Ahoy Denmark!
- Beth Solomon
- Jul 4
- 4 min read
July 3, 2025 — Two years ago, the last time we sailed from Fehmarn, Germany, to Bagenkop, Denmark, we got gobsmacked by weather that turned a four-hour sail into 10 hours. Poor Gero, the experienced sailor among us, was seasick in the entire time in nine-foot waves and a series of squalls that had me hanging onto the wheel for dear life. My feet would literally wash out from under me when waves hit, the boat heeled and I struggled to hang on and steer. At times our “speed” was just one knot — in other words, no speed at all. As the rain pelted us and wind whipped our chartered Bavaria this way and that, we got tossed and taunted like a rubber ducky in a raging sea.
This time, the sail was a relative cake walk. We undocked in Orth easily (no comments from the Besser Wisser next door) and sailed smoothly without touching the engine in 18-20 easterly winds. Small waves gave flavor to our gentle gallop, just enough for an interesting day. That said, docking in 20 mph wind is always a challenge. As we puttered toward Swedish-style delicate structures next to the dock, we kissed the boat next to us with our fenders and bumped the dalbs — Gero seemed discouraged. My performance was slightly better than in Orth — I lassoed a stern line line around the windward dalb after a few tries (drawing applause from the Danes parked in the next berth), and we slid into the slip without major fuss. Watching other boats attempt the same, with huge bangs and frustration, we realized what a good job Gero had done at the helm, and I can’t complain about myself. You just don’t know what you don’t know and there’s no set playbook for each docking. Bagenkop seemed much more charming to me this year than two years ago — it looked delicate and sweet, instead of raw and uncomfortable as it seemed two years ago. Whatever PTSD I had from our 10-hour nightmare in 2023 was easily washed away by an Odense Pilsner in the simple café on shore.
We chatted at the bar with Luise, a doctor from Hamburg, who sailed ahead of us from Orth with her husband Guido. But poor Guido was hit with nausea this time, throwing up several times during their half-day sail. Safely docked, he looked white as a sheet. At 73, Luise is a contract physician for the FAA, examining international pilots for fitness. Gero asked her about the 2015 fatal crash of Germanwings 9525, deliberately caused by its co-pilot, 27-year-old Andreas Lubitz. “Was he depressed?” Gero asked. The young, attractive Lubitz was “psychotic,” Luisa said, and kept changing doctors. Somehow he kept his medical records secret. Shortly after take-off from Barcelona to Düsseldorf, while the captain was out of the cockpit going to the bathroom, co-pilot Lubitz locked the cockpit door and set the plane flying downward until it crashed spectacularly into the French Alps. Everyone on board died in a ball of fire. After this incident, laws were changed. Nodding solemnly at the memory before regaining her smile, Luisa announced she would be making spaghetti for Guido, and climbed back on their elegant Najad 390, a Swedish craft.
The next morning we planned to sail to Svendborg, on the Danish island of Fyn, about 30 miles away. Our power cable was shorting every electric pedestal when we plugged it in. Just touching the prong to the outlet caused every circuit breaker to flip to “OFF.” As wonderful as our new lithium batteries are, they won’t last for more than a few days without recharging. So we needed to find a chandlery to sell us a new shore power cable. Winds were predicated to be somewhat heavier, but it turned out that the forecast erred again! The “small craft warning”-level gusts were so strong leaving the Bagenkopf marina that Gero raised the mainsail to two reefs as I kept Star Mist rotating in the harbor, so we didn’t have to face raising all that canvas in three-to-six-foot waves and screeching blasts of air. Heading into the surf was like riding a bucking bronco. We motor-sailed for two hours, only progressing at four knots per hour in 18-knot wind. Then the wind picked up to 20-25 mph. Suddenly, we smelled an electric burning odor coming from the stern and an alarm screamed out — “Drive stopped!” Our autopilot burned with loud alarms, and then went silent, leaving the smell of electric death behind it. Sh*t! I grabbed the wheel and plowed Star Mist through a series of narrow, windy canals past delicate Marstal, into the South Fyn Archipelago. The waves subsided slightly, blocked by the archipelago islands, but the winds kicked up to 28-29 mph, gusting above 30. Geez! I pulled the wheel port and starboard with every muscle I had to keep us on course in the giant slalom of red and green markers. Gero offered to take over, but I wanted to hang on as long as I could and didn’t want to risk getting seasick by sitting down. Neither of us ate or used the bathroom all day. I would call this passage “hairy.” Steering required full attention and every ounce of strength I could muster. Meanwhile, Gero did the even harder work of moving and managing our wind-battered sails.
When other boats raced toward us in the narrow zig-zags, my knuckles went white. Lucky, the strong wind kept most yachts safely ashore. Sailing for several hours in these conditions is like a survival test. I kept thinking, is this fun? No, it wasn’t fun. This is not weather we choose to sail in. And yet, when the blow reduced to 20 mph in wind shadow from a bridge, suddenly that windspeed felt light. Fourteen mph felt like no wind at all! Finally, we wound our way past the cute island of Thurø into Svendborg marina. Although the harbor was sheltered by a mix of quaint historic houses and old industrial buildings, a 14-mph blow at our bow faced us at the dock. Gero gracefully steered us into a slip. Our bodies wrecked with aching joints and scraped hands and fingers, we popped open Gravensteins and melted into a cockpit sunset with a sense of accomplishment. Exhale. Home sweet home!
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