A romantic night sail begins...

I was actually looking forward to our night sail from beloved Fyn, the island in central Denmark where we celebrated our wedding, to the northern tip of the country, Skagen (pronounced skayn). We had fallen behind schedule due to our burnt-out autopilot and a dead bow thrust battery. This slowdown was not without rewards. We explored the beaches and beautiful towns of Fyn, tasted delicious Danish beers, and were spoiled with smoked fish, our favorite food, almost daily. Danish people like Jens, the Raymarine mechanic, treated us with kindness and caring. The Danes, you see, are at once responsible, and relaxed.

But as much as we love Fyn, it was time to sail north to new lands. We planned to make up for lost time by sailing 144 miles straight, covering the mileage of four days’ worth of one-day passages to one 25-hour trek that would position us to hop across the Kattegat to Sweden. Thursday morning, we popped out of bed under a bright sun tickled by soft breezes calling us into the open blue. The forecast was so mild, multiple weather models indicated that we might have to motor the entire stretch because the winds would be so light. (Oh goodie, I thought. Motoring overnight in peaceful conditions will be...relaxing!)

In fact, night sailing is often described exactly that way. ChatGPT says, “Night sailing offers a unique and captivating experience, transforming the familiar seascape into a realm of serene beauty and heightened senses. The darkness enhances the sounds of the sea, the feel of the wind, and the vastness of the sky, creating an atmosphere of tranquility and wonder.”

And this: 

Looking for the most unforgettable thing to do at night on Lake Como? Our exclusive night sail offers a magical way to explore the lake after sunset, away from the crowds, and closer to its quiet beauty. Step aboard one of our elegant sailing yachts, just as the light fades and the sky softens into hues of gold and rose. As the moon rises and the shoreline glows with village lights, you’ll sail into a world of peace and stillness, prosecco in hand, stars above.”

That’s how one website describes the concept for those looking for “the romantic side of Lake Como.” 

Anticipating this delightful, romantic experience, we prepared. Deviled eggs, delicious finger foods, plenty of TUC crackers to sooth our tummies, check. Lots of water and fruit to keep us hydrated, check. Tunes downloaded and our JBL speaker ready with a beautiful soundtrack for our journey, check. Every two hours we nibbled something delicious and slurped water. (Gero and I don’t drink alcohol while sailing.) Using our engine when necessary due to a breeze that could be described as a faint whisper, we slid quietly out of the marina and enjoyed smooth waters — a perfect day for sunbathing. The water was so glassy, I could read a book. Star Mist glided along as if on silk. Twelve hours after throwing off the bowlines, we passed tranquil Grenaa at about 9:00 pm, watching the sun start to set over mirror-smooth waters and grassy dunes. Gero observed a sailboat anchoring near shore. “Quite a beautiful night to anchor!” he enthused. 

The winds picked up to a gentle breeze on tiny, lapping waves. With full mainsail and genoa unfurled, we could sail at 5 knots with just 9 kt. winds. That’s what calm seas will give you: speed and comfortable sailing. “Gentleman’s sailing,” they call it. A favorable current gave us an extra half knot of speed, pushing from behind. Later, the breeze picked up to 10 or 11 kts. We sailed on a beam reach as the sun dipped below the dunes and the sky turned purple. 

We each took naps, planning our overnight watches — alternating approximately two hours at the helm to keep us both fresh. I snoozed just after 11:00 pm, setting my alarm for 1:00 am to relieve Gero. Just before my iPhone clock sprang to life, I heard the genoa sheets flapping as Gero brought in the sails and started the engine. Engine, I thought. Great! I whipped on my Helly Hansen waterproof sailing pants and parka, draping a life vest around my neck, buckled at the waist. Then I heard the sounds that make a rock drop into your stomach. “Scheisse!!”Gero swore. “Shooot!”  

“What’s the matter honey?” I asked, stumbling aft to the cockpit. “Scheisse! We’re not moving,” Gero said. 

“But the engine is running!” I said. 

“It’s running but we can’t go forward or backward! We’re drifting,” he said, staring at the controls.The throttle produced sound and fury, but didn’t move the boat an inch. The blow had picked up — pushing directly on our bow. 

