evening, I discovered the bilge pump no longer worked. For the next few days, I bailed with a cut-open plastic bottle.
At 9.30pm, we berthed at the yacht club marina in Gislövs läge, near Trelleborg. The worst stop of the trip. A smell of manure. Opaque water. The electricity tripped every half-hour. Vandal-proof toilets like those on aircraft. A group of young people sat noisily on the terrace of the closed café.
Karlskrona. Thursday, 18 May 2023. Lyosha wanted to buy a pillow and headphones and have breakfast in a café. We went into town, but it seemed deserted. Germany had a public holiday for a religious festival; presumably Sweden did too. European holidays are curious: nobody leaves home and, as a rule, only the grocery shop by the station is open. Finding anything else is a stroke of luck. We were lucky: a doner shop opened at ten, and we ate there.
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Karlskrona. Thursday, 18 May 2023. Lyosha wanted to buy a pillow and headphones and have breakfast in a café. We went into town, but it seemed deserted. Germany had a public holiday for a religious festival; presumably Sweden did too. European holidays are curious: nobody leaves home and, as a rule, only the grocery shop by the station is open. Finding anything else is a stroke of luck. We were lucky: a doner shop opened at ten, and we ate there.
Gusts to 15 knots were forecast. I prepared the reefs. We cast off at eleven, stopped for fuel and added 12 litres of diesel to fill the tank. Out of town by noon.
It took an hour and a half to clear the archipelago. I hoisted the sails and set course for Hanö. We spent the next six hours close-hauled. The island appeared on the horizon from about 20 miles away, becoming more beautiful as we approached. At eight, we passed the breakwaters. To my surprise, the marina wasn’t empty for once — quite the opposite. About ten boats flew German flags. We somehow squeezed onto the end of a pier, our shore-power lead only just reaching. Arriving late left little time to explore, but the sunset views were extraordinary.
For dinner, I finished the sausage and bread, warmed in the microwave. Meanwhile, I checked the forecast on windy.com — so accurate that I’d bought a Premium subscription — marinas on navily.com and distances in navionics. Then it dawned on me. I went to tell my crewmate something important, but he was already asleep.
Sandhamn. Wednesday, 17 May 2023. Day three. Up at 8.30am. The same forecast as yesterday: gusts to 35 knots. We decided to wait until evening. We walked round the village, which continues on the opposite shore. There’s also a path to a birdwatching station through a stony landscape straight out of Diablo III’s Fields of Misery. Supermarket ribs for lunch. We went through the cemetery into the local church.
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Sandhamn. Wednesday, 17 May 2023. Day three. Up at 8.30am. The same forecast as yesterday: gusts to 35 knots. We decided to wait until evening.
We walked round the village, which continues on the opposite shore. There’s also a path to a birdwatching station through a stony landscape straight out of Diablo III’s Fields of Misery. Supermarket ribs for lunch. We went through the cemetery into the local church. Lyosha knows a lot about religion and told me some interesting things about the place. It felt welcoming.
At five, we left alongside our neighbours flying German and British flags.
The aim was to motor to Karlskrona. The navigation was astonishingly intricate: narrow, winding fairways, crossing a cable ferry route, and even half a mile on a back transit — looking astern as you go ahead, keeping two marks vertically aligned. The wind indicator pointed straight over the bow throughout. For the final hour, the sun hung above the horizon, blinding us while we froze.
The town was a lovely, lively little St Petersburg. We had pizza, but it wasn’t enough. Back aboard, we made a vegetable salad and had cold cuts with flatbreads.
Bergkvara. Tuesday, 16 May 2023. Day two. Up at 8.30am. We cooked pasta with bolognese sauce in the campsite kitchen, then waited until reception opened at ten to pay. There’s coffee inside. Wi-Fi password: JTTRT4Y2. We left at eleven. For the first couple of hours, a moderate breeze let us sail. Then it died and the engine purred into life. About an hour later, the wind began building again, and the sail started working. It kept building.
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Bergkvara. Tuesday, 16 May 2023. Day two. Up at 8.30am. We cooked pasta with bolognese sauce in the campsite kitchen, then waited until reception opened at ten to pay. There’s coffee inside. Wi-Fi password: JTTRT4Y2. We left at eleven.
For the first couple of hours, a moderate breeze let us sail. Then it died and the engine purred into life. About an hour later, the wind began building again, and the sail started working. It kept building. I reefed the jib, but even then we reached 8.4 knots. Waves were 1–1.5m high, with whitecaps all around and spray blowing off many of the crests. Land was eight nautical miles away, and the wind wouldn’t let us head towards it: either back the way we’d come or out to sea.
I started the engine, took down the sail, and set the autopilot into the wind towards shore. For the next three hours, we sat in silence, heads down to lessen the motion. Every 15 minutes, my watch timer made us look up and check our surroundings. At one point, my phone’s GPS stopped working. The coast was still out of sight. Thankfully, a forced restart fixed it.
My whole body rebelled against being aboard. Bashing into the wind, I hated sailing and couldn’t understand why I’d bought a boat. Stepping ashore at the nearest marina, Sandhamn, I wanted to fall to my knees and kiss the ground. My feelings escaped in a groan of happiness. I felt renewed, reborn. We bought doner meat at the supermarket, heated it in a frying pan and ate it with bread. I’ll remember that sweet, tangy flavour for the rest of my life.
Kalmar. Monday, 15 May 2023. Day one. Up at 8.30am. Breakfast at McDonald’s, then provisions for the passage: water, noodles, bread, jam, energy bars and other snacks. Setting up the safety harness took a long time. As we left, I couldn’t get my head round reversing with a tiller. Then it clicked: the tiller points where the stern will go, and I needed much more speed than I’d thought to get steerage.
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Kalmar. Monday, 15 May 2023. Day one. Up at 8.30am. Breakfast at McDonald’s, then provisions for the passage: water, noodles, bread, jam, energy bars and other snacks.
Setting up the safety harness took a long time. As we left, I couldn’t get my head round reversing with a tiller. Then it clicked: the tiller points where the stern will go, and I needed much more speed than I’d thought to get steerage.
Right beside the marina, we came alongside twice without difficulty: for fuel and a pump-out. We didn’t get to sea until 3.20pm, heading for Kristianopel. Hoisting the main was awkward, but the jib alone gave us 6.1–6.7 knots.
The wind died. We motored for several hours, put the kettle on for tea and fish cup soup, and spread shrimp cream cheese on toast.
Dusk was falling, and the destination was more than two hours away. We diverted to the camping village of Bergkvara, where you moor bow-to with the stern secured to a buoy. But the bow kept blowing off, turning us parallel to the shore. Nearly ten attempts and one bump against the pier later, we managed. Secured at 9.30pm.
The marina was so deserted it lacked only tumbleweed. On about my fifth attempt, I reached the manager by phone. He said the access cards for the facilities were in a box by the door.
At IKEA, Biltema and local chandleries, I bought a first-aid kit, two automatic lifejackets, a safety harness and tether to clip on to the boat, an electric kettle, a whistling kettle, alcohol fuel for the stove, plastic crockery, spare mooring lines and fenders, a sea anchor, three diesel cans and all sorts of small things. Around €1,000 in total.
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As soon as you buy a yacht, there are three things to sort out: – preparing for the delivery passage – insurance – a berth
At IKEA, Biltema and local chandleries, I bought a first-aid kit, two automatic lifejackets, a safety harness and tether to clip on to the boat, an electric kettle, a whistling kettle, alcohol fuel for the stove, plastic crockery, spare mooring lines and fenders, a sea anchor, three diesel cans and all sorts of small things. Around €1,000 in total. I regret not buying the €50 rail-mounted anchor roller and another couple of mooring lines: prices in Germany are three times higher.
Insurance is needed to get a marina berth and protect against your own mistakes. If I accidentally put a hole in someone else’s boat or a pier, I could be paying for decades. I Googled Segelbootversicherung and followed the first link to https://pantaenius.com. They needed only the yacht model, build year, engine manufacturer, installation year and serial number, plus whether the rigging had been renewed in the last ten years. Hull cover for €10,000, with an €800 excess, cost €197 a year. Third-party liability cover of €10 million cost €75; personal accident cover, €74. Total: €347 a year. It covers the North Atlantic, Norwegian Sea, North Sea and Baltic, excluding Russian waters.
The hardest part was finding a berth. Visitor berths were an option, but at €18 a night. I opened Google Maps in satellite view and worked along Germany’s east coast from Flensburg to Rostock, visiting the website of every marina and yacht club I spotted. I sent my prepared enquiry more than a hundred times. Around 70 refusals came back, but also three offers. One was in a village 20km from Flensburg, three hours away. Another was in Schleswig, €800 a season but 25 miles from the sea. The third was the Lübeck marina where I’d viewed the Najade 900, at €1,200 a season. Easier to reach from Kiel, a lovely town, interesting sailing waters, and closer to Sweden. An obvious choice.
Late on Sunday evening, 14 May 2023, my colleague Lyosha arrived. Not Alexei @AlexMemfis, who’d helped me choose the yacht. Lyosha had volunteered for the delivery passage. It would be his very first sailing experience.
That evening, the owner of a 1975 Ohlson 29 unexpectedly called.
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Unexpectedly, that same evening, the owner of a 1975 Ohlson 29 called. The previous buyer, a 78-year-old Pole, had decided against buying because he found it difficult to get down into the saloon. The owner offered a video viewing, to save me an unnecessary journey to Kalmar. It was a thorough inspection. He showed me every corner. The Nanni 2.14 engine, installed in 2006, looked new. I agreed to come, provided I could spend the night aboard.
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Unexpectedly, that same evening, the owner of a 1975 Ohlson 29 called. The previous buyer, a 78-year-old Pole, had decided against buying because he found it difficult to get down into the saloon. The owner offered a video viewing, to save me an unnecessary journey to Kalmar.
It was a thorough inspection. He showed me every corner. The Nanni 2.14 engine, installed in 2006, looked new. I agreed to come, provided I could spend the night aboard.
On 9 May, he met me by car at the railway station. We worked through the checklist in person, went out to sea, and sailed back. Ashore, we shook hands and signed a standard contract from https://boat24.com
The next day, he helped me move to a paid marina in the town centre and drove me to IKEA and Biltema for everything I needed: lifejackets, a safety harness, crockery, kettle, alcohol fuel, extra mooring lines and more.
And that is how, for 69,000 kronor (€6,200), I became a boat owner.
The next day, 8 May 2023, I viewed a Linjett 30 for 135,000 kronor. The taped-up forehatch and battered stem caught my eye immediately. Near the cockpit were holes covered with reinforced tape. A dinghy was included. The anchor was deployed from the stern. Lines led inside; four winches. The navigation instruments didn’t work. No autopilot installation, and I wouldn’t get far without one. Plywood fixed to the deckhead above the oven was badly charred.
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The next day, 8 May 2023, I viewed a Linjett 30 for 135,000 kronor.
The taped-up forehatch and battered stem caught my eye immediately. Near the cockpit were holes covered with reinforced tape. A dinghy was included. The anchor was deployed from the stern. Lines led inside; four winches. The navigation instruments didn’t work. No autopilot installation, and I wouldn’t get far without one. Plywood fixed to the deckhead above the oven was badly charred. Inside was rather narrow, with headroom slightly below my height.
On the plus side, the port locker was well organised: diesel tank, two batteries, fridge and Webasto heater fitted neatly inside. The owner repeatedly said he’d never seen a single drop of water in the boat. The real highlight, though, was the new engine from 2020. It looked perfect. Unlike the keel bolts, black with rust.
As we said goodbye, the seller offered to drop the price to 110,000 kronor for a quick sale. He clearly wanted to recover the cost of the engine.
Back at the hotel, frustration set in. Of twelve shortlisted yachts in Stockholm, five had sold, three were racing-oriented and Alexei had advised against viewing them, two hadn’t replied, and I’d seen two. My hotel booking was running out. I had to choose between going home and trying other Swedish towns.
The Swedes were slow to reply. Getting a firm date or time was impossible. Only late in the evening would I hear that a morning viewing was on. The rest of the time was an emotional rollercoaster. On 7 May 2023, I met an elderly couple to view their Lord Helmsman: 130,000 kronor, 31 feet, full keel. A dependable northern boat. The wife said they’d looked me up online before agreeing to meet. After that, I included a little introduction about myself in enquiries.
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The Swedes were slow to reply. Getting a firm date or time was impossible. Only late in the evening would I hear that a morning viewing was on. The rest of the time was an emotional rollercoaster.
On 7 May 2023, I met an elderly couple to view their Lord Helmsman: 130,000 kronor, 31 feet, full keel. A dependable northern boat. The wife said they’d looked me up online before agreeing to meet. After that, I included a little introduction about myself in enquiries. Who knows what goes through Swedish heads?
