When I think of the Geesthacht lock on the River Elbe, the affectionate word "lock master" no longer springs to mind. I have been travelling through this lock several times a year for years and have never
I have never managed to get in touch with one of these "shift supervisors" (in the past I would have said "lock master") on VHF channel 22. I'm one of those old-fashioned types of recreational boaters who announce themselves properly via VHF before every lock passage.
My pious saying "Geesthacht lock, Geesthacht lock, please come for pleasure craft 'Troll' ..." is rendered absurd from the outset by the fact that I tell my crew in advance that the Geesthacht lock will not heed my call.
That was the case again this year. At the start of the upstream season on 18 June and the downstream season on 27 August. The waiting time at the pleasure craft jetty in the upper water of the lock on 27 August was pleasingly short, and after just 20 minutes the waiting pleasure craft were called by loudspeaker to enter the chamber behind a commercial vessel. Immediately in front of us was the motor yacht "C'est la vie", in front of it another pleasure craft, and at the last second a small sailing boat with its mast down entered behind us.
The shift supervisor remains as silent as my engine. "There's no such thing," I think and watch as a pleasure craft enters the chamber from the front
At 2.40 pm, the lower gate opens and the commercial vessel and the two pleasure craft in front of me leave. Now it's my turn. Then the shock: the ignition system is dead as a doornail, the engine won't start. The view through the lower gate doesn't bode well: a commercial vessel is already pointing its bow towards the gate. Quickly to the spark and inform the shift supervisor that my engine won't start.
The shift supervisor remains as silent as my engine. "There's no such thing," I think and watch as a pleasure craft enters the chamber from the front. Suddenly an announcement comes from behind: "Don't you want to go out?" "I'd love to," I shout to the skipper of the small sailing boat, "but my engine won't start." "Holy shit," he says and immediately responds to our request for help: "Then give me a line." No sooner said than done.
At that moment, I see that the motor yacht "C'est la vie" has reached our height on the other side of the lock chamber. The skipper calls out to me: "We heard you on the radio and have come back to take you in tow!" "Thanks," I call back, "we're already on the hook."
My VHF device is still listening to the lock radio, but I can't hear anything from a shift supervisor. Doesn't he even care whether everything is clear here? Obviously not! Even when a crew member fell into the water in the lock chamber a few years ago, there was no reaction from the shift supervisor. Are the chambers not monitored by video? Or are the shift supervisors not allowed to make VHF contact with pleasure craft? These incidents make you think such stupid things.
"C'est la vie", says the Frenchman when he wants to offer consolation for the unalterable.
We wanted to clarify what is really going on officially and at the highest level: "Of course there are no service instructions that prohibit the shift supervisors from making radio contact with pleasure craft," says Bettina Kalytta, head of the responsible WSA Lauenburg, somewhat horrified. "I didn't realise until today that the shift supervisors don't respond to calls from pleasure craft. I will raise this with the office." She also wants to clarify whether the zero response to the report of my engine damage may have had technical reasons. We could have been in a shadow...
"C'est la vie", says the French when they want to offer consolation for the unalterable. I console myself with the thought that the skipper of a small sailing boat with a 4-horsepower outboard motor (name unknown) actually helped us, and the skipper of the motor yacht "C'est la vie" offered his help in unusual circumstances. I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you!
