The Sands

We left Worcester shortly after midnight and, without needing to consult our Continental Bradshaw, made our way to Lubeck via Stansted, arriving on board Voltair before the Prussians had completed their first Kaffeepause of the day. Slipping our moorings we motored down-river to Travemunde where we took provisions on board and lay alongside a bunkering station to replenish our tanks with fuel for the duty that lay ahead. Meanwhile we reconnoitred the town, our suspicions being aroused by the fact that it was impossible to obtain a ‘Bockwurst und Bier’ for luncheon. It seemed that the establishments along the foreshore had disguised themselves as Italian restaurants. We pondered as to what might have occasioned the need for such a subterfuge. That night we holed up in a spiffing new marina called Gromitz and dined on an excellent chicken, but were not able to follow it with the cigars that Davies and Carruthers favoured as Sykes's man had omitted to pack any along with his sailing blazer and other nautical gear in the unseemly haste with which our departure had been prepared. The next day we headed east, sailing outside the range of the guns based on the shores of the Kieler Bucht and hailing cheerily the so-called safety boat stationed to keep us out to sea – maintaining of course our pretence of being an innocent trio of sailors enjoying an end-of season cruise. Nevertheless, evening found us beating into the fjord that nestles into the bay’s southwestern corner. Here, Kingsley plunged over the side and swam down to touch the sand, as Carruthers had done from Dulcibella, who at the start of their adventure had ‘dived overboard and buried bad dreams, stiffness, frowziness and tormented nerves in what must be the loveliest fjord in the lovely Baltic.’

We gave a tow to a couple of locals, hoping to get some information on the way the land lay thereabouts, but without sucess. So we made our way to the British Army’s Yacht Club in Kiel – a strange but welcome and well-staffed outpost of Her Majesties domain. There we bumped into Davison, a modern day Davies and college contemporary of Kingsley. Davison had unfortunately lost his crew, after an accident while disembarking at Kiel, and was engaged in urgently recruiting a substitute, just as Davies had at the start of the novel. It is unlikely, however, that the object of Davison’s persuasions was sent a telegram at the last minute requiring he or she to bring a ‘No. 3 Rippinghillie stove’ as I can attest that his new 40ft yacht was as immaculately equipped with regard to cooking and heating facilities as it was it every other respect. Carruthers, on the other hand, had to bring this stove, a couple of shotguns, together with “a good lot of No 4’s, a prismatic compass and a pound of Raven mixture.”

The Yacht Club was busy with young officers briefing each other whilst some other ranks watered, fuelled and provisioned their boats; no such servants on Voltair. So we paid our dues and departed for the Kiel Canal, heaving to, as Dulcibella had done, beneath the colossal lock gates at Holtenau:-

“That these should open to such a infinitesimal suppliant seemed inconceivable. But open they did, with ponderous majesty and our tiny hull was lost in the womb of a lock designed to float the largest battleships. There was a blaze of electricity overhead, but utter silence till a solitary cloaked figure hailed us and called for the captain. In consideration of the sum of ten marks for dues and four for tonnage an imperial tug would tow the vessel Dulcibella through the Kaiser Wilhelm canal.”

Voltair, able to rely on the valiant Perkins did not require a tow and was charged, roughly a century later, the mighty sum of eight Euro (the equivalent of about four marks) to travel half-way along the canal, for it was our intention to travel this formally imperial waterway only as far as Giesenau. (If only inflation impinged on our lives so little in other matters, we would no doubt be immensely better off than we are.) For two days Dulcibella travelled the great canal that was and remains the strategic link between the two seas of Germany. “Broad and straight, massively embanked, lit by electricity at night till it is lighter than many a London street; traversed by great war vessels, rich merchantmen and humble coasters alike, it is a symbol of a new and mighty force…” The canal today is now is much as it was then, although perhaps lacking the novelty of its symbolism. We saw routine maintenance being carried out in which whole trees, mighty kings of the forest, were uprooted as one might deal with a troublesome weed in a lesser waterway. Once we passed a working transporter-bridge, still brightly painted in white and as well maintained today as it had been a century earlier when it had been the very latest conveyance developed by the Kaiser’s engineers.

We left the canal at Giesenau because, although Dulcibella had left the Baltic by the great public highway of the Kiel, she had earlier travelled in the opposite direction by an older and altogether more discreet route; and this was the route that we wished to explore. A small canal took us to a pretty lock that admitted us to the River Eider. For the last couple of hours that day we travelled between the reed banks of a willow-bordered winding stream that meandered seemingly aimlessly amongst meadows filled with browsing Friesian cows. Occasionally we came across locks that took us past the weirs whose height ensured that the river remained just navigable. The direction of the lockage sometimes puzzled us, going up when we had expected to go down – possibly due to the interconnections between the River and the great canal system it supplied. When we came to moor up for the night it took Sykes a couple of abortive attempts to get alongside our chosen pontoon as he could not understand why, in this non-tidal part of the river, the current was flowing upstream and not in the normal direction for a self-respecting river.

