Blown in: Bizarre things sailors experience in the harbour when the weather’s rubbish

The sailor from the berth next door, a certain Mr Kolle, pokes his head out from under the tarpaulin. He asks if I fancy a game of skat. His words are carried off by the wind. I can’t play skat. I don’t like card games in general. I don’t want to. Then I shout back through the storm: “Fine by me!”

Play Skat? I’m here to sail! To rack up the miles. To breathe in the holiday, the freedom, the wind and the open sea. And now, for some reason or other, I’m agreeing to play Skat – it’s come to this. Mr Kolle nods, calls out, the edge of his hand pressed to his mouth as a windbreak: “Perfect! Join us on board in half an hour!” Then he scurries back under his rain-soaked, wind-tossed tarpaulin, his back bulging against the fabric.

It’s July. The height of summer. And on Drejø, the small island in the South Funen Archipelago, the world is coming to an end. And yet it is actually the perfect setting for a wonderful summer cruise, with pretty thatched cottages beneath a holiday-blue sky and flowers glowing in the sun – instead, storm-battered fields, cloud-shrouded horizons, bone-chilling damp, autumnal chill. And no escape.

The whole island is snowed in. The sailors are here, as are the farmers; two of them are manoeuvring their tractors into the sheds. Even the dog from the bike hire shop has gone and hidden away. The Danish South Seas. There’s no denying it: sometimes the most beautiful geographical names harbour the bitterest irony. And I’m off to play skat in a moment! Yet this is only day one of the storm and constant rain, ten o’clock, second Tuborg, first rum.

A day at the harbour – it happens from time to time

In the cabin of my little Winga cruiser, there’s a bucket on the berth where water has been seeping in for hours. The paraffin lamp in the forepeak hangs crookedly and wobbles; even the water level in the glass is slanting, even though the boat is securely moored. Outside, the storm howls in terrifying tones. The wind presses against the mast, north-east force seven, gusting to eight; it forces the old wooden boat onto its side. We’re heeling! In the harbour! Sailing is out of the question.

What have I managed to get done today? I've doubled the windward lines. Made coffee twice. Read for three hours. Had a nap. Woke up. Checked the rigging again. Secured the tarpaulin. Changed my wet socks twice. Another nap. Dozed off again somewhere on page 496. Mopped the floor. Then took advantage of a break in the rain to pop down to the Købmand: a litre of milk, two packets of cigarettes, a quick chat, a quick

Tuborg outside the shop, sheltered from the wind and weather. The trip to the Købmand was undoubtedly the highlight of the day by far. Actually, the verb ‘to blow’ is a truly beautiful word. The wind blows. Flags blow. It tastes of life. Yet, purely linguistically speaking, curious things happen when one expands the verb with the simple prefix ‘ein’. Suddenly, the verb no longer refers to the wind and the flags. It declares the sailor to be the object of reference! He is blown in. That smacks not of life at all, but of enforced passivity. He is condemned by the wind to helplessness. And, moreover, to doing things he does not want to do at all. A situation that confronts him not only with the rigours of the weather – but above all with himself.

Most of us are still trying to stay positive. Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. A day in port – it happens; it won’t ruin the itinerary. We’ve got plenty of leeway. Let’s just make the best of it and have a proper rest.

Shore leave – A change of pace on those dreary days in port

The best bit? Even stepping off the boat has little in common with the usual, carefree procedure of leaving a vessel. I’m wearing oilskins, taking another close look at the mooring lines, holding on to the boom, hood pulled low over my face, my gait ungracefully hunched. As I stride across the deck, the tarpaulin flaps and flutters as if it wants to slap me. A quick glance up the mast. The halyards, though braced out to the sides, vibrate in the storm like the vocal cords of an opera diva singing in the highest registers. A whistling, howling, screaming.

Taking a careful step onto the slippery jetty from the rocking bow. Ashore at last, a bit of a change of scenery. Despite the oilskins and the water on my skin, I study the display boards in the little wooden hut, which tell the story of the island and explain birdlife.

Five boats are moored in the small, old harbour of Dreijø. Over there, they’re trying to move the steel yacht two metres aft. The water in the harbour has risen by a good metre; the yacht is pressing against the jetty. Three men are tugging at the lines as if in a tug-of-war; the skipper leans over the gunwale, hastily adjusts the fenders, then runs back to the stern, accompanied by shouts carried away by the wind.

“Stop! Untie the bowline first!”

"I'll do it!"

“Watch out, the dinghy!”

“Pull the winch!”

“Just another half metre!”

“What?”

“Close up! Close up!”