What greeted me was a rather neglected vessel: corrosion everywhere, marks where anodes had fallen off years ago, peeling winches and worn gelcoat. A line showed through along the hull. They explained that it was the joint with the cast-iron keel ballast. The instruments didn’t work. There was an ancient depth sounder and radio. The owner had made an odd modification: a pipe through the collision bulkhead to feed the anchor chain into the saloon. The engine was the original factory one.
In one sense, this was what I’d been looking for: older owners selling because their children didn’t want the boat. But they hadn’t maintained or invested in her. Their contribution was a makeshift pipe that would bring damp and water inside. Paying that much for what amounted to a hull made no sense.
After reading my Marieholm 28 report, Alexei suggested an Ohlson 29 in Sweden…
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After reading my report on the Marieholm 28, Alexei sent a link to an Ohlson 29 for 40,000 kronor (€3,400) and suggested a call. His point was simple: a well-kept boat with her original old engine cost a quarter as much in Sweden. By then, I was tired of looking at endless yachts. The call lifted my spirits. Alexei was polite, encouraging and clearly knew his subject.
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After reading my report on the Marieholm 28, Alexei sent a link to an Ohlson 29 for 40,000 kronor (€3,400) and suggested a call. His point was simple: a well-kept boat with her original old engine cost a quarter as much in Sweden. By then, I was tired of looking at endless yachts. The call lifted my spirits. Alexei was polite, encouraging and clearly knew his subject.
I went through all the adverts on blocket.se for 28–32-foot yachts, selecting those that mentioned a recent engine, and grouped my shortlist by town. I booked leave from 6 to 28 May, a one-way flight to Stockholm and a hotel for four days.
Blocket made things difficult: you can’t send messages without registering, and registration requires a Swedish or Norwegian SIM card. Temporary online numbers didn’t work. But Sergei in Vadim Luppo’s sailing chat had a SIM and offered to help. That got me in touch with sellers and allowed me to arrange the first viewings.
Using someone else’s number is awkward: each device needs a fresh SMS code. You can pick up free Conviq SIM packs at metro kiosks. But identity verification had become mandatory on 1 February 2023. My German ID wasn’t accepted. Unexpectedly, a photo of my Russian passport and the hotel’s address were.
The next day, 23 April 2023, I went to Lübeck to view a Najade 900 for $15,500. I thought I’d already found what I wanted yesterday, so I wasn’t expecting much. Najade is a German boat, unrelated to the well-known Swedish brand Najad. But she surprised me. The entire interior was solid wood, lovely to touch. The saloon was spacious, like the Haff 35’s, with a separate chart table, galley and heads.
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The next day, 23 April 2023, I went to Lübeck to view a Najade 900 for $15,500. I thought I’d already found what I wanted yesterday, so I wasn’t expecting much.
Najade is a German boat, unrelated to the well-known Swedish brand Najad. But she surprised me. The entire interior was solid wood, lovely to touch. The saloon was spacious, like the Haff 35’s, with a separate chart table, galley and heads. A technical space beneath the cockpit could hold a fully inflated dinghy. The batteries and a Russian-made diesel heater were there too.
I was pleasantly surprised to find the engine beneath the table. Original and 45 years old, but serviced, with a new alternator. A cold start required holding a button down with a stick while someone turned the key in the cockpit. Remembering yesterday’s viewing, I asked about the lever. The owner said it was for hand-starting and best left alone. When the engine started, the antifreeze added for winter came out of the exhaust.
She had the usual navigation instruments, plus a special close-hauled wind indicator with a scale marked in single degrees. An 80-litre stainless-steel diesel tank sat in a locker, with two tiers of shelves like yesterday’s Marieholm. Lines led back to the cockpit, and there were no fewer than six winches. An automotive OBD connector on the mast carried the electrical connections.
The sea trial went smoothly. Cracks in the windows concerned me, but I was assured they were more than eight years old and had caused no problems. This yacht was clearly better than yesterday’s. That evening, I wrote Alexei a detailed report on both boats.
Disappointed by the Marieholm 32, I looked at a couple of promising boats closer to home.
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Disappointed by the Marieholm 32, I decided to view a couple of promising boats closer to home. On 22 April 2023, near the Hamburg school where I’d taken my SBF exams, a Marieholm 28 was waiting. Price: €14,500. Her designer later moved to Hallberg-Rassy and designed their 29-footer. You could feel it everywhere: in the galley, aft cabin and saloon. The gelcoat was excellent, the best I’d seen so far.
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Disappointed by the Marieholm 32, I decided to view a couple of promising boats closer to home. On 22 April 2023, near the Hamburg school where I’d taken my SBF exams, a Marieholm 28 was waiting. Price: €14,500.
Her designer later moved to Hallberg-Rassy and designed their 29-footer. You could feel it everywhere: in the galley, aft cabin and saloon. The gelcoat was excellent, the best I’d seen so far. Something about her reminded me of the HR Monsun on my favourite channel, https://youtube.com/@Pandorak
The lockers were almost empty, with two or three tiers of wooden shelves neatly holding mooring lines, chemicals and tools. The batteries were in there too. Every cabin had a socket with USB ports and a 12V car-type outlet. An electric anchor windlass at the bow had a remote control led back to the wheel.
The owner was refitting her. The steering system was dismantled. He planned to strip the paint back, prime and repaint. For some reason, sealant was plastered liberally round the rudder stock. Besides the depth sounder, there was a fishfinder whose transducer he wanted to point forward to spot shoals earlier. I doubted it would work that way.
The original engine was 50 years old, but the owner had rebuilt it with his mechanic father. To start from cold, you had to lift the cockpit sole, move a lever on top of the engine, turn the ignition key, let it wheeze for five seconds, then — still holding the key in the start position — push the lever back with your foot. The engine then started instantly. It ran steadily, with blue-grey smoke and no strange noises.
My impressions were very positive. The owner volunteered all the explanations and demonstrations. After six hours, I looked at my checklist and realised I had nothing left to ask. The yacht seemed well cared for. I could see no reason not to buy her, and believed Alexei would approve.
Between yacht viewings and exams, a colleague asked me to help launch his boat…
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12 April 2023. Saturday. Ten in the morning. A Hanse 312 stood on supports near Kiel’s Olympic sailing centre. We climbed aboard by a wooden ladder, waited our turn and watched the work. The crane operator lifted yacht after yacht into the water. Around noon, someone wheeled over the lifting slings and told us to pass them under the boat.
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Between looking for a yacht and getting qualified, a colleague asked me to help launch his boat and step the mast. Bursting with curiosity, I gladly agreed.
12 April 2023. Saturday. Ten in the morning. A Hanse 312 stood on supports near Kiel’s Olympic sailing centre. We climbed aboard by a wooden ladder, waited our turn and watched the work. The crane operator lifted yacht after yacht into the water. Around noon, someone wheeled over the lifting slings and told us to pass them under the boat.
As she lifted, the patches of keel and hull resting on the supports were exposed. The crane paused for a couple of minutes so we could roll antifouling onto them.
A small club crane stepped the mast directly into its heel fitting on the boat. It was straightforward: untangle the shrouds, lift and move the mast into position, then fasten the rigging all round while the crane held it.
Once in our marina berth, we bent on the sails. The owner treated everyone who’d helped to beer and local fish rolls, Fischbrötchen.
Alexei ruled out all my German choices as too expensive.
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Alexei ruled out all my German choices as too expensive. We settled on a Marieholm 32 in Bergen for €12,500. The seller was Estonian and spoke Russian. The photos looked excellent: a welded solar-panel frame in the cockpit, a gennaker bowsprit, mast steps, a large sail wardrobe and plenty of improvements. Mentally, I was ready to pay. Alexei sent me a viewing checklist and reminded me that a sea trial was essential. At ten on 1 April, I stepped aboard.
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Alexei ruled out all my German choices as too expensive. We settled on a Marieholm 32 in Bergen for €12,500. The seller was Estonian and spoke Russian. The photos looked excellent: a welded solar-panel frame in the cockpit, a gennaker bowsprit, mast steps, a large sail wardrobe and plenty of improvements. Mentally, I was ready to pay. Alexei sent me a viewing checklist and reminded me that a sea trial was essential.
At ten on 1 April, I stepped aboard. The neglect was obvious: rotting wood, cooker and fittings crumbling with rust. The engine started on the fifth attempt at full throttle, releasing a white cloud that covered half the pontoon and spraying oil and coolant around itself. I took her out briefly, came alongside and turned her in her own length. The white smoke kept coming, accompanied by a loud, rhythmic clatter.
The owner mentioned another buyer, willing to buy unseen because he planned to replace the engine and electrics anyway for an Atlantic crossing. But as I’d contacted him first, I had first refusal. My impression was that the yacht had been thoroughly neglected, remembered only for a couple of weeks each year.
That evening, Alexei advised walking away. The engine didn’t have long left; buying and installing a replacement would cost at least €10,000. I mentioned my concerns about the long keel making her hard to handle. He reassured me I’d get used to it in a couple of weeks. Norway won me over; the yacht didn’t. A month later, she was still for sale, now at €8,500.
While considering Alexei’s offer, I arranged to view two boats in Kiel on 11 February 2023.
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Deerberg Amethyst 27. Good-looking, encapsulated keel, separate heads. Drawbacks: old engine, low headroom, so narrow you could only move sideways, no galley, and rust on the rudder. I wasn’t convinced she was 27 feet. Inside, she reminded me of the Dufour 24 I’d raced in Moscow.
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Deerberg Amethyst 27. Good-looking, encapsulated keel, separate heads. Drawbacks: old engine, low headroom, so narrow you could only move sideways, no galley, and rust on the rudder. I wasn’t convinced she was 27 feet. Inside, she reminded me of the Dufour 24 I’d raced in Moscow.
The Haff 35 impressed me both outside and in. The owner’s grandfather had moulded her himself using a hired mould. A large galley and chart table, with a separate, spacious heads compartment. Wood, GRP and metal all in good condition. Drawbacks: old engine, no electrics apart from an old starter battery, a sewage smell, and my doubts about berthing a yacht that size single-handed.
Back home, I realised I wanted something around 29–32 feet — and that I couldn’t carry out a survey on my own.
With my German licences sorted, I can return to the story of buying a yacht…
Now that I have all the German licences I need, I can finish the training story and go back six months. I started this whole certification business just before Christmas because I wanted to own a sailing yacht. Alongside reading German boat-ownership legislation, I began exploring the second-hand market and looking for people who could help me choose and buy one.
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Now that I have all the German licences I need, I can finish the training story and go back six months. I started this whole certification business just before Christmas because I wanted to own a sailing yacht. Alongside reading German boat-ownership legislation, I began exploring the second-hand market and looking for people who could help me choose and buy one.
Between December and May, I looked through around ten thousand adverts to get a sense of the market. I studied about a thousand boats in my €5,000–15,000 range in detail, making comparison tables.
After reading the book at https://kak-kupit-yahtu.ru by Vadim @Unakaru, I asked him for help choosing. He put me in touch with Alexei @AlexMemfis, who proposed this arrangement: I send him adverts, and he gives detailed comments. He also helps me prepare for and discuss viewings, then assesses the overall condition from what I’ve found. Ten adverts and six viewings would cost €500, with another €20 per advert and €50 per viewing beyond that. An hour’s consultation would be a further €100. Still far cheaper than a full survey, and reasonably manageable on my budget.
On 24 March, I also attempted the SRC and UBI radio exams…
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That same day, 24 March, I attempted two more exams: SRC VHF GMDSS for marine radio and UBI/FM for inland waterways. About €130 each. They have three parts. 1. A 24-question test: frequencies, message types, acronyms, legislation and GMDSS equipment. 2. Listening and translation. The examiner reads a passage aloud in English, which you then translate into German. On the second page is a German passage to translate into English. The two are similar. 3. Practical.
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That same day, 24 March, I attempted two more exams: SRC VHF GMDSS for marine radio and UBI/FM for inland waterways. About €130 each. They have three parts.
1. A 24-question test: frequencies, message types, acronyms, legislation and GMDSS equipment.
2. Listening and translation. The examiner reads a passage aloud in English, which you then translate into German. On the second page is a German passage to translate into English. The two are similar.
3. Practical. Switching on and setting up the radio; sending, relaying, acknowledging, cancelling and ending distress traffic; and routine calls.
I didn’t pass the practical first time. In two attempts at ending distress traffic, I omitted the time the distress began, though that isn’t in the RYA textbooks. On 28 April, I nearly failed again by saying MAYDAY RECEIVED instead of RECEIVED MAYDAY and giving the call sign together with the MMSI.
Two weeks later, a letter arrived with my radio operator’s certificate.
Exactly a month later, on 24 March, came the SBF Binnen exam…
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Exactly a month later, on 24 March, I was due to take the SBF Binnen exam for operating small craft on inland waters. Robert gave me a one-hour private lesson on the differences between inland and sea rules, then wished me luck. This exam is easier than the sea one: no navigation problems, and the SBF See practical counts towards it. Preparation meant putting all the questions into Anki again and answering them every evening until I knew them by heart.