We dined that night in a remote Inn. We had hoped to see duck on the menu; we had passed plenty on the way and the Eider Duck is especially famous. But, we were told, just as Davies and Carruthers had been, that we were too early in the season. So we settled for pork steak, liver, Kartofeln and Kraut. We dined alone in a quiet corner of the restaurant, the only other guests having left shortly after we arrived. The waitress was a jolly woman who lit a few table lamps for us, but the owner came along later and switched them off. “I know vot you are zinking. ‘Typische Krautin', nicht vahr? But I tell you, it is hart here just now – not like it used to be. If you have a job, zat’s OK, maybe; but so venig people haf jobs. So we must save ver ve can.” Kingsley tried to talk to her about the old days when this part of Schleswig-Holstein had been part of Denmark, but she would not be drawn.

All the next day we travelled the River. Occasionally a church spire would appear in the distance ahead of us, but when we looked for it again it would be astern, only to re-appear ahead after yet another bend. Twice we stopped to try to buy some bread, the first time unsuccessfully, then successfully in a delightful village that rose up on an isolated hill hard against a sharp bend in the River. Our destination for the night was an isolated Dutch town on the Danish bank of the river which flows entirely through German territory; the town is known as Friedrichstadt after Friedrich III of Schleswig-Gottorp. Friedrich had given the land on which the town now stands to a group of Dutch Mennonites - followers of Jacob Arminius. They were a protestant reform group who practised adult Baptism and were suffering persecution in their homeland. He may also have hoped that their technology and industry would revive the local economy. They drained the land and built the town in the Dutch style and practised their religion in peace – as they do to this day.

The Friedrichstadt lock was scheduled to finish for the day at 6 pm and failure to get there in time would leave us in the tidal section of the river trapped between a bridge and a weir with nowhere available as a port of refuge. As time went by it was became clear that our inadequate meandering progress was putting in jeopardy our safe arrival at the lock before the stipulated hour, especially as a European football match had engaged the attention of the lock-keeper who was adamant that he would leave his post at 18:00 ‘punkt’. Thus we were travelling at full speed between the withies that staked out the edges of the river when the big red buoy which marked the entrance to the cut up to the town-lock hove in sight with just 5 minutes remaining. Leaving it correctly to starboard (we were going downstream) we turned smartly through a right angle ..... and within 5 seconds ran straight and very fast onto a mud bank! The boat rose up about a foot and then sunk back into the deep soft mud, heeled to port. A motor-boat with a big outboard came back and offered us some help. We rapidly fixed a tow rope to the bows and he used his full power to try and pull the bows round and Voltair off. He certainly gave us a good pull – enough to sever our best tow rope! A night leaning over on the mud loomed ahead of us. Kingsley suggested we tried to tilt the boat by pulling from the masthead; working at breakneck speed against the falling tide we loosed the spinnaker halyard and got the new tow arranged. With the motor boat pulling sideways and Perkins pushing forward we heeled over at a crazy angle and then, with a horrible sucking sound and a sudden ‘plurp’, we were free! The lock-keeper had stayed open to watch the fun and later said that we were not the first to have run aground there and, further, that he was definitely not responsible for the positioning of that buoy! But we wondered just how much fun he got from it.

Friedrichstadt offered fine dutch cooking, clogs, baggy trousers and good coffee but still no duck. After lunch the next day we slipped out through the lock, noting the deep scar in the mud made by our keel the day before, and set-off tentatively down the river, for there was not much depth of water at this stage of the tide. Gradually the river filled and broadened till we were in a wide estuary and thus we approached the massive barrage and lock system that stops up the mouth of the river.

Once through this lock we were in the North Sea and finding our way in the gathering darkness through the shifting sands of the Wesselburener Watt. We soon abandoned our preplanned route and followed the buoys – praying meanwhile that greater attention had been paid to the conventions of buoyage than had been shown at the entrance to Friedrichstadt. After a few hours of sandbank skimming we were out into the unsheltered, unforgiving North Sea and in proper salt water at last. A brisk northerly drove us hard through the rising swell as we searched for the light that would mark our destination – the Island of Helgoland. It was gone midnight when we slipped into the shelter of the inner harbour and tied up alongside a bit of spare quay. And so a whisky and bed; no doubt Carruthers would have enjoyed a cigar on deck.