Now we have wind??? I thought, shaking an imaginary fist at the weather gods. As Gero shone a spotlight behind me, I jumped down into the port-side locker, snapped open the hatch and viewed our beautiful Volvo engine. Everything looked perfect. We turned it off, turned it back on, revved it, but the boat didn’t budge. By now the waves were tossing us. Star Mist started wobbling like a rubber ducky. Our mast rocked back and forth, looking like a windshield wiper. What is plan B? we asked ourselves. The sky was black. We were miles and miles from anyone. We had no cell phone signal. On AIS, we saw a sailboat several hundred feet behind us. I grabbed the VHF handheld. “Sailing vessel MAJO, sailing vessel MAJO, this is sailing vessel Star Mist. Can you hear us??” No response. We repeated the call. “We are having engine trouble. Can you see us?? We do not have control of our vessel. Can you avoid us??” I tried not to sound panicked. Five minutes went by. Finally an answer, “Star Mist, this is Majo, I see you. I will avoid you. Thank you.” 

“Sailing vessel Majo, we are having engine trouble!” I squeaked.

“Can I help you?” the radio crackled.

I looked at Gero. Should we ask for help? “Where are you headed?” we queried Majo.

“To Aarhus.” Majo was sailing at 6.5 knots — six times our speed — many miles to Aarhus, way off our northward course.

“Do you have any crew on board who know about engines?” we asked in a Hail Mary attempt for clues.

“I’m sorry, I am not an engineer. Good luck with your engine. I wish you safe passage.” 

In the middle of the night, who would come to help us? There were no boats in sight. We were surrounded in ink-black sky and water, with a full moon peaking once in a while through lowering skies. We decided to wait until dawn and sail as slowly as we could toward Grenaa, a larger marina south, hoping to arrive after the sun rose when we could see — and, more importantly, when others could see us. Creeping along with the wind behind, using our genoa alone without the main, was safe, but uncomfortable as the waves kicked our boat this way and that. Gero looked exhausted.  

“Go to sleep, honey. Try to doze for an hour,” I urged. Gero was having trouble sleeping, naturally, due to the motion of the boat and our predicament. But he needed sleep. Gero reluctantly agreed and crawled down to our cabin to stretch out. 

Maybe we could sail into the marina at Grenaa and throw an anchor down, Gero suggested. Or maybe we could anchor in the shallow waters that had looked so calm hours earlier when we passed? Plan B, Plan C, Plan D. None of it sounded good, and even higher winds were forecast for the afternoon.  

I watched the plotter in night vision mode with colors of black for deep water, dark blue for shallows, and brown for land. Each minute felt like a half-hour. But at least, our autopilot was working, so it was easy to stay on course — retracing in reverse the exact route we had taken the last five hours. Arrrrgh. As if to scold us, the sea slapped us back and forth. The mast was knocked from side to side.

Bang! 

What was that??? Every sound was ominous. Gero stumbled out at at 3:00 am. The sky was already purple, not completely black. “Keep sleeping, honey,” I said. “We’re fine. We’re on course.” As we slowed to 2.5 kts, I unfurled more sail as Gero attempted another few minutes of shut-eye. I realize I could snooze in 15 minutes stints near the helm, wake up and check the sail, our speed and our course, look for surrounding traffic, and then fall back to sleep for another 14 minutes. Repeat. Never have I been so relieved to hear a distant snoring from our cabin below. At least Gero was getting a little rest. We had started this journey 19 hours earlier.

At 5:00 am Gero returned to the cockpit, scanning the shore. Having counted every minute, at 6:00 sharp I punched in the Grenaa Harbormaster’s number on Gero’s phone. Ring…. Ring…. ring.… No answer. Second try at 6:15. Ring….ring….no answer. No answer at 6:30. Finally, out of options as we drifted in the shallows near Grenaa Marina, we clutched the VHF Radio Channel 16 to make a last-ditch call for help.  “GRENAA MARINA, GRENAA MARINA, this is sailing vessel STAR MIST! WE HAVE LOST ENGINE CONTROL AND NEED ASSISTANCE!"

To be continued….