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Exactly a month later, on 24 March, I was due to take the SBF Binnen exam for operating small craft on inland waters.
Robert gave me a one-hour private lesson on the differences between inland and sea rules, then wished me luck. This exam is easier than the sea one: no navigation problems, and the SBF See practical counts towards it.
Preparation meant putting all the questions into Anki again and answering them every evening until I knew them by heart. One useful aspect was the number of questions about transiting the Kiel Canal, or NOK. The formula mg + V + D = rw — compass course plus easterly variation plus deviation equals true course — is now firmly lodged in my memory. Surprisingly, the bare formula stuck better than the Russian mnemonic KOZa: ‘Compass, subtract west’.
On the day, I answered every question in 15 minutes rather than the hour I’d expected. A week later, a letter from Berlin arrived in my postbox with my licence.
In January, I wrote to every sailing school in Kiel about taking the SBF exam without German…
Photos and video3 photos · 3 videos
The school’s owner, Robert, was kind and welcoming. He always made time to explain things properly.
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In January, I wrote to every sailing school in Kiel: ‘What can I do if I need an SBF licence but don’t speak German?’ One sent me a link to a school in Hamburg: https://www.yachtschule-eichler.de/Sportbootfuehrerschein-Hamburg.php Possibly the only one where you can take the exam in English.
The school’s owner, Robert, was kind and welcoming. He always made time to explain things properly.
I paid €20 for the printed exam papers — 15 tests of 39 questions and navigation problems, with charts — €60 for their translation, €30 for a half-hour lecture, €40 for the medical, and €177.54 for the sea and inland exams and licences. I also had two 90-minute practical sessions, on the afternoon of 23 February and the morning of the 24th.
The SBF See exam took place at 4pm on 24 February.
The practical covered holding a course, turning in the boat’s own length, man overboard, berthing, using a bearing compass, and nine nautical knots. I’d memorised the theory by putting every question into Anki and doing chart exercises every evening.
Operating a boat, like any other form of transport, requires knowledge and skills. Qualifications are used to demonstrate them, usually under government regulation. To charter a yacht or insure your own, you may be asked to prove your ability through certification. Much like driving a car. The RYA (Royal Yacht Association) system is the UK’s state certification scheme. It is taught only in English. The school’s owner must be a British citizen.
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Operating a boat, like any other form of transport, requires knowledge and skills. Qualifications are used to demonstrate them, usually under government regulation. To charter a yacht or insure your own, you may be asked to prove your ability through certification. Much like driving a car.
The RYA (Royal Yacht Association) system is the UK’s state certification scheme. It is taught only in English. The school’s owner must be a British citizen. Categories: • Competent Crew — crew member • Day Skipper Tidal — recreational skipper, vessels up to 15m, daytime • Coastal Skipper Tidal — recreational skipper, vessels up to 15m, day or night • Yachtmaster Coastal — commercial skipper, vessels up to 24m, within 20 miles of shore, daytime • Yachtmaster Offshore — commercial skipper, vessels up to 24m, within 150 miles of shore, day or night • Yachtmaster Ocean — commercial skipper, unrestricted
IYT (International Yacht Training) is a private skipper-training system sold as a franchise. Schools must be inspected by instructors from the head office. Categories: • International Crew — crew member, vessels up to 24m, within 20 miles of shore, daytime, up to Beaufort force 5 • International Flotilla Skipper — recreational skipper sailing in a flotilla, vessels up to 24m, within 20 miles of shore, daytime, up to Beaufort force 5 • International Bareboat Skipper — recreational skipper, vessels up to 24m, within 20 miles of shore, daytime, up to Beaufort force 5 • Yachtmaster Coastal — recreational skipper, vessels up to 24m, within 60 miles of shore, day or night, up to Beaufort force 5 • Yachtmaster Offshore — recreational skipper, vessels up to 24m, within 150 miles of shore, day or night • Yachtmaster Ocean — recreational skipper, vessels up to 24m, unrestricted range, day or night
A licence from Russia’s GIMS (State Inspectorate for Small Vessels) is Russia’s state small-craft qualification. A small vessel is up to 20m long, carries no more than 12 people, and is used non-commercially. No licence is required if it weighs less than 200kg and the engine is under 8kW (10.88hp). GIMS recognises only its own qualifications. Vessel categories: • MS — motorboat • Personal watercraft • Sailing vessel — sail area up to 12, 22 or 60m², or over 60m² • Hovercraft • Special-design vessel Water categories: • VP — internal non-navigable waters • VVP — inland waterways • MP — internal sea waters and territorial sea
In Germany there is also a national licensing system. It is mandatory for residents who have lived in the country for more than a year and intend to operate a vessel with an engine above 3.68kW (5hp) on inland waters, or 11.03kW (15hp) at sea. Categories: • Sportbootführerschein (SBF) Binnen — commercial skipper on inland waters, engine over 3.68kW (5hp), length up to 15m • Sportbootführerschein (SBF) See — commercial skipper, engine over 11.03kW (15hp), length up to 20m, within three miles of shore, or unrestricted for non-commercial use • Sportküstenschifferschein (SKS) — commercial skipper, within 12 miles of shore • Sportseaschifferschein (SSS) — commercial skipper, within 30 miles of shore • Sporthochseeschifferschein (SHS) — commercial skipper, unrestricted
Black Sea School gave me the foundations of handling a yacht…
In Black Sea School I learnt all the foundations of handling a yacht. Knots and ropework are no trouble, and I learnt the terminology as thoroughly as my times tables. On the other hand, all we did was practise techniques. In effect, we left #bss as experienced crew, rather than skippers. In Kabestan I gained passage-making experience, from berthing bow to wind to keep the draught out of the saloon, to planning longer passages.
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TLDR;)
In Black Sea School I learnt all the foundations of handling a yacht. Knots and ropework are no trouble, and I learnt the terminology as thoroughly as my times tables. On the other hand, all we did was practise techniques. In effect, we left #bss as experienced crew, rather than skippers.
In Kabestan I gained passage-making experience, from berthing bow to wind to keep the draught out of the saloon, to planning longer passages. Their theory gave me a strong foundation: even six years later, I remember the phonetic alphabet, chartwork and meteorology. But would I have got as much from the course without having studied at BSS first? I’m not sure. Perhaps Rita and Yulia could share their thoughts.
I’m glad I took both courses. They complement each other perfectly. My confidence in my understanding of seamanship comes from having studied at both schools.
At the same time, RYA qualifications are better known to charter companies, and sailing English is the language sailors are generally expected to use with each other. That’s probably the system I’ll continue with. A shame #kabestan has closed. Perhaps my next school will be #forcesail.
Training
IYT Bareboat Skipper and RYA Day Skipper: a comparison…
So, I’ve now completed #training IYT Bareboat Skipper at Black Sea School ( #bss) (https://t.me/deelstuff/53) and RYA Day Skipper at Kabestan (Capstain Sailing School, #kabestan) (https://t.me/deelstuff/100). Time to compare the two. Cost BSS (2021).
BSS (2021). Crew video course: 10,000 roubles; skipper video course: 20,000; radio operator video course: 10,000; practical course: 60,000; lunches, dinner, breakfast and diesel: around 6,500; IYT certificates, valid for five years: 17,500. Total: 124,000 roubles, or €1,800.
Kabestan. Radio operator course: £210 (17,200 roubles, 2017), plus books £35 (2,900 roubles, 2017); skipper theory: £500 (42,000 roubles, 2018); practical course: €1,600 (135,000 roubles, 2021). Total: 200,000 roubles, or £2,250, or €2,500.
Getting there
BSS. A flight to Simferopol, then a transfer to the marina.
Kabestan. A UK visa, a flight to Heathrow, a coach to Southampton, a train to Hamble, then a taxi to the marina.
Food
BSS. Canteen lunches with a starter and main course. Breakfasts aboard from shop-bought sausages and eggs. Dinners in cafés. All at your own expense.
Kabestan. Three meals a day, based on British frozen ready meals: quiches, lasagne, potatoes, porridge and fresh vegetable salad. Included in the course price and prepared by the instructor.
Accommodation
BSS. Bedding provided. Two to a cabin. Shower and heads on the yacht. You can stay in a nearby hotel if you prefer, as you return to base every day. Seven students; the instructor sleeps ashore.
Kabestan. Sleeping bag hire costs an extra £25. Two to a cabin. Showers and toilets in the marina. Five students, with a separate cabin for the instructor.
Students
BSS. Everyone was from Russia: Moscow, the Moscow region, Saratov, Khabarovsk and Kamchatka.
Kabestan. Russian expats from the US, France, Germany, the UAE and England, plus Yulia from Moscow.
Both groups were wonderfully welcoming, friendly and eager to learn. We became a real crew during the course.
Training
BSS. A detailed video course on sailing terminology and yacht systems. Every practical day focused on a technique: tying knots against the clock, berthing, holding a course, turning, or handling sails. Each of us did an exercise three times, then swapped and watched the others. Straight after lunch, we fell asleep for half an hour, then sprang up to prepare the yacht for departure. The duty crew washed the boat every evening. After berthing, lines were coiled, Flemish-coiled, tied in daisy chains or secured with a trucker’s hitch. By the end, there wasn’t a place on the yacht I didn’t know, or a piece of equipment I couldn’t use.
Kabestan. A skipper was appointed each day to plan the passage on the chart: waypoints and compass courses, departure and arrival pilotage, checks before leaving and after arriving, hourly log entries, and handling the boat when berthing. The crew did everything else under the skipper’s supervision. We covered 10–20 miles a day and stopped in different towns. It felt more like sharing a charter, with the instructor making sure we followed good seamanship and didn’t get complacent. He hardly took part in handling the yacht. We corrected one another when we spotted mistakes.
Exams
BSS. A whole day was set aside for a three-hour theory test of 100 questions and an oral radio exam, where answering one or two questions about setting up the radio was enough.
Kabestan. Radio is a separate course with a one-hour exam covering frequencies and channels, the phonetic alphabet, voice procedures and setting up a real radio. Skipper theory is also a separate course, ending with a one-hour exam on navigation problems, IALA buoyage and COLREGs. There were no exams during the Solent practical course, apart from the last day’s exercise: the Day Skipper students navigated using traditional position-fixing methods, while the Coastal Skipper students used only charts and log readings — blind navigation.
14 November 2022. Day eleven. Porridge with fruit and honey. Sadly, our last chance to discuss how little we liked it. We walked round Cowes. I bought British sweets and popped into a bookshop and a couple of chandleries. At ten, we set off for Mercury. Margarita volunteered as skipper. Danila had a coach to catch at three, and the wind barely reached five knots, so we motored all the way. On arrival, we heated pies for lunch, changed and packed.
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14 November 2022. Day eleven. Porridge with fruit and honey. Sadly, our last chance to discuss how little we liked it.
We walked round Cowes. I bought British sweets and popped into a bookshop and a couple of chandleries. At ten, we set off for Mercury. Margarita volunteered as skipper. Danila had a coach to catch at three, and the wind barely reached five knots, so we motored all the way.
On arrival, we heated pies for lunch, changed and packed. Aubrey started cleaning the yacht while we went to Force 4 Chandlery in Hamble for logbooks. Back aboard, we got his signature and our certificates. All that remained was to call a taxi and leave Night Owl for good.
Sitting in the front seat in left-hand traffic hurts. Mentally. I stayed at a hotel near Heathrow and spent the night with the room spinning from the lingering motion of the sea.
After I flew home, Masha and I celebrated the course at a little Mexican restaurant nearby. I’m now officially an RYA Day Skipper.
13 November 2022. Day ten. Breakfast was a potato and tomato omelette, shakshuka-style. Aubrey covered all the saloon windows and forbade the Coastal students from going on deck. Their task was blind navigation: get us from Yarmouth to the mouth of the River Itchen. We Day Skipper students had to handle the boat ourselves, hold a course, make turns and observe the COLREGs.
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13 November 2022. Day ten. Breakfast was a potato and tomato omelette, shakshuka-style.
Aubrey covered all the saloon windows and forbade the Coastal students from going on deck. Their task was blind navigation: get us from Yarmouth to the mouth of the River Itchen. We Day Skipper students had to handle the boat ourselves, hold a course, make turns and observe the COLREGs. We could tell the Coastal students only the compass heading, distance run on the log, and any buoys within 50 metres. They had a tough time.
Once there, we practised man overboard by heaving to. Then we anchored and had quiche and salad for lunch.
Then we swapped. The Day Skipper students went below to navigate to Cowes. We weren’t given an exact starting position, so we used every position-fixing technique we could.
We fuelled up in town, then had a lecture on COLREGs and electronic navigation aids. Dinner was yesterday’s pasta and frozen rice with bean chilli.