Helgoland exists in part by offering duty free spirits to the hordes of day trippers who come from the German mainland on ferries that anchor in the roads. One bottle per person per trip. But we deemed that such minor legalities did not apply to us. So we loaded up – Suki and Hermione took a bottle each and I believe the team of cabin stewards may have made a contribution worthy of their profession. What Kingsley, Sykes and Bayliss did, I am not at liberty to reveal.

We spent a pleasant day enjoying much that the estimable island had to offer and finished up in the evening alongside a boat from Nordeney – our next destination. (Now, it was in Nordeney that Davies first came across the treacherous Dollman and his beautiful daughter.) The forecast was not good and we discussed the best way across the sands that lay to north of the Friesian Islands. “Perhaps we should go on to Borkum where the Elb offers a deep water approach?”, suggested Kingsley, but our friends from Nordeney would not hear of it. “That is too far and the tide will turn against you. The eastern entrance over the Dovetief is deep enough. We have done it many times. Just follow us.” Should we? It was with just such words that Dollman led Davies towards the Sharhorn, giving him the slip in poor visibility at the last moment and leaving him to his fate. It was only by sheer luck that he survived. As we went to bed we were decided on only one thing: that we should all arise at 5:30 a.m and at least depart together; but in the morning things looked very different. The wind had strengthened and our friends were now against leaving. Sykes went to the met office, which was situated at the far side of the harbour, but by the time he came back our friends had decided to leave after all and Kingsley had decided to follow them. By the time we had finished manoeuvring and raised and secured the dinghy on deck for what could prove a rough passage it was nearer 8 a.m. We now had that much less daylight and favourable tide. Was it still wise to go?

The first part of the passage, south to the shipping lanes went well enough. It was fast sailing, with a fine breeze abaft the beam, and waves up to at least 12ft high. By 11 a.m. we had crossed the lanes and could turn to run west, parallel to the islands. Past Wangerooge, towards Spiekeroog, Langeood, Baltrum and eventually Nordeney. Was that the remnants of the old church on Wangerooge we could just glimpse to our south? Davies decribed it as “most bizarre sight of all, a great church tower, standing actually in the water; a striking witness to the encroachment of the sea”.

Nordeney was approached in the late afternoon. We decided, on account of the large waves and the shallow approach channel, to press on and carry the now favourable tide as far as possible – maybe to the entrance of the Elb.

Darkness was beginning to fall as we finally remarked the buoy that stood at the entrance to the shortest fairly deep passage across the sands to the Elb channel west of Borkum. The waves were building. But the tide was just on the turn as we turned to cross the edge of the Borkumriff, expecting a least depth of 7 metres. We watched the depth change as Voltair charged at 8 knots across the narrow ridge of sand. On the GPS display, we could see the white shading on the chart that marked the deep water beyond the riff get ever closer. “We’ve made it,” thought Sykes to himself. And then, at the very last, a wave built up beneath our stern, Voltair surged forwards, surfing at impossible speed, and the wave broke beneath us hurling us at 12 knots down into the main channel through tumbling foam. There was surf all around – gushing over the afterdeck, under the canopy, unzipping the side panels and pouring into the cockpit from both sides; and solid green water with it - cascading onto the cockpit floor, bouncing off and under the stern cabin door; pouring into the main cabin and splashing up onto the side benches. All three of the crew were drenched from head to foot. But it happened just the once and the electric pump cleared the bilges quickly. And then we were in the main channel and could turn to the South East. Only another 12 miles to go.

But by now the tide in the main Elb channel was strongly ebbing; it built up to a steady 4 knots against us. With our sail still set to the stiff breeze and with Perkins for help we were making good progress through the water but only slowly over the land. Now it was truly dark and the lights of the buoys and the heavy shipping leaving the river needed to be distinguished clearly – especially as not every buoy was lit. Another two hours and we could turn out of the Elb and carve our way along the south side of Borkum into the once much used – but now almost deserted – commercial harbour. Tied up at midnight, we drank a dram or two in appreciation of our preservation – and vowed to take the next day off.

A nineteenth century grandeur graces the promenades and Strands of the Friesian islands. On their lee side great stretches of sand reach out to the troublesome sea, which in the morning seemed so far away. Winds sweep the sands so that those who would wish to enjoy the view and the sunshine sit in gaily coloured swinging seats sheltered on three sides by a wicker frame. Here there was Bockwurst and Bier in plenty and it was plentifully enjoyed by Voltair’s crew. Just across a narrow channel to the East lay the little island of Memmert. It was to this island, on a foggy day, that Davies had brought Carruthers by means of an extraordinary navigational feat, and it was here that he had succeeded in overhearing a conversation that gave him a clue to Dollman’s real purpose in the area. What he overheard was a reference to seven places – all ending in the word ‘siel’. If you wish to know more, dear reader, then study a chart or read the book.

