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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.
Track here.
#passage
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.
Track here.
#passage
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