12 November 2022. Day nine. Breakfast: a boiled egg, toast, jam, cheese and bananas. I managed a quick visit to the chandlery for a couple of sailing books and a Gill rigging knife. We left Hamble with the wind in our faces. It took several tacks before we could head for Newtown. A pair of kayakers paddled along in our wake. Wind 12–16 knots. We spent a while looking for the right cardinal mark, having mistaken north for east beneath a layer of shellfish.
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12 November 2022. Day nine. Breakfast: a boiled egg, toast, jam, cheese and bananas. I managed a quick visit to the chandlery for a couple of sailing books and a Gill rigging knife.
We left Hamble with the wind in our faces. It took several tacks before we could head for Newtown. A pair of kayakers paddled along in our wake. Wind 12–16 knots. We spent a while looking for the right cardinal mark, having mistaken north for east beneath a layer of shellfish.
We anchored. Chopped salad, pies in the oven, boiling water for cup soups. Sunny and peaceful. The sort of day when you don’t want to do anything.
An hour later, we rigged a preventer and headed off the wind for Yarmouth. A strong ebb met us, too much to overcome under sail. We berthed alongside other yachts.
There was time to wander the tourist streets and visit a bar and a shop. Whether from sunburn or a wind-chapped face, I felt painfully tired.
Danila made pasta for dinner from ingredients bought in town.
11 November 2022. Day eight. Chopped fruit doesn’t rescue porridge. Toast with strawberry jam does. My turn as skipper. I planned the 7.5-mile passage from Ocean Village to Mercury Yacht Harbour in Hamble. After departure, Aubrey had each of us turn the boat in her own length and come alongside a pier. At the tanker terminal, we hove to and put the kettle on. Warmed up, we sailed up the river towards the marina to practise berthing in confined spaces.
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11 November 2022. Day eight. Chopped fruit doesn’t rescue porridge. Toast with strawberry jam does.
My turn as skipper. I planned the 7.5-mile passage from Ocean Village to Mercury Yacht Harbour in Hamble. After departure, Aubrey had each of us turn the boat in her own length and come alongside a pier. At the tanker terminal, we hove to and put the kettle on. Warmed up, we sailed up the river towards the marina to practise berthing in confined spaces.
Reheated chicken and salad for lunch.
Next, stern-to berthing with a 90-degree turn. Danila gave me invaluable advice: use only just enough speed to keep the boat under control. Then we approached a buoy against the current, stopped completely, and ferry-glided to a pontoon, where we warmed up with more tea. An hour later, it was dark. Aubrey took the wheel and demonstrated night navigation.
Ravioli for dinner at Hamble Marina. Margarita and Yulia were the next skippers: Rita would take us from Hamble to Newtown, and Yulia from Newtown to Yarmouth.
10 November 2022. Day seven. Breakfast was Aubrey’s shakshuka with Slava’s toast. The Coastal Skipper students began planning a passage to Thornham Marina, Chichester, where our instructor would need to deliver the yacht. The Day Skipper students planned the route to an anchorage in Osborne Bay. Yulia lost the coin toss and became skipper on her very first day. She had to keep the log, assign the crew’s jobs, and handle berthing and departure herself.
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10 November 2022. Day seven. Breakfast was Aubrey’s shakshuka with Slava’s toast.
The Coastal Skipper students began planning a passage to Thornham Marina, Chichester, where our instructor would need to deliver the yacht. The Day Skipper students planned the route to an anchorage in Osborne Bay.
Yulia lost the coin toss and became skipper on her very first day. She had to keep the log, assign the crew’s jobs, and handle berthing and departure herself.
We covered the roughly 7.5 miles to the anchorage on one tack. Cup soups, heated frozen lasagne and a chopped salad, with Danila substituting apples for tomatoes.
After a rest, the Coastal students planned the 15-nautical-mile return to Ocean Village Marina, including a night entry. Back ashore, we went to Spoons, where my terrible burger gave everyone at the table a laugh.
That evening, after tea, Danila suggested discussing how we would leave our pontoon. From then on, we did it every day.
9 November 2022. Day six. Porridge again. Hot toast with butter and jam makes it slightly more bearable. Danila lost the coin toss and became skipper for the day. Back to Mercury Yacht Harbour. We rigged preventers for the following wind, blowing around 26 knots. Sailing off the wind was frightening at times, especially crossing the shipping channel used by large cargo vessels. On arrival, Aubrey made spaghetti bolognese.
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9 November 2022. Day six. Porridge again. Hot toast with butter and jam makes it slightly more bearable.
Danila lost the coin toss and became skipper for the day. Back to Mercury Yacht Harbour. We rigged preventers for the following wind, blowing around 26 knots. Sailing off the wind was frightening at times, especially crossing the shipping channel used by large cargo vessels.
On arrival, Aubrey made spaghetti bolognese. Rita wanted to walk into the centre for a shop, and I joined her. I liked Hamble ashore. Little crooked two-storey houses, packed together on the hills, give it an unusual, cosy atmosphere. The cemetery, though… Straight out of Diablo II, with a Celtic touch. I’d never seen anything like it in real life.
We said goodbye to Alexei. Later, Yulia @Yulia_Yakusheva from Moscow arrived in his place, and we went to a restaurant for fish and chips. In the evening, provisions arrived from the shop, while Danila stitched whippings onto the rope ends.
Now we have three Day Skipper and two Coastal Skipper students, and there’ll be more to learn.
8 November 2022. Day five. There were a few potatoes left from dinner. Aubrey put them in a frying pan with vegetables and eggs: shakshuka. We realised that, besides Hurricane Martin, we had spring tides to contend with. The amount of experience packed into this course is extraordinary. We walked round Cowes and looked at the princess’s cannons. The town has plenty of character, and lots of chandleries with autumn sales.
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8 November 2022. Day five. There were a few potatoes left from dinner. Aubrey put them in a frying pan with vegetables and eggs: shakshuka. We realised that, besides Hurricane Martin, we had spring tides to contend with. The amount of experience packed into this course is extraordinary.
We walked round Cowes and looked at the princess’s cannons. The town has plenty of character, and lots of chandleries with autumn sales. Back in the saloon, we had a lecture on tides.
The plan was a short passage of two or three miles to Buckler’s Hard Yacht Harbour, with Slava as skipper. It should have taken about half an hour. Another 43-knot squall made it two hours. Not quite so frightening this time.
A couple of kilometres short of the marina, we picked up a buoy and ate lasagne with salad. With the tide out, the keel was almost touching the bottom. On arrival, another couple of hours of slides on tides awaited us.
In the evening, splashing through puddles, we found the Yachtsman’s Bar. The only food was crisps, olives and chips. But we sat by the fire until closing and got thoroughly smoked.
7 November 2022. Day four. Up at 7.30am. Porridge with apples and honey; Lyosha added milk. Coffee on. We began with theory, reviewing yesterday’s passage on the charts, then a lecture on SOLAS V. Alexei was appointed skipper. He had to plan a passage from Southampton to Yarmouth: 17 nautical miles, with the current but against the wind. The fallback was Cowes, about ten miles away. It was hard going. Wind 20 knots, gusting 26.
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7 November 2022. Day four. Up at 7.30am. Porridge with apples and honey; Lyosha added milk. Coffee on.
We began with theory, reviewing yesterday’s passage on the charts, then a lecture on SOLAS V. Alexei was appointed skipper. He had to plan a passage from Southampton to Yarmouth: 17 nautical miles, with the current but against the wind. The fallback was Cowes, about ten miles away.
It was hard going. Wind 20 knots, gusting 26. We changed positions every 20–30 minutes. Aubrey heated pies and cup soups for us. Once we reached open water, conditions worsened. Peak winds reached 41–47 knots. The current was against us. Raindrops flew almost horizontally. We practised heavy-weather sailing. No time to get my phone out. At five, exhausted, we came charging under sail into Cowes Yacht Haven.
Dinner at the Anchor Inn. I had beef liver with bacon, peas and mashed potatoes, plus garlic bread with mozzarella for the table.
6 November 2022. Day three. Up at 7.30am, breakfast preparations at 8.30. We tried to mask the taste of porridge made with water using honey, bread and coffee. The forecast for the week wasn’t encouraging. We’d have to sail in whatever weather we got. Danila was skipper for the day. While he planned the passage to Ocean Village Marina, we prepared the yacht: third reef and storm jib. We left at ten and headed for Southampton. Aubrey rarely came out of the cabin.
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6 November 2022. Day three. Up at 7.30am, breakfast preparations at 8.30. We tried to mask the taste of porridge made with water using honey, bread and coffee.
The forecast for the week wasn’t encouraging. We’d have to sail in whatever weather we got. Danila was skipper for the day. While he planned the passage to Ocean Village Marina, we prepared the yacht: third reef and storm jib.
We left at ten and headed for Southampton. Aubrey rarely came out of the cabin. We swapped between helm and winches ourselves, trimmed the sails, and kept a lookout. Chicken pie and cup soup for lunch on the move. After seven miles, we arrived at six in the evening. We berthed in pitch darkness in only three attempts.
For dinner, we microwaved large potatoes, heated baked beans, and made a salad with iceberg lettuce, pepper, onion, cucumber, vinegar, oil, salt and pepper.
5 November 2022. Day two. Up at 6.30am, as on every day that followed. We boiled eggs and made toast, with Nutella or butter and jam. No luck with the weather. Pouring rain. Hurricane Martin was heading for England. Aubrey made it a classroom day. 9am. Yacht safety and crew briefings first. We were allocated automatic lifejackets and learnt how to service them.
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5 November 2022. Day two. Up at 6.30am, as on every day that followed. We boiled eggs and made toast, with Nutella or butter and jam.
No luck with the weather. Pouring rain. Hurricane Martin was heading for England. Aubrey made it a classroom day.
9am. Yacht safety and crew briefings first. We were allocated automatic lifejackets and learnt how to service them. We spent some time on the radio, then used the charts to discuss possible routes given the weather and tides. We talked about why neither paper nor electronic charts could be trusted completely: storms constantly change the seabed and shoals. The depth sounder remains a skipper’s best friend.
1pm. Lunch. We chopped iceberg lettuce, cucumber, pepper and tomato, dressed with oil, vinegar and salt. Made cup soups, microwaved two quiches — bacon and cabbage — and shared them.
2.30pm. Aubrey got his laptop out. Meteorology slides.
6pm. End of the day. We spent six hours in the pub, where I had an excellent burger. A shower at the marina, then bed.
All in all, the day was a bit of a waste. No lessons. We arrived, got acquainted over fish and chips in the bar, moved onto the yacht, and carried on chatting over tea. Some of the group were staying on after the berthing course; the others arrived by 7pm. Five of us in total: me from Germany, Slava from the US, Rita from Dubai, Lyosha from London, and Danila from France.
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4 November 2022, noon. The joining instructions listed several phone numbers. On arrival, I called our instructor Aubrey. He said he’d be there by six. The second number belonged to Yura Fadeyev, the school’s founder. He was aboard Night Owl with a berthing course and suggested waiting in the café.
All in all, the day was a bit of a waste. No lessons. We arrived, got acquainted over fish and chips in the bar, moved onto the yacht, and carried on chatting over tea. Some of the group were staying on after the berthing course; the others arrived by 7pm. Five of us in total: me from Germany, Slava from the US, Rita from Dubai, Lyosha from London, and Danila from France.
Yura said we would be his school’s final group. He’d already sold 15 yachts from the fleet; only Night Owl remained. Times were changing: Covid restrictions, visa and banking sanctions, pro-Kremlin attitudes among many students… The school’s 15-year story, which began when he bought his first yacht, was coming to an end.
At ten that evening, I wrapped myself in my sleeping bag and fell asleep.
4 November 2022, 1am. Up, a bite to eat, dressed and off for the bus. A 30-minute walk, an hour’s wait, a 90-minute ride to Hamburg Airport. Check-in, security, passport control, departures, then a two-hour flight to London. At Heathrow passport control, they asked why I had two passports, why my visa had been refused in spring, what I’d be doing, whether I’d be paid, and when I’d leave. In the terminal, I changed money and bought a National Express coach ticket.
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4 November 2022, 1am. Up, a bite to eat, dressed and off for the bus. A 30-minute walk, an hour’s wait, a 90-minute ride to Hamburg Airport. Check-in, security, passport control, departures, then a two-hour flight to London.
At Heathrow passport control, they asked why I had two passports, why my visa had been refused in spring, what I’d be doing, whether I’d be paid, and when I’d leave. In the terminal, I changed money and bought a National Express coach ticket. An hour’s wait.
A hundred minutes to Southampton Coach Station, then a 15-minute walk to the railway station. Trains to Hamble run hourly. I had breakfast at Starbucks and was surprised by the washbasin in the loo: separate hot and cold taps.
The train took 20 minutes. I couldn’t charge my phone: different sockets here. Palm trees flashed past the window — not what I’d expected of misty Albion. A 40-minute walk to Mercury Yacht Harbour. At noon, I was on pontoon B, berth 52, waiting for Night Owl.
Twelve carefully planned hours in all, with connections kept as short as possible. I snatched sleep wherever I could.