Dramatic commands—not shouted, mind you, whilst the boat is out on the high seas, but in the harbour. Three sailors in rain gear are standing outside the little hut, stretching their legs. Every two hours, one of them, heavily wrapped up, shuffles off to the toilet. Even this simple walk suddenly becomes a diversion once Homo nauticus has been blown in and is pinned down below deck. And an invitation to play skat becomes a highlight under such circumstances.

Cosiness: The benefits of feeling at home

Soaking wet, I step onto the Kolle Crew’s Folkboat. Two paraffin lamps are burning; a small table has been set up, on which lie a bag of gummy bears, cigarettes and a bar of chocolate. Three cold beers are waiting. All around hang oilskins, with jumpers and trousers dangling, and hats and socks drying.

The storm even affects the vocabulary used when greeting people on board. The guest doesn’t say, ‘Hello, thank you for the invitation’ or ‘Oh, it’s lovely to be on board with you’. No, he greets the crew with a phrase as simple as it is honest: ‘What a bloody awful day!’

“Oh, come on,” retorts Mr Kolle, “there’s something to be said for being stuck in the harbour. You don’t have to make any decisions; instead, you have to bow to the forces of nature and fate. It’s actually quite good to just surrender to the weather. Do nothing. Wait and see. Doze. Listen to the weather. Slip into your bunk. Forced deep sleep. Beer in broad daylight. Play skat.

In a way, the man has a point. It’s cosy when you settle into this stillness and soon find yourself simply snoring away in your bunk. Ah, let the world be the world. I’ll just do nothing. No need to set sail, no need to reef, no need to pull on the sheets, no need to take bearings. And no one accuses you of laziness; it’s not your fault, after all. The stoic pause on a snow-bound sailing boat becomes a form of enforced meditation, more genuine than any yoga class.

A game of skat on board

By the end of the first day at the latest, every newcomer has got the hang of it: the sheer bliss of doing absolutely nothing, decreed from on high by Mother Nature herself. Enjoyment without regret, without atonement.

But the time comes when the sailor, who has been dozing, resting and staring into space in the boat, craves a change of pace. The lockers have been tidied up down to the last corner, even the oldest rope has been fitted with a thimble, the faulty reading lamps rewired, and so on and so forth.

But what now?

So, Skat. Mr Kolle explains the rules – I fear he’s a terrible gambler – and before we know it, we’re glued to the cards, our faces glowing orange. Hours later, day one ends in a whirlwind after various beers, a bottle of rum, three bags of crisps, ten rounds of Skat, a loss of 15 euros – with the wind still howling.

Night falls. The next day. The waiting now takes on a new dimension. As the wind continues to pick up, life slows down in a strange way. Time soon drips away like thick, flowing tree resin. The sailor, forced into the harbour and onto the boat, gains a new sense of time and space; he settles into a strange bubble of resignation and acceptance. Outside, after all, a god rages against whom he can do nothing. The boat becomes a cocoon, a spaceship of waiting; it drifts through the hours.

When the weather forecast puts a spanner in the works

The weather forecast doesn’t bode well. Once again, east to north-easterly winds of force 6 to 7, with gusts of force 9. Strong wind and storm warnings for almost all forecast areas. The weather situation: ominous. One low-pressure system follows another. A trough in the German Bight is set to develop into a low-pressure system in its own right, which in turn will form a new trough. The outlook for the next three days is also bleak. Not a single day without a force 7 on the cards, not to mention the squalls.

“Absolutely bizarre weather,” sums up an experienced boatbuilder from his yacht in the harbour at the other end of the island. “You have to be prepared for anything.” A group of men, wearing caps and boots, stand on the jetty, gazing grimly towards the horizon. A woman spreads her arms like a bird and leans with all her weight into the howling wind. This familiar little game means: Sailor, stay where you are!

On the boats, the wait is becoming gruelling. Sailors resign themselves to another day without sailing. On a larger vessel, children from various yachts have gathered and are starting to swap their well-thumbed Donald Duck books. A skipper sits motionless in the cockpit, seemingly tracing the tracks of raindrops on his windscreen.

By now, at the very least, some unpleasant questions are creeping into your mind. Our sailing plans are in danger of falling apart. Will we make it all the way to Samsø if the wind keeps howling like this? And up into the Limfjord to meet up with the crew from last summer? No way, that’s out of the question; we wouldn’t make it back south in time. On the boats, the crews are poring over the charts. What’s even left to do on this holiday? And hanging over everything, one question hangs heavy in the air: when will the bloody wind and the wretched rain finally stop? Everything depends on this moment, the whole trip. “If it keeps blowing like this, we can write the holiday off completely,” says one. “A truly brilliant summer! I’ve soon drunk more litres of coffee and beer than I’ve sailed miles.”