The weather forecast continued to promise gales and near gales and so we therefore determined on the inland route to Harlingen in Holland – our final destination for 2009. So dawn the next day saw us eating our still warm ‘brotchen’ whilst motor sailing up the channel cut by the Elb through the sands that separate the islands from the mainland. But suddenly with a splutter, Perkins decided he had had enough. Without Perkins the inland route would be impossible. Slipping up the river against tide and wind we worked our way to a safe sandbank and anchored there under sail. Fault diagnosis eventually concluded that, since nothing had obviously failed and no filters were blocked, the new fuel line fitting, fabricated in May on the upper reaches of the Sweden’s Gota river had possibly worked loose and permitted air to enter the fuel system. The Chief Engineer was positioned on his stomach on the starboard side of the cockpit floor, torso dangling over the edge into the open port side, while being sat on by the Captain so as not to entirely slip into the bilge. Bleeding of the fuel pump was commenced, with the Second Engineer pumping the lift pump while the Chief fiddled with his nipples, attempting to get a bubble-free stream of fuel to emerge. Eventually, a red-faced, oil streaked and light-headed Chief asked to be pulled back from his bilging, retightened the rest of the nuts and, with trepidation and fingers crossed, tried the starter. After a small amount of cranking, Perkins burst into life and everyone sighed a huge sigh of relief! And so we entered Holland, but precious time had been lost and we needed to be the far side of Groningen by nightfall.

Now we were travelling above the land. Beneath us, in the surrounding fields, smart black riding horses exercised in tidy groups. Occasionally we would meet an enormous barge proceeding in a stately fashion filled to the gunnels with bulk cargo and once we passed an ancient dutch barge proceeding under rust red sails. With minutes to spare we cleared the bulk of Groningen’s bridges and locks, being stopped only by the very last in the far suburbs. The next day the canal system took us to the estuary behind Youtcamp, where the waters were wide enough to permit sailing once more.

The wind was still brisk, a possible force six, and this in combination with the calm waters permitted us to make good speed. Thus, when we hit the surprise sandbank lying well within but on the leeward side of the marked channel, we hit it good and hard. We soon had the kedge anchor away in the dinghy with a long warp and had high hopes of hauling ourselves off. Indeed, we hauled mightily on the anchor with a primary winch in low gear, and reduced the distance between anchor and boat. Unfortunately, it came towards us, but Voltair didn't move at all towards it! Try a bigger anchor, we thought, so we took the main anchor out too, placing it to windward, at 60 degrees to our head. In the absence of a convenient speedboat to heel the yacht, we slung Sykes, our heavyweight, out on the end of the boom in the bosuns chair. The boat heeled, and with all our efforts we were able to turn the boat a little, but the wind was constantly working against us pressing the boat more and more firmly onto the hard clay and sand mixture that formed the base of the estuary. Eventually we had to call out the lifeboat and ask for a tow. They came out, a crew of 6 in a 7m RIB, with surprising jollity and soon we had a couple of powerful young Dutchmen on board with heavy elastic hawsers. A one ton lifeboat towing an eight ton yacht? Kingsley was pessimistic! The lifeboat moved off and took up the strain, then it's stern dug deep as the twin 75 hp motors howled, the towrope stretched, Voltair shifted a bit and turned her head towards the wind, and reluctantly yielded to the taut cable. Once more we were free. The crew wouldn't accept payment, but we promised to put a bit extra into the RNLI tin the next time we had the chance. That evening we worked our way out of the estuary and on to a pleasant berth at Lunegat and a memorable meal.

But we had tickets to fly out of Schipol that gave a departure time only a day and a half away, and there were still several towns to get through. We pressed on through the narrow canals to Dongeradeel and by late afternoon of the ultimate day had reached the bridges of Leeuwarden. Now we had to change canal systems. We were ‘off the map’ and had to just pray that the bridges would remain open late enough to let us through. In the end they did and at 18:00 hrs on the last day, the strange reindeer and camels of Harlingen came into view.

That was where our journey ended, as it did for Davies and Carruthers who, having rescued the wonderful Miss Dollman from the clutches of her perfidious (english) father, took the ferry back to England and a fresh supply of cigars. Alas, the ferry had long since gone and for us there was a complex taxi, bus, train, plane and car journey home. The bus from Harlingen did not run that day, so we had to take the train with two changes. The booking office had been converted to a furniture warehouse and did not sell tickets. So (obviously) one had to buy tickets from the petrol station down the road. Kingsley achieved this without reference to our Bradshaw, so that we did not know where to change. No matter, the man in the railway carriage with us was in regular communication with Prince Charles over details concerning the future of world religion and was thus able to put us on the right lines.

So there you have it. 3000 nm and the world safe once more – but who got the girl you ask? Read the book!

Best wishes

Robin, John and Bob.