I started editing a video, but it was taking too long. So I’ll tell the story in photographs: my RYA Day Skipper practical course with Kabestan, in the tidal waters of the Solent. The Solent? Southern England. In the first Harry Potter book, Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge holidayed on the Isle of Wight. The stretch of the English Channel between that island and mainland Britain is called the Solent. Kabestan?
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I started editing a video, but it was taking too long. So I’ll tell the story in photographs: my RYA Day Skipper practical course with Kabestan, in the tidal waters of the Solent.
The Solent? Southern England. In the first Harry Potter book, Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge holidayed on the Isle of Wight. The stretch of the English Channel between that island and mainland Britain is called the Solent.
Kabestan? I took their radio operator’s exam in 2017 and their theory exam in Moscow in 2018. The theory teaching was strong. I still remember most of it four years later.
We’d agreed on April 2022. I applied for a visa on 18 February. From the 24th, though, the embassy seemed to stop functioning. Nothing on the Vinsky travel forum either. On 26 June, a letter arrived saying April had passed, there was no reason to grant me a visa, and I couldn’t appeal.
The school changed the dates to November and wrote a supporting letter. I reapplied on 12 July, paying the fee with a colleague’s Armenian bank card and adding that I also wanted to see London and visit friends. On 26 September, the visa was in my passport.
From 11 August to 19 September, I took a GIMS licence course.
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From 11 August to 19 September, I got drawn into #training for a #GIMS licence. First, I paid 20,000 roubles for theory access at #sailingacademy, which was interesting but didn’t cover even a third of the exam questions. I also took three one-hour practical sessions with them, handling a small dinghy.
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From 11 August to 19 September, I got drawn into #training for a #GIMS licence. First, I paid 20,000 roubles for theory access at #sailingacademy , which was interesting but didn’t cover even a third of the exam questions. I also took three one-hour practical sessions with them, handling a small dinghy.
I was surprised by the sheer amount in the question bank: geographical terms, engine and sail maintenance, navigation, safety, first aid, getting off a grounding, turning in a current, and much more.
Unfortunately, although IYT and RYA require all this too, they don’t test it as strictly or cover it in such detail. The exam gives you 30 questions picked at random from thousands, with one mistake allowed. Preparation is hard. Mikhail Bazhin’s ‘GIMS Exam’ app helped (http://test-apps.ru). It has the theory, the questions, and even a link from each question to the relevant section of theory.
In the end, I qualified to operate a motorboat on internal waters and inland waterways. I clearly wouldn’t have time to prepare for the coastal waters category, and all the sailing exam slots were taken.
I’d wanted a break from sailing. But on Saturday evening, Igor called: for day two of the third Federation Cup round, nobody was coming except Rada, on only her fourth outing. So I ended up in another regatta, almost double-handed. If I had to describe the race in one word, it would be ‘experimental’. We were among the leaders. When it came to hoisting the spinnaker, the guy came free of the pole four times in a row.
I’d wanted a break from sailing. But on Saturday evening, Igor called: for day two of the third Federation Cup round, nobody was coming except Rada, on only her fourth outing. So I ended up in another regatta, almost double-handed.
If I had to describe the race in one word, it would be ‘experimental’. We were among the leaders. When it came to hoisting the spinnaker, the guy came free of the pole four times in a row. We ended up goosewinging, holding the sails out, but lost seven boat lengths to our rivals.
On the second lap, we tightened the mainsheet to flatten the sail. Just 1.5cm was enough for our rivals to start overtaking us upwind, when previously we’d been overtaking them. Clear proof that a sail needs some belly in light airs.
With the pole out of action — and it isn’t a #racing without a spinnaker — we hoisted it without the pole and controlled it with the guys. Difficult, but beautiful, and we lost less speed.
Towards the end, the jib furler died, so we had to furl it by hand.
Regatta
11.09.2022.
11.09.2022. #racing. Moscow Region Cup. Day two. Video: https://youtu.be/okHRVH-MkAU Pestovo greeted us with a fresh breeze. We would be racing. I felt a little nervous, but Dmitry reassured us: ‘I need to bring on a new generation of sailors who’ll charter my yachts. Take your time and practise your skills.’ Then the bell rang, and the kindly grandfather became a stern racing sailor. He kept shouting: ‘The genoa isn’t sheeted in!’ ‘Igor, where are you?
Pestovo greeted us with a fresh breeze. We would be racing. I felt a little nervous, but Dmitry reassured us: ‘I need to bring on a new generation of sailors who’ll charter my yachts. Take your time and practise your skills.’
Then the bell rang, and the kindly grandfather became a stern racing sailor. He kept shouting: ‘The genoa isn’t sheeted in!’ ‘Igor, where are you? They can’t manage!’ ‘Lads, we won’t win like this!’ ‘No, I can’t do this. I’m going to get up and go home.’ ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
Four starts. We finished first and second in the first two races. Then the wind died, and twice we heard the finish whistle in fourth place. The skipper was disappointed. After a simple snack of cold cuts and vegetables, we headed home.
An unexpected call while we were berthing summoned us to the prize-giving. We had a faint hope of third. How disappointed we were when third wasn’t us. And how delighted to discover we were second, out of about ten boats. I’m proud of that regatta and what I learnt.
Regatta
10.09.2022.
10.09.2022. #racing. Moscow Region Cup. With Igor, just as a month ago. Same price and arrangements. This time, Igor was on the foredeck and Dmitry Samoilov at the helm, with Rada and me on the coachroof controls and sheets. After sailing from Dolgoprudny to the Pestovo Reservoir, we had a little practice: hoisted and repacked the spinnaker, made a couple of turns. The committee boat was flying the ‘carrot’ pennant: start postponed.
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10.09.2022. #racing. Moscow Region Cup. With Igor, just as a month ago. Same price and arrangements. This time, Igor was on the foredeck and Dmitry Samoilov at the helm, with Rada and me on the coachroof controls and sheets.
After sailing from Dolgoprudny to the Pestovo Reservoir, we had a little practice: hoisted and repacked the spinnaker, made a couple of turns. The committee boat was flying the ‘carrot’ pennant: start postponed.
We spent several hours circling with the other competitors. Out came the cold cuts, pickled cucumbers, tomatoes, bread, nuts and firewater. Dmitry had plenty of stories about travelling, his yachts being hired for filming, good deals, and, of course, yacht repairs. One stuck with me: an old sail had been spray-painted purple for a TV series, freshening it up and improving its shape. He’d won several regattas with it, and joked that everything was purple to him now — Russian slang for not giving a damn.
Back at the marina, he showed us round his workshop. The race never started.
04.09.2022. #sailingacademy. Orekhovaya Bay. Open 800. Instructor: Pavel Filippov. A special day: my attempt at the RDP long-distance helmsman’s exam. After a few course changes and a couple of turns, a fender went into the water. Man overboard. I bore away, tacked, and… lost sight of it. I kept the tiller over to bear away, forgetting about the wind. I crossed through the wind and gybed accidentally. Only then did I spot the casualty and recover it.
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04.09.2022. #sailingacademy. Orekhovaya Bay. Open 800. Instructor: Pavel Filippov. A special day: my attempt at the RDP long-distance helmsman’s exam.
After a few course changes and a couple of turns, a fender went into the water. Man overboard. I bore away, tacked, and… lost sight of it. I kept the tiller over to bear away, forgetting about the wind. I crossed through the wind and gybed accidentally. Only then did I spot the casualty and recover it.
The next instruction was to enter Tikhaya Bay. We headed towards it. Then came a question: ‘Will we get there on this course?’ I could sense a trap, but the destination was straight ahead. I said yes. In fact, we were heading straight for a shoal 50 metres away, while the fairway buoys lay to port. We should have been following those.
Two serious mistakes. To pass, you’re allowed none. We spent the remaining time training.
03.09.2022. #sailingacademy. Orekhovaya Bay. Open 800. Instructor: Pavel Filippov. I’ve come to like arriving at training with a particular technique to work on. This time, I had two requests. Pavel was a stickler. He’d been scrubbing the hull since early morning and made me wash every speck of dust off my Crocs until not a trace of dirt remained. My first request was to heave to with the jib backed to windward.
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03.09.2022. #sailingacademy. Orekhovaya Bay. Open 800. Instructor: Pavel Filippov. I’ve come to like arriving at training with a particular technique to work on. This time, I had two requests.
Pavel was a stickler. He’d been scrubbing the hull since early morning and made me wash every speck of dust off my Crocs until not a trace of dirt remained.
My first request was to heave to with the jib backed to windward. Surprisingly, I was the first person to ask him to demonstrate it. Every crew member tried twice. Exactly what I’d hoped for: that lovely feeling of being rooted to the spot, without rolling.
Then we ‘recovered the casualty’ several times. Pavel insisted that the fender be brought aboard on the windward side.
My second request was gennaker handling, and I got plenty of that. While we tacked upwind, I led the lines and rigged the sail from its bag. I hoisted and lowered it and handled the bowsprit on my own.
In the end, we carried on almost an hour longer than scheduled.
Regatta
August was packed with sailing.
August was packed with sailing. I thought there was nothing left to surprise me. But #silavetra decided to mark the start of autumn with ‘Neon Racing’ on SV20s in Strogino on 2 September. Judging by the board behind the administrator, the #racing was going to be busy. Six boats! I ran into Alexei, with whom I’d learnt to sail a Luch dinghy, and waited for Sasha, our instructor for the evening. In the end, there isn’t much to say. I had two inexperienced crewmates.
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August was packed with sailing. I thought there was nothing left to surprise me. But #silavetra decided to mark the start of autumn with ‘Neon Racing’ on SV20s in Strogino on 2 September.
Judging by the board behind the administrator, the #racing was going to be busy. Six boats! I ran into Alexei, with whom I’d learnt to sail a Luch dinghy, and waited for Sasha, our instructor for the evening.
In the end, there isn’t much to say. I had two inexperienced crewmates. One was given the tiller, the other the mainsheet. I worked the jib and kicker. I even tried hoisting the gennaker, but it was twisted.
We didn’t complete any of the three courses. We rounded a mark only twice. The lads were afraid of heeling, eased the mainsheet, and couldn’t hold a course. No neon either, unless you count handheld torches lighting up the sails. I’d hoped to race for a place, any place, but it wasn’t to be. Even afterwards, the crew dispersed without staying for the party.
On the plus side, it was my first experience of night sailing.
I was greeted by a gloomy-looking man in glasses and an instructor, Elena, a woman in early middle age. Their dynamic was odd: she asked only him to do anything, addressing him affectionately as ‘Alyoshenka’. It made the rest of us feel like spare parts, not to be trusted with anything.
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27 August 2022. My previous session with #sailingacademy at Oreshek had inspired me. It had also been my first time on an Open 800. I booked again, this time with a specific aim: practising man overboard.
I was greeted by a gloomy-looking man in glasses and an instructor, Elena, a woman in early middle age. Their dynamic was odd: she asked only him to do anything, addressing him affectionately as ‘Alyoshenka’. It made the rest of us feel like spare parts, not to be trusted with anything.
I explained what I wanted from the session. She responded enthusiastically, and Alexei agreed that he was interested too. Our ‘casualty’ was a fender with a bucket tied to it. Each of us made about five approaches involving a tack and one involving a gybe.
The instructor picked up mistakes in the turns, both from the helm and the sheet handlers, and I’m grateful for that. She clearly had a great deal of experience. But I wouldn’t want another session with her.
Notes
19 August 2022.
19 August 2022. Friday evening. For the first time in ages, there was wind. I booked a training session at the #sailingacademy base in Orekhovaya Bay on the Pirogovo Reservoir. An older instructor greeted me and introduced himself as Andrey. As we rigged the yacht, we got talking about berthing without an engine. Someone ashore waved us off without waiting, and the two of us cast off. I felt uneasy. Dark patches covered the water, showing the approaching gusts.
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19 August 2022. Friday evening. For the first time in ages, there was wind. I booked a training session at the #sailingacademy base in Orekhovaya Bay on the Pirogovo Reservoir. An older instructor greeted me and introduced himself as Andrey. As we rigged the yacht, we got talking about berthing without an engine. Someone ashore waved us off without waiting, and the two of us cast off.
I felt uneasy. Dark patches covered the water, showing the approaching gusts. Whitecaps formed on the waves. The wind kept heading us, so I was constantly adjusting the helm. With the heel, I was almost standing on the opposite side of the boat.
Andrey showed me how to steer in those conditions. He headed up further, letting half the sail luff and sailing on the remaining part. We still had enough speed. Until then, I’d thought you should ease the sails, reef, or flatten them by tensioning their edges.
By then, two latecomers had arrived by RIB. We spent the rest of the session tacking upwind and gybing downwind.
14 August 2022. Day two of the Federation Cup. Igor’s injury delayed him by half an hour. The crew had changed: only the skipper and I remained from yesterday. Another briefing, another allocation of jobs. Then we patched the spinnaker and took Dmitry Samoilov in tow. We were late for the start. Three races, two laps each. We missed the first, though we did one lap for ourselves.