Dark grey clouds and rain symbols all week

The Baltic Sea endlessly laps at the island of Drejø in a gloomy grey; Avernakø, Ærø and Funen peek out from the heavy sky. White caps are blowing across the harbour basin; yesterday they even brought the ferry from Fynshav to a standstill. Nothing is moving. And certainly nothing is sailing. A first wave of anger creeps up within the sailors, and this is now the next phase of being caught in the weather. Anger and frustration and a quiet despair.

Day three, hour eight. The forecast still calls for strong winds. Some are preparing for a possible brief window of calm; they want to set off at the slightest opportunity, heading over to Ærø, as soon as the miserable gale eases off for a moment. But then comes the new, old forecast: south-easterly, increasing to force seven!

These days, there are far too many colourful adhesive strips fluttering in the breeze – the harbour master’s daily markings. An unsightly sight – little strips that speak volumes.

Inside, the island’s wretches are bracing themselves for more days of idling about. The marine weather forecast has become a harbinger of doom; the weather notices on the toilet block command: ‘Stand to attention!’ On paper, the grim truth is printed in bright colours: dark grey clouds and rain symbols all week, plus daily wind arrows with many, far too many ticks, not a single day above 17 degrees. For some time now, the sailing community’s vocabulary has been enriched by a Danish word: ‘Kuling’, meaning strong wind.

The mood is shifting

What does one do with so much time on one’s hands? Beneath the tarpaulins and inside the sealed-off yachts, you can almost feel a mixture of resignation and irritation. The whole summer is at stake. All those lovely dreams of glorious sailing. Of drifting gently along, of anchoring in blue bays.

The outlook, however, remains the same as ever: nothing but gusts of wind and showers. And then, on the fourth day in the harbour, that one sentence is uttered for the first time, a sentence that seems to sum up the final stage of it all; the owner of an old wooden yacht says it: “Sailing is a hobby for madmen; you invest so much time and money and effort all winter long, only to end up crammed into six square metres, letting the rain drum on your head for days on end – damn it, I’m selling my boat and would rather join a skittles club!”

The mood is turning. The low pressure isn’t just in the air, but in the sailors’ hearts too. This is the real test; all the motivational slogans have long since sounded like mockery. “Just wait and see, tomorrow will be better” – “The high-pressure system over the Azores has to break through at some point” – “We’re setting sail tomorrow, come what may!”

Oh, really?

Some have been lounging about below deck non-stop for four days, stoically ploughing through thick novels, leafing through well-thumbed magazines for the umpteenth time. Their hand reaches into the sweet tin almost on autopilot. A long, lazy spell, interrupted only by the marine weather reports. Morning and evening. And still not the slightest glimmer of hope.

How long have we been staring at the sterns in the pit lane opposite, seeing the same old sight? The boats hang precariously from their ropes.

It all brings back memories of our summer trips last year. The same story, but in different settings: Hjortø, Marstal. I suppose it’s just part of the experience. There we were, stuck in four Folkeboats for a full six days, a gale-force marathon with force 8 winds and lashing rain from the east. The cabins, small and damp, began to feel more and more like prison cells.

With so much bad luck and adversity, a positive attitude is needed. Don’t lose heart. Four or five men want to get together and sail out for a few hours. Rough-weather training. But this plan too comes to nothing. The barometer reads below 990 hectopascals on this Sunday morning.

Sailors must be mad

The next morning, day five: wind and rain, just as before – and then it happens. Around midday, the sky clears, the wind truly dies down, and an hour later the Danish South Sea lies there – a miracle! – so peaceful and serene under the sun, as if nothing had ever happened.

And now comes the proof that Homo nauticus is an incorrigible species. A creature hopelessly addicted to its pursuits. In the harbour, the tarpaulins vanish from the cockpits in a flash, sails flutter, winches click. The first ones head out, freed from their captivity, heading towards new destinations with fresh confidence. On the steel yacht, the skipper who was still ranting yesterday stands proudly at the helm, whilst Madame clears the fenders.

They call out, “Have a safe journey!”, others wave cheerfully with a smile, and children sit on deck, barefoot and wearing bright orange life jackets, full of energy. Off we go, off we go – that’s how quickly it can happen.

I, too, quickly got my cruiser ready. And shortly afterwards, I was sailing through the summery Danish South Sea, beneath white clouds, past green islands in the blue sea. And in the stillness, I discovered what is probably the most astonishing aspect of being blown in. An hour of blissful sailing is enough to blow away even the most dreadful storm-induced gloom. How quickly all the vexation is forgotten, how swiftly and light-heartedly the stormy days are pushed aside, the anger, the irritability, even the game of skat – reduced to a mere footnote.

It turns out that what the wooden boat owner said is true after all: sailors must be mad.

About the author, Marc Bielefeld.