Holidays! The time has finally come. Sven has treated his last patient’s teeth, whilst Anni has spent days washing and packing. Now they’re in the car on their way to the boat. “It feels a bit like something’s missing when the little one isn’t here,” Sven remarks, once they’ve arrived and unpacked and stowed everything away on their ‘Späte Liebe’. “Well, I don’t miss her,” Anni objects, “I actually find it quite nice when there’s no one around who’s constantly clapping her hands and babbling in Denglish.” Anni shakes her head vigorously as she says this. “Where are she and Schnupsi actually going on holiday?” asks Sven. Anni replies that the two of them are in Mallorca. “God help us!” Sven blurts out. “I bet when they come back, Ändi will call us ‘amigos’ and go on and on about siestas and sangria.”
Meanwhile, the sun is shining gently from the sky, and Anni and Sven clink glasses of white wine. “Oh, I’m so looking forward to it,” says Anni. They have two weeks ahead of them, and she plans to spend plenty of time swimming and enjoying cold drinks as the sun sets! The next morning, they set off early.
A sailing holiday aboard the ‘Späte Liebe’
Lake Müritz is looking its very best. Reeds sway in the wind, ospreys circle above the water, and Anni feels that it all already feels completely like home.
The first few days fly by; the mooring and unmooring manoeuvres go absolutely brilliantly, even without any help, and the new owners are proud of themselves! One evening, they meet a couple who invite them to join them for chair yoga on their boat; they actually accept the invitation, only to realise afterwards that it’s not really their thing. So all’s well. Until that evening at Wolfsbruch Marina.
Anni is setting up the barbecue at the picnic area and Sven is sorting out the sausages. Then he turns up. At first, they only see a pair of sandals. Then the bare knees. Then the shorts. Then a polo shirt, the collar of which is in a position normally only seen on aggressive cobras.
An unwanted lecture
Finally, the face appears. A face that radiates the firm conviction that it has the right answer to every question in the world.
The man stops. He looks at Sven. And begins the conversation with a question that is really more of a statement: “Well, motorboat driver?” Sven senses danger. This must be how an antelope feels when it hears a rustling in the bushes by the waterhole. “Er, yes. Lovely evening,” says Sven cautiously. “It all depends,” replies the stranger meaningfully. Sven is taken aback. Anni reaches for her wine glass. And then the man simply sits down next to her on the bench without asking. “I’ve been driving motorboats for 37 years.” Sven says, “I see.”
A rather one-sided conversation ensues. The uninvited guest says: “Engines used to be really good.” Sven: “Of course.” The man: “Nowadays, it’s all about cutting costs.” Sven: “I see.” The man: “What sort of engine do you have?” Sven tells him the type of engine that’s hard at work deep inside the fuselage of the ‘Späte Liebe’.
The stranger lets out a throaty laugh. It is not a friendly laugh; no, it is the laugh of a pedantic teacher who thinks he has just caught a primary school pupil making a mistake in an addition problem. “I know him. He’s a troublemaker!”
“I see.” Sven nods slowly as the man takes a deep breath. The lecture begins.
He explains to them why modern engines are rubbish. Why old engines are better. Why old engines are actually rubbish too. Why diesel engines are unbeatable. Why petrol engines are superior. Why aluminium is rubbish. Why steel is outdated. Why shipyards haven’t got a clue. Why harbour masters haven’t got a clue. Why weather services don’t know what they’re on about. Why specialist journals don’t know what they’re on about. Why every single engineer in Europe – and those in China and Sri Lanka too – don’t know what they’re on about. Why the government is to blame for all of this and much more besides. And why he is the only person in the whole world who knows the truth.
Unwelcome behaviour
In the meantime, he unabashedly takes a bratwurst off the barbecue. “It’s been on there a bit too long,” he says. “That’s our sausage!” protests Anni, dumbfounded. “Besides…” But the man isn’t listening at all. On the contrary, he now mutters: “Ah, there’s mustard. Hmm, you’ve only got medium-hot – well, what can you expect?” He then spends ten minutes explaining the ideal barbecue temperature to them.
After that, the conversation turns back to motorboats and, in particular, to the ‘Späte Liebe’: ‘The fuel consumption is far too high.’ Sven wants to know how on earth he knows that. “Experience!” Sven adds: “You know neither the boat nor the route.” A blind rage is slowly welling up inside him. But he keeps his cool. For now.
“I don’t need it.” The man’s replies are brimming with self-assurance. Anni almost admires his utter disregard for the facts. Frowning, she polishes off the salad. At least the stranger hasn’t touched that.
She’d actually love to ask the man if he’d like some. It’s definitely too much oil. Or the wrong sort. And the wrong herbs, and the wrong lettuce anyway. And too much salt. And I’m sure the CDU has something to do with it, and only he – he knows what he’s talking about. The mayor of Helgoland might well have a hand in it, too.
Whilst Anni is still lost in thought, the stranger continues his talk. Propellers. Shaft systems. Batteries. Alternators. Diesel filters. He has three more opinions for every opinion he expresses. At one point he says: “By the way, my name is Frohwalt.” He doesn’t say whether that’s his first name or his surname.
After nearly an hour, the man takes a short break, presumably to catch his breath. For the first time, a wonderful little silence descends.
A hassle-free boating holiday
Anni seizes her chance. “Our boat’s moving.” The man pauses: “Yes.” Anni: “The engine’s running.” The man: “Yes.” Anni: “We haven’t broken down.” – “Yes.” – “We’re on holiday.” – “Yes.” – “Everything’s absolutely fine!”
Frohwalt now looks confused in turn. Apparently, he’s never come across anyone who uses logic before. “I just wanted to help you,” he begins. “With what?” asks Sven. “Well, with the motorboats. With the problems.” Sven and Anni reply in unison: “We don’t have any problems!”
The man is silent. For the first time this evening. You can hear seagulls. You can hear water lapping against the piles. You can hear a fender squeaking on another boat somewhere.
Finally, Frohwalt stands up, nods and walks off. Anni and Sven watch him go. “Goodness me!” they say, once again at the same time. And: “What a chatterbox!”
The remaining two weeks pass peacefully. Then they return. On arrival in Waren, someone is already standing on the jetty, waving. A man. With the collar of his polo shirt turned up! Next to him is Wochenändi, back from Mallorca.
“There are the holidaymakers!” she exclaims, clapping her hands. “Look, a new permanent moorer at our jetty. Say hello to Frohwalt! He knows loads about engines. But I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it himself!”