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14 August 2022. Day two of the Federation Cup. Igor’s injury delayed him by half an hour. The crew had changed: only the skipper and I remained from yesterday. Another briefing, another allocation of jobs. Then we patched the spinnaker and took Dmitry Samoilov in tow. We were late for the start.
Three races, two laps each. We missed the first, though we did one lap for ourselves. It was all a blur for me: haul the sail bag out of the saloon, secure it to the guardwires, lead the halyard and guys, attach the topping lift and downhaul to the pole, fit the guy to the pole and the pole to the mast, catch the other end of the guy coming from the cockpit, hold the pole and work the sail, let the guy go, take down the pole, secure the ends to the rail, run down to the saloon to repack the sail, and back onto the foredeck with the bag.
After racing, while the others swam and set out cold cuts, salo, boiled eggs, pancakes, bread, flatbreads, cucumbers and nuts, I just lay on the side deck, stared at the sky and tried to catch my breath. A good day’s racing.
I spotted a call for crew for the second round of the Federation Cup.
In the Sailing Desk chat, I spotted a call for crew for the second round of the Moscow Sailing Federation’s Federation Cup. Quarter Ton class, aboard a Dufour 24. The price was 8,000 roubles for two days, from 9am to 6pm. 13 August 2022. First day of racing. I was on the foredeck: hoisting the spinnaker, handling the pole and working the guys at the bow.
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In the Sailing Desk chat, I spotted a call for crew for the second round of the Moscow Sailing Federation’s Federation Cup. Quarter Ton class, aboard a Dufour 24. The price was 8,000 roubles for two days, from 9am to 6pm.
13 August 2022. First day of racing. I was on the foredeck: hoisting the spinnaker, handling the pole and working the guys at the bow. But we had barely passed under the Dmitrovskoye Highway bridge when a prosecco cork popped in the cockpit…
The answering pennant flew from the committee boat for two hours: start postponed. Then up went flag November, abandoning racing. Meanwhile, we drifted along under sail, popped more corks, ate potatoes with creamy mushrooms, and swam with an Alexandrov rescue line to hang on to. We met Dmitry Samoilov and tried to help pull a yacht off a lee shore.
Our skipper Igor stepped on a broken wine-glass stem. Out came the hydrogen peroxide and plasters. That evening, at Kir’s flat, the celebrations continued with cider, carbonara, Zemfira and board games.
7 August 2022: a combined training session and regatta in Strogino…
7 August 2022. Just a day after the Laser outing, I went for a double session of training and #racing in #sailingacademy back at Strogino: https://youtu.be/Z9hYdTsJ-fg Once again, none of the others had practical experience. On hearing this, the instructor put me at the helm and the others on the mainsail, jib and gennaker. Diana said very little. None of the usual talk about the speed log, sails or trim.
Once again, none of the others had practical experience. On hearing this, the instructor put me at the helm and the others on the mainsail, jib and gennaker.
Diana said very little. None of the usual talk about the speed log, sails or trim. At times, we were sailing off the wind with the jib sheeted hard in. I had to ask the others to ease it.
Nobody changed position in four hours. In one sense, that’s good: you can refine a skill. But the crew quickly lost interest. The only entertainment was scraping weed off the keel with a mop when the boat stopped answering the tiller.
There were three races. In the first, I had a comfortable lead but touched a buoy and had to take a penalty turn. In the second, I had a poor start. In the third, I couldn’t quite get past the leading boat. Result: third place.
Notes
5 August 2022: my third Laser session in Strogino.
5 August 2022: my third Laser session in Strogino. Feeling braver, I brought my GoPro Max, which Alexei mounted on the boom, and wore an Insta360 GO 2 round my neck: https://youtu.be/xCwWuU0QM4A Moscow has had a month of heat and calm. The forecast promised 5–7 knots, gusting 12, but I didn’t notice it. If anything, there seemed to be less wind than last time. I sailed between various buoys, tacking upwind and gybing downwind. I felt much more confident.
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5 August 2022: my third Laser session in Strogino. Feeling braver, I brought my GoPro Max, which Alexei mounted on the boom, and wore an Insta360 GO 2 round my neck: https://youtu.be/xCwWuU0QM4A
Moscow has had a month of heat and calm. The forecast promised 5–7 knots, gusting 12, but I didn’t notice it. If anything, there seemed to be less wind than last time.
I sailed between various buoys, tacking upwind and gybing downwind. I felt much more confident. Whether that was the weather or the beginnings of a feel for the boat, I don’t know. I tried to do more with heel and balance.
The instructor got the time wrong, and we returned half an hour early. I could either go out again or discuss theory. By then, I had plenty of questions about fine sail trim and hiking out. With a cup of piping-hot coffee, I chose the second option.
1 August 2022: my second Laser session in Strogino.
Photos and video5 photos
1 August 2022: my second Laser session in Strogino. Changing into a hired wetsuit, I remembered something Sergei from Kamchatka had told me on our IYT course in September. A wetsuit holds a thin layer of water, which your body warms and keeps warm. So the most important rule is not to piss in it, unless you want that layer to be something other than water from the lake. Naturally, I needed the loo. Rigging the boat, I realised I was scared.
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1 August 2022: my second Laser session in Strogino. Changing into a hired wetsuit, I remembered something Sergei from Kamchatka had told me on our IYT course in September. A wetsuit holds a thin layer of water, which your body warms and keeps warm. So the most important rule is not to piss in it, unless you want that layer to be something other than water from the lake. Naturally, I needed the loo.
Rigging the boat, I realised I was scared. Scared of capsizing again and endlessly hauling myself back into that tiny boat. Only the light breeze was reassuring. Before launching, my instructor Alexei rehearsed turns with me and showed me how to sit properly.
The session itself was great. I held a course confidently, tacked and gybed. Towards the end, I sailed figures of eight between two flags. Perfect weather.
After two hours, once I was standing on solid ground, the exhaustion hit. My neck ached and my arms shook. Taking the mast apart was a real effort. But a sip of hot coffee felt like a sip of life itself.
Continuing the start of my sailing season, this time on keelboats: https://youtu.be/tF6d_ME5PCo. On Sunday, I went to #sailingacademy for a combined training session and #racing in Strogino. Our crew was instructor Anton, Yulia on her second outing, Bradley from New Zealand, and Damien from Switzerland, both of whom spoke little Russian. A colourful mix, and all the more interesting for it. No wind. Blazing heat. The bay was full of lurid green weed.
Our crew was instructor Anton, Yulia on her second outing, Bradley from New Zealand, and Damien from Switzerland, both of whom spoke little Russian. A colourful mix, and all the more interesting for it.
No wind. Blazing heat. The bay was full of lurid green weed. I certainly know how to pick my weather: a Laser ILCA 7 in a blow and a keelboat, the MX700, in a flat calm 😀 Even so, we ran aground twice and heeled the boat to get off. I was delighted: my first grounding, and twice in an hour.
The regatta consisted of four laps, with two yachts competing. We changed roles each lap. As the most experienced, I started at the helm and overtook our rivals to take first place. Then I worked the mainsheet, jib sheets and gennaker, but they beat us every time. Still, that didn’t stop us taking a podium finish: second place!
Afterwards, the instructor came over and praised my work in every position ☺️
Useful links
@Geminikhv shared the Antares project in the comments…
Photos and video1 photo
@Geminikhv, who was on my IYT course in September 2021, shared a link to the Antares project in the comments: Antares on YouTube A group of enthusiasts from Khabarovsk found sponsors and built an inflatable catamaran to their own design. They then travelled down the Amur to the Sea of Okhotsk and along the coast to Vladivostok and back. The roughly 5,000km journey took them 111 days.
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@Geminikhv, who was on my IYT course in September 2021, shared a link to the Antares project in the comments: Antares on YouTube
A group of enthusiasts from Khabarovsk found sponsors and built an inflatable catamaran to their own design. They then travelled down the Amur to the Sea of Okhotsk and along the coast to Vladivostok and back. The roughly 5,000km journey took them 111 days.
I meant to watch only the first episode, but got so engrossed that I watched the whole channel in one sitting. Mesmerising footage, a well-told story and the extraordinary landscapes of the Russian Far East — I couldn’t even tear myself away to make tea.
It was especially pleasing to see how well prepared the crew were. They had either anticipated each problem or dealt with it on the spot. At every stop, they knew what to see, and they broke up the technical details with camping recipes.
This expedition definitely belongs in my hall of fame of #youtube channels I’ll return to again and again.
Useful links
Another inspiring YouTube video.
I stumbled across it, so let me pass that chance discovery on. No sails, no battling the elements or yourself. Just the story of an ordinary man who built an inflatable catamaran and set off with his son to explore the northern part of the lake. I loved the filming and the mood of it.
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Another inspiring video from #youtube. This time, Lake Baikal.
I stumbled across it, so let me pass that chance discovery on. No sails, no battling the elements or yourself. Just the story of an ordinary man who built an inflatable catamaran and set off with his son to explore the northern part of the lake. I loved the filming and the mood of it.
It’s the channel’s only long video in seven years. I’m not sure there will be more like it.
I opened my 2022 sailing season in a Laser dinghy.
Photos and video4 photos
I’ll say straight away that I overestimated my fitness. I thought I’d be leisurely tacking about. Instead, I rigged the boat from scratch, stepping the mast and fitting the running rigging. The boom hit me in the temple more times than I could count before I learnt to sit properly. Worst of all, I capsized three times.
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I opened my 2022 sailing season in a Laser dinghy. They say it’s the only way to become a good helm. That appealed to me. Six hours with a coach at Sila Vetra cost 9,500 roubles.
I’ll say straight away that I overestimated my fitness. I thought I’d be leisurely tacking about. Instead, I rigged the boat from scratch, stepping the mast and fitting the running rigging. The boom hit me in the temple more times than I could count before I learnt to sit properly. Worst of all, I capsized three times.
To right the boat, I hung my weight off the daggerboard from the water, then hauled myself aboard using the rigging. The first time, I managed. By the third, I couldn’t even lift my arms out of the water. I had to swim the boat ashore. Even then, trying to jump aboard from the shallows, I cramped a calf muscle and fell back into the water beside her.
I can’t describe how frightened I was sailing the Laser back upwind, or how grateful I am to my coach Tikhon for his patience and understanding.
Book: ‘How to Buy a Yacht from €1,000 and Sail Her to the Mediterranean’
Photos and video1 photo
About a year ago, on https://kak-kupit-yahtu.ru I bought ‘How to Buy a Yacht from €1,000 and Sail Her to the Mediterranean’ by Vadim https://t.me/Unakaru Luppo. I’ve only just got round to reading it. Despite having studied with both RYA and IYT, this guide opened my eyes to all sorts of things. It answered practically every question I still had. How do you live without a shower? Can you live on a seven-metre yacht?
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About a year ago, on https://kak-kupit-yahtu.ru I bought ‘How to Buy a Yacht from €1,000 and Sail Her to the Mediterranean’ by Vadim https://t.me/Unakaru Luppo. I’ve only just got round to reading it.
Despite having studied with both RYA and IYT, this guide opened my eyes to all sorts of things. It answered practically every question I still had. How do you live without a shower? Can you live on a seven-metre yacht? How do you navigate canals or cross maritime borders? What should you look for when buying a yacht? Why does everyone write osmos without the k in kosmos? How does coastal sailing differ from offshore and ocean sailing? How does the Baltic differ from the Mediterranean? Is a 150-litre water tank and 200Ah of batteries a lot or a little?
What makes the book so good is the lack of padding: just practical experience and useful knowledge. Every sentence offers a useful tip. And it reads so easily that even an Atlantic crossing doesn’t seem particularly difficult. I’m glad I spent the time on it.
Take yacht. My inner voice tried every combination of Russian consonants it could think of. Imagine my surprise when I learnt how it actually sounded. There were plenty more like it: I hadn’t the faintest idea how to pronounce halyard, the rope used to hoist a sail.
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Anki really helped me build my vocabulary. But whenever I read, one question kept going round in my head: ‘How do you pronounce that?’
Take yacht. My inner voice tried every combination of Russian consonants it could think of. Imagine my surprise when I learnt how it actually sounded. There were plenty more like it: I hadn’t the faintest idea how to pronounce halyard, the rope used to hoist a sail.
There’s a free service, https://youglish.com, which finds YouTube videos in which a particular word is spoken. Brilliant for learning languages, or just finding things to watch.
I also bought the ‘Sailing English’ audio course from the RYA school Kabestan: http://online.kabestan.ru/sailing-english/. It contains everyday phrases. You can listen in the background, repeat them yourself, or write them down as dictation. So far, I’m pleased with it.
