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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.
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.
Twenty-nine miles. Track here.
#passage
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.
Twenty-nine miles. Track here.
#passage
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