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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.
#passage
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.
#passage
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