Think back to the Age of Discovery, and the great seafaring nations come to mind…
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Think back to the Age of Discovery, and the great seafaring nations come to mind: Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, Britain, France, Italy… Each explored the seas in its own right and had plenty of seafaring secrets. As a result, every part of a vessel has its own name in those countries’ languages. Peter the Great brought Dutch terminology to Russia along with Dutch technology. In the twenty-first century, though, everyone speaks English. At sea too.
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Think back to the Age of Discovery, and the great seafaring nations come to mind: Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, Britain, France, Italy… Each explored the seas in its own right and had plenty of seafaring secrets.
As a result, every part of a vessel has its own name in those countries’ languages. Peter the Great brought Dutch terminology to Russia along with Dutch technology. In the twenty-first century, though, everyone speaks English. At sea too.
After the course, I began studying sailing English. Anki helped (https://apps.ankiweb.net). They have a free app for Android, computers and the web. Users have created plenty of flashcards, including nautical vocabulary. I spent an hour a day on it throughout November and December. Now I just maintain the vocabulary I’ve learnt.
24 September 2021. Up at seven. Coffee. Packed our bags. Went to the cash machine to withdraw 17,500 roubles for the IYT certificates. Took the bedding to the saloon and put the rubbish out. We left the yacht at nine. We showered at our rented accommodation and went our separate ways by noon. In Victory Park, I had a set lunch at a grill bar: meatball soup, pasta with a braised meat patty, cabbage, bread, a wafer and fruit compote. Almost the usual lunch.
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24 September 2021. Up at seven. Coffee. Packed our bags. Went to the cash machine to withdraw 17,500 roubles for the IYT certificates. Took the bedding to the saloon and put the rubbish out. We left the yacht at nine.
We showered at our rented accommodation and went our separate ways by noon. In Victory Park, I had a set lunch at a grill bar: meatball soup, pasta with a braised meat patty, cabbage, bread, a wafer and fruit compote. Almost the usual lunch.
Back home, I read the inland waterways rules and passed the ICC Inland test. Two and a half months later, a courier knocked at my door with the long-awaited plastic cards.
The drawbacks: 1. The instructor would get sidetracked by the technicians while we sat waiting. 2. Each of the seven students did the same exercise three times while everyone else waited. 3. There clearly wasn’t enough practice to charter a yacht confidently on my own. 4. I was lucky to be in a strong group. The people in the other group hadn’t even studied the theory. They ended up spending three days in a row practising stern-to berthing. 5. The fruit compote was far too watered down.
The tenth day of practical training. Fried eggs with herbs and a sausage for breakfast. We had two sessions at sea. Course-changing drill: a crew member not otherwise occupied called out a random compass course. The helm worked out its direction relative to the wind, gave the appropriate orders, and manoeuvred onto it. MOB — man overboard. Our ‘casualty’ was a lifebuoy thrown over the side.
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The tenth day of practical training. Fried eggs with herbs and a sausage for breakfast.
We had two sessions at sea.
Course-changing drill: a crew member not otherwise occupied called out a random compass course. The helm worked out its direction relative to the wind, gave the appropriate orders, and manoeuvred onto it.
MOB — man overboard. Our ‘casualty’ was a lifebuoy thrown over the side. The helm turned onto a beam reach, sailed six to eight boat lengths, tacked, and approached from leeward.
Lunch felt rather festive for some reason: a salad of lettuce, cucumber, mushrooms, meat and mustard; creamy chicken soup with croutons; and stuffed peppers.
A technician came over to collect payment for the diesel we’d used: 55 litres at 60 roubles a litre.
The test results arrived on WhatsApp. I got 98 out of 100. The others scored 97, 97, 96, 87 and 86. We were invited to the veranda outside the office for closing remarks and congratulations. We received a certificate, a discount on further courses, and a logbook.
Day nine. Over buckwheat, sausages, cold cuts and cheese, we talked about yesterday’s exam. Denis arrived and demonstrated the principles of coming alongside and picking up a mooring buoy. After yesterday’s strong wind, it was flat calm. We went for a tour of Sevastopol Bay and South Bay. Lunch was vegetable soup with chicken wings, a fresh vegetable salad, buckwheat with stewed meat, sour cream, bread and fruit compote.
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Day nine. Over buckwheat, sausages, cold cuts and cheese, we talked about yesterday’s exam.
Denis arrived and demonstrated the principles of coming alongside and picking up a mooring buoy. After yesterday’s strong wind, it was flat calm. We went for a tour of Sevastopol Bay and South Bay.
Lunch was vegetable soup with chicken wings, a fresh vegetable salad, buckwheat with stewed meat, sour cream, bread and fruit compote.
A light breeze arrived, and we resumed the upwind and downwind manoeuvres interrupted yesterday. That took up the rest of the day.
In the evening, we went through sail trim on different points of sail in the saloon.
We split into two groups for dinner. Some went to the Oranzhereya café-restaurant. I stayed on the yacht, where we made pasta with fried bacon and finished the salad from lunch.
On the morning of day eight, we took the online test again. We got 97% right. Out to sea. We practised tacking upwind and gybing downwind inside the bay, finishing one manoeuvre only to start the next. It seemed straightforward, but if you missed the rhythm, you had to put your whole body into hauling the sheet, then finish on the winch. I never got the timing right. The weather was worsening by the minute. A storm warning came over the radio.
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On the morning of day eight, we took the online test again. We got 97% right.
Out to sea. We practised tacking upwind and gybing downwind inside the bay, finishing one manoeuvre only to start the next. It seemed straightforward, but if you missed the rhythm, you had to put your whole body into hauling the sheet, then finish on the winch. I never got the timing right.
The weather was worsening by the minute. A storm warning came over the radio. Denis decided to turn it into a learning opportunity. We put in the first reef, then the second, then shook them out to full sail. Next came the order: ‘Get the sails down in two minutes.’ We did it in one.
We averaged 7.5 knots and peaked at 9.8. True wind was around 22 knots. Back ashore, my fingers hurt so much I could barely bend them.
Lunch: tomato salad, solyanka with sour cream, a meatball with stewed potatoes, bread and fruit compote.
With the storm upon us, we decided to take the final test. We spent three hours answering 100 questions, rested for half an hour, then sat the radio operator’s exam.
Dinner at the Japanese restaurant again. I had breaded chicken and Philadelphia rolls.
Day seven began with fried eggs, sausages, Turkish halva and lemon tea. We weighed anchor and put to sea. More tacking practice, but now one of us was at the helm instead of Denis, giving orders to the others. We returned to the bay under a scarlet spinnaker. Lunch was Finnish-style fish soup with mussels, tomato and herb salad, rice with vegetables and a fishcake, and the usual fruit compote.
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We weighed anchor and put to sea. More tacking practice, but now one of us was at the helm instead of Denis, giving orders to the others. We returned to the bay under a scarlet spinnaker.
Lunch was Finnish-style fish soup with mussels, tomato and herb salad, rice with vegetables and a fishcake, and the usual fruit compote.
Back at sea, we practised holding a course under sail, then gybing, with the same arrangement as in the morning. On the way back, Denis demonstrated what to do if the engine failed, and berthed under sail.
For the evening, we were told to revise sail trim for different points of sail.
We went to the Japanese restaurant in Victory Park for dinner. I had tom yum, pepperoni pizza and Crimean tea. Spicy and delicious.
Day six. Breakfast was fried eggs and a sausage, with salmon roe that Sergei had brought from Kamchatka. Denis showed us how to hoist, reef and lower the mainsail. We worked in groups of four: two on the winches, one forward at the mast, and one at the helm giving orders. Everyone tried every role. Lunch was pea soup with smoked meat, tomato and herb salad, pasta with minced meat, and very watered-down fruit compote.
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Day six. Breakfast was fried eggs and a sausage, with salmon roe that Sergei had brought from Kamchatka.
Denis showed us how to hoist, reef and lower the mainsail. We worked in groups of four: two on the winches, one forward at the mast, and one at the helm giving orders. Everyone tried every role.
Lunch was pea soup with smoked meat, tomato and herb salad, pasta with minced meat, and very watered-down fruit compote.
We went out to sea, hoisted the sails, and practised tacking and gybing in groups of three: two on the jib sheets and one on the mainsheet traveller. We swapped roles from time to time. We really felt how our perception of the wind changed between close-hauled and broad-reaching. The most memorable moment, though, was sailing goosewinged. Beautiful.
Back in the harbour, we berthed using the anchor.
Our homework was to learn the round turn and two half hitches, two half hitches, fisherman’s bend and double constrictor, and write out from memory how to hoist the mainsail.
Dinner was lightly salted sockeye salmon from Kamchatka… and we still went to a Georgian restaurant afterwards.
Day five. Breakfast was buckwheat and a sausage. We revised yesterday’s flashcards and tried the practice test for the online theory course. Denis turned the flashcards into a game. We drew them from the deck in turn and gave an answer. If you couldn’t answer, you kept the card in front of you. Whoever had the biggest pile would have to polish the ship’s bell. We finished with an empty table. Bad weather made it a navigation day.
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Day five. Breakfast was buckwheat and a sausage. We revised yesterday’s flashcards and tried the practice test for the online theory course.
Denis turned the flashcards into a game. We drew them from the deck in turn and gave an answer. If you couldn’t answer, you kept the card in front of you. Whoever had the biggest pile would have to polish the ship’s bell. We finished with an empty table.
Bad weather made it a navigation day. We learnt to read and plot coordinates on charts and prepare a proper passage plan.
Lunch was chicken soup, a fresh vegetable salad, and bulgur with a chop.
More theory followed: position fixing, radio communications, man overboard, AIS and navigation apps. There were plenty of stories to go with it.
In the evening, we worked in pairs on our own passage plans. Dinner was pasta with chicken and the salad left over from lunch.
It was Saturday, charter changeover day. People were loudly celebrating the start of their holidays. Towards midnight, a drunken group on Kalipso decided to put to sea, picking up other yachts’ bow lines along the way. We followed them on AIS and MarineTraffic.
Denis returned in place of Sasha. With him, we each practised the approach for stern-to berthing three times, then completed one full berthing and departure manoeuvre. The difference in approach was immediately obvious: Denis supervised more closely. On the one hand, our manoeuvres improved; on the other, we had less chance to feel what the boat was doing.
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Day four. Breakfast was an egg fried in a slice of bread and a sausage, while we went over questions from the theory test.
Denis returned in place of Sasha. With him, we each practised the approach for stern-to berthing three times, then completed one full berthing and departure manoeuvre. The difference in approach was immediately obvious: Denis supervised more closely. On the one hand, our manoeuvres improved; on the other, we had less chance to feel what the boat was doing.
Lunch was mushroom soup with sour cream, a salad of cucumber, tomato and herbs, and pearl barley with a meat patty.
After lunch, we practised coming alongside. Easier than stern-to, but there were details to remember — taking your reference from the bow cleat rather than the bow itself, for example. We each had three goes.
For dinner, we went to the nearby Oranzhereya restaurant. They had lovely pink lemonade.
Back on the yacht, we studied the COLREGs flashcards.
On day three, Yulia, the wife of Sergei from Khabarovsk, made us all omelettes. We bought cheese, bacon and sausages at the nearest shop and brewed coffee in a flask. After eating, we practised knots until Sasha arrived. We began with the inboard engine: listened to the briefing, checked the oil and cooling system, started it, tried the engine control positions, and shut it down. For the practical session, we cast off and went out into the bay.
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On day three, Yulia, the wife of Sergei from Khabarovsk, made us all omelettes. We bought cheese, bacon and sausages at the nearest shop and brewed coffee in a flask. After eating, we practised knots until Sasha arrived.
We began with the inboard engine: listened to the briefing, checked the oil and cooling system, started it, tried the engine control positions, and shut it down.
For the practical session, we cast off and went out into the bay. The idea was to get a feel for how the yacht handled. We took turns at the wheel, going ahead and astern and following helm and course orders, such as ‘135 degrees to starboard’ or ‘Steer south-west’.
We returned for lunch: meatball soup, Greek salad, pilaf and fruit compote.
Then back out on the water. This time, we had to steer figures of eight between two mooring buoys, keeping a steady turning radius with the buoy abeam: twice going ahead, once astern. We finished by approaching a buoy stern-first as if berthing against it, then handed the wheel to the next person.
The next morning, breakfast arrived: fruit and curd cheese bake, with bread, sausage and cheese. After that, we decided to stop paying for breakfasts. Our instructor Alexander arrived, tested us on yesterday’s flashcards, and handed out yacht handover checklists. They help protect you against claims from the charter company and show you where everything is kept on board.
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The next morning, breakfast arrived: fruit and curd cheese bake, with bread, sausage and cheese. After that, we decided to stop paying for breakfasts.
Our instructor Alexander arrived, tested us on yesterday’s flashcards, and handed out yacht handover checklists. They help protect you against claims from the charter company and show you where everything is kept on board.
Lunch was a fresh vegetable salad, borscht with sour cream, buckwheat with chicken, bread and fruit compote.
After a rest, we looked at lifejackets: the bulky foam ‘bricks’ for abandoning ship and the automatic inflatable ones for everyday use. On the pontoon, we coiled mooring lines in circles and figures of eight, then practised throwing them up to eight metres. Back on board, we timed ourselves tying clove hitches — five seconds per fender — and made a covering of knotwork around a long length of rope. Finally, we paired up to practise handling mooring lines on the stern, midships and bow cleats, giving the appropriate commands.
That evening’s homework was knots: the figure of eight, Flemish bend, and a quick way of tying a bowline. A full day. We went to the main waterfront for dinner.
The practical part of my IYT Bareboat Skipper course at Black Sea School began on 14 September 2021. After I paid the deposit, they emailed everything I needed to know, from what clothes to bring to local taxi numbers. You can leave your bag at the office, and there are cafés with inexpensive set lunches in nearby Victory Park. At 3.30pm, they gathered us together and split us into two groups: those with experience and those without.
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The practical part of my IYT Bareboat Skipper course at Black Sea School began on 14 September 2021. After I paid the deposit, they emailed everything I needed to know, from what clothes to bring to local taxi numbers.
You can leave your bag at the office, and there are cafés with inexpensive set lunches in nearby Victory Park.
At 3.30pm, they gathered us together and split us into two groups: those with experience and those without.
We sat in the cockpit and introduced ourselves: where we were from, what we did, our sailing experience and what we planned to do with the qualification. There were seven of us. Nikolai and I were from the Moscow region; Igor, from the Leningrad region; Alexei and Vyacheslav, from the Saratov region; one Sergei, from Khabarovsk; and the other, from Kamchatka.
Our instructor was Denis Mironov. He appointed a treasurer, first mate and bosun. We paid for lunches and drew up a duty rota covering galley help, filling the water tanks and cleaning the yacht. Denis showed us how to use the heads, shower and gas cooker. For the evening, he told us to revise the flashcards on the International Code of Signals and yacht rigging.
I’d been looking for a sailing school offering a skipper’s qualification since 2017.
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I’d been looking for a sailing school offering a skipper’s qualification since 2017. My favourites were Kabestan (RYA), Sailing Time (IYT) and BlackSeaSchool (IYT). Kabestan appealed because of its RYA qualifications and Moscow branch. Sailing Time (https://www.youtube.com/user/SailingTimeRu) and BlackSeaSchool (https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCO9sO6uaNBw5yKeZdq35KvA/videos) caught my attention through their #youtube channels. The latter also seemed to take a rigorous approach, with surprisingly affordable prices and a location in Crimea. With lockdowns around the world and Russia on the red list, there weren’t many options left. So in July 2021, I signed up for 14–24 September.
I turned 32 on the last day of October. It’s been an extraordinary year: I started teaching at GeekBrains and Peter the Great St Petersburg Polytechnic University, got properly into sailing, and started this blog. Lockdown put paid to hiring a restaurant, so we celebrated at home with a nautical party. Thank you to my wife Masha for her help, enthusiasm and support!
Notes
(A follow-up to the previous post)
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During my training in September, I managed to film how you sheet the jib across when tacking without a self-tacking track.
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During my training in September, I managed to film how you sheet the jib across when tacking without a self-tacking track.
Useful links
The most common yacht rig is the Bermudan sloop.
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The most common yacht rig is the Bermudan sloop. Its mast and movable boom form an L shape. The Russian word for boom, gik, comes from the Dutch giek, meaning ‘stick’. To keep the mast upright, its top is secured to the bow and stern by wire stays — from the Dutch stagen, ‘to support’. The jib is hoisted on the forestay. Its Russian name, staksel, comes from the Dutch stagsegel, ‘stay sail’.
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The most common yacht rig is the Bermudan sloop. Its mast and movable boom form an L shape. The Russian word for boom, gik, comes from the Dutch giek, meaning ‘stick’. To keep the mast upright, its top is secured to the bow and stern by wire stays — from the Dutch stagen, ‘to support’.
The jib is hoisted on the forestay. Its Russian name, staksel, comes from the Dutch stagsegel, ‘stay sail’. The mainsail sits inside the L shape; the Russian grot comes from groot, ‘large’. Once hoisted, the sails run fore and aft, catching the wind.
When you turn, the sails move across to the other side. The movable boom carries the mainsail over. The jib has ropes called sheets attached to its corner, one running down each side of the boat. During the turn, you let one sheet go and haul in the other to bring the jib across.
Some yachts, however, have a self-tacking jib track that does this work automatically. You sacrifice some sail length, but gain the ability to bring it across without help from the crew. You can see what it looks like and how it works in this #youtube video: https://youtu.be/_uuxFnIr1bI
Watching videos on #youtube channels, I couldn’t work out what the strange wing fitted to the stern was. Eventually, someone in a sailing chat answered my question: it was windvane self-steering. I wanted to find out more, as I’d never come across it in sailing lessons or books: https://youtu.be/BSEnKI66fek The principle behind this #equipment is simple: set the vane for your course relative to the wind. If the yacht changes course, the wind tilts it.
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Watching videos on #youtube channels, I couldn’t work out what the strange wing fitted to the stern was. Eventually, someone in a sailing chat answered my question: it was windvane self-steering. I wanted to find out more, as I’d never come across it in sailing lessons or books: https://youtu.be/BSEnKI66fek
The principle behind this #equipment is simple: set the vane for your course relative to the wind. If the yacht changes course, the wind tilts it. That movement operates the servo steering mechanism, bringing the boat back on course. All without electronics.
Useful links
Another sailing YouTube channel: Erik Aanderaa…
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Another #youtube channel in a similar vein to the last one: https://www.youtube.com/c/ErikAanderaa, run by a Norwegian called Erik. He sails the North Sea and Norwegian Sea — perhaps some of the most beautiful and unforgiving sailing waters there are. He turns individual passages into half-hour films with a Norse mythology theme, narrated in clear English. He recently posted a series about crossing the Norwegian Sea to Iceland and returning via the Faroe and Shetland Islands. Now he’s started a new series about sailing to Greenland. His videos are wonderfully atmospheric, full of freedom and testosterone, and utterly absorbing.
Useful links
Some sailing YouTube recommendations.
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I’m going to start recommending #youtube sailing channels. First up is Pandorak: https://www.youtube.com/c/Pandorak. Just 6,900 subscribers and two videos in four years. You won’t hear a word from the creator: throughout each video, there are beautiful shots of the passage, the sound of the sea and a little acoustic music. But you will feel that freedom, the beauty around you, and the elements you can only encounter at sea.
Training
The orange Open 800s caught my eye during a Sila Vetra session…
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During one of the Sila Vetra sessions, I spotted some lovely orange Open 800s with the Sailing Academy club’s logo. I decided to try a session with them in Strogino: 2,500 roubles for two hours. It was 24 July, aboard Wiskey. Joining me were a middle-aged man and his teenage son, who was still at school. It was their first time. Our instructor, Alexander, explained everything calmly and in detail, with a bit of humour, and helped us hoist and lower the gennaker. I remembered his advice on the tiller: ‘To head up, move the tiller towards the mainsail; to bear away, move it away.’ He also showed us the right helming position, how to change sides, and how to use your head to feel the wind direction: on your nose means head to wind; cheeks, close-hauled; ears, a beam reach; neck, a broad reach; back of your head, a run. Better than the wet finger I’d seen in films. So if you’d like to go sailing in Moscow, you don’t necessarily need to sign up for a course. #training#sailingacademy
Training
The atmosphere was wonderfully friendly, though the organisation was lacking.
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The atmosphere was wonderfully friendly, though the organisation was lacking. You could forget the lesson plan straight away: the instructors carried the sessions on their own experience. And they did that rather well. They all held Master of Sport qualifications and competed at national level. Those six sessions gave us enough grounding to join other crews for training or amateur regattas. At the end, we received a commemorative certificate. I’d recommend the course to anyone completely new to sailing. #training#silavetra
Regatta
For our sixth and final session, they organised a regatta.
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For our sixth and final session, they organised a regatta: six yachts racing against each other. We had a start line and a turning buoy. The prizes were acrylic medals and a bottle of champagne. The weather let us down: with no wind, it was more like a tortoise race. Even so, it was fun. Some crews managed to catch little puffs of wind, some heeled the boat to good effect, and others tried to rock theirs ‘without anyone noticing’. #training#silavetra #racing
Training
Sessions two to five were straightforward sailing practice.
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Sessions two to five were straightforward sailing practice. The ten of us — six men and four women — were split into two groups of five, each with an instructor on a Beneteau Platu 25. We stayed in those groups for the rest of the course. We bent on the sails, cast off, changed roles, found the wind, hoisted and lowered the spinnaker, and berthed back at the pontoons. On the first outing, the instructor supervised everything we did. By the last, everyone knew their job, and we were being shown racing tricks: how to blanket an opponent and spot gusts approaching. Half the sessions fell in hot weather, so we practised man overboard several times: someone jumped into the reservoir, and the rest of us approached the ‘casualty’ from windward to pick them up. #training#silavetra
Training
At the start of summer, an Instagram advert caught my eye: ‘Sailing Basics’ with Sila Vetra.
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At the start of summer, an Instagram advert caught my eye: ‘Sailing Basics’ with Sila >>> Vetra. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them: their ads were everywhere on Instagram. Six weekend sessions cost me 20,000 roubles, and on 3 July I arrived by taxi at 9.30am at the Beryozki yacht club in Povedniki, near Mytishchi. The first session was a lecture. We were given a notebook, pen, sailing book and a one-metre length of rope for practising knots.
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At the start of summer, an Instagram advert caught my eye: ‘Sailing Basics’ with Sila >>> Vetra. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them: their ads were everywhere on Instagram. Six weekend sessions cost me 20,000 roubles, and on 3 July I arrived by taxi at 9.30am at the Beryozki yacht club in Povedniki, near Mytishchi. The first session was a lecture. We were given a notebook, pen, sailing book and a one-metre length of rope for practising knots. Instead of three hours, the lecture ran for five. It was rather muddled: the instructor wanted to give us as much information as possible and went into tiny details, such as what the jib sheet car does. There was plenty of distracting noise. Next door, MoreSail were running a large regatta to music straight out of my 2007; building work was going on at the yacht club; and aircraft kept flying overhead to and from Sheremetyevo. My head was a jumble. The practical break helped: we learnt the basic knots and how to coil a rope. #training#silavetra
Notes
Work kept me away from the sea in 2019.
In 2021, my head cleared, and I knew I wanted more of the sea in my life. That was why I started this channel. It’s somewhere to keep thoughts, learning materials, links, reviews and any other experience I think might be useful. The channel’s name, Delnye Veshchi, captures the idea. In everyday Russian, it means useful, practical things. But it’s also a nautical term, derived from the Dutch deel, meaning ‘part’, for the various auxiliary fittings on a vessel.
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In 2020, the pandemic locked us all at home. In 2021, my head cleared, and I knew I wanted more of the sea in my life. That was why I started this channel. It’s somewhere to keep thoughts, learning materials, links, reviews and any other experience I think might be useful. The channel’s name, Delnye Veshchi, captures the idea. In everyday Russian, it means useful, practical things. But it’s also a nautical term, derived from the Dutch deel, meaning ‘part’, for the various auxiliary fittings on a vessel.
Training
I hadn’t yet realised how deeply that holiday had affected me.
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I hadn’t yet realised how deeply that holiday had affected me. But I could already feel a pull towards the sea. After looking through all sorts of sailing schools and information, I decided to take a radio operator’s course at the RYA school Kabestan. A year later, I went back for the Day Skipper theory course.
In 2017, my wife’s parents invited us to join them on holiday in Croatia, with a yacht chartered for a week. Until then, I’d assumed yachts were the oligarchs’ floating palaces: private nightclubs you arrived at by helicopter. I even asked Masha whether there was something about her family I didn’t know.
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In 2017, my wife’s parents invited us to join them on holiday in Croatia, with a yacht chartered for a week. Until then, I’d assumed yachts were the oligarchs’ floating palaces: private nightclubs you arrived at by helicopter. I even asked Masha whether there was something about her family I didn’t know.
On the very first day, on the passage from Trogir to Milna, a 35-knot squall caught us by surprise. The rain hit so hard it felt like hail, churning up the sea around us and filling the air with spray. We had full sail up on Evelina, our Beneteau Oceanis 45. She broached, with the leeward side submerged. Time seemed to stop. I held on to Masha and the rail while her dad made his way along the spreaders on the other side to reach the deck organiser and release the sail. I’d never felt such an exhilarating rush of adrenaline.
Unfortunately, it frightened Masha’s sister so much that we didn’t hoist the sails again for the rest of the holiday. Even so, I enjoyed every second at sea.
We visited Trogir, Milna, Palmižana, Hvar and Stari Grad. Sailing through that azure sea, laughing at the naked men diving off the neighbouring yacht, swimming in crystal-clear water beside an uninhabited island, and making a mess of coming alongside the fuel berth — it was wonderful.