Nordhavn, Copenhagen.
- Beth Solomon
- Sep 8, 2024
- 5 min read
We could end this adventure with a sail into the sunset amid tender, lapping waves, a dulcet Burt Bachrach tune serenading in the background.
That’s part of the story, dear readers — the innocent beginning of what would be a 25-hour, 100-mile white-knuckle bronco ride through a pitch-black night of angry swell and ripping winds with unpredicted 30-knot gusts! Really?
The passage started as chill as it gets — 80 degrees in relaxed Bua, Sweden. We tossed off the dock lines and purred into the Kattegat — the strait that connects the Baltic Sea and the North Sea between Denmark and the land of ABBA and Volvo. Sunset at 8:30 was a shiny red jelly candy dipping behind the horizon line. Cue the soft jazz. And then, a warning — 20 minutes of stiffer breezes. To be prudent, we reefed the mainsail twice, shrinking it to the least amount of canvas possible just in case things should get rougher after dark. Gero took the first watch, 8 to 10. While I tried to sleep, Star Mist was heeling more sharply, and the wind started to whistle in the rigging. By the time my watch started at 10, the sky was pitch black. You couldn’t see anything ahead. You couldn’t see the bow without a headlamp. You couldn’t see the waves hitting the boat a few feet away! When we planned this overnight passage, complete blindness hadn’t been on my radar. “The stars are beautiful,” Gero smiled. “OMG!” I wanted to scream. My stomach was a tight knot. What if the autopilot failed? What if the GPS failed? What if we hit something? When you’re a newby alone in the cockpit of 11 tons of fiberglass, metal and canvas screaming through rough winds in the pitch-black, the what-ifs keep coming. Gero blinked his eyes open a few minutes before midnight after a fitful doze to take the helm, and I crawled into the deck salon to try to sleep during his watch. “Shoot!” I heard him growl from the cockpit. Oh, no, I thought. The last thing you want to hear from the helm! I crawled outside as Star Missed tossed, gripping hard on every available handrail. “Two cargo ships are on a collision course towards us,” Gero said. They’re not changing their direction. They’ll sandwich us if one of them doesn’t alter its course. We have 16 minutes.” The ships’ pilots hadn’t answered his calls on the radio. Stay calm, I commanded myself. Technically, vessels under engine are supposed to give away to sailing boats, which are basically road kill waiting to happen on the high seas. But the reality of the ocean, especially late at night, is that these massive ships, often traveling at three times a sailboat’s speed, are the behemoths that call the shots. If you are a tiny vessel, even with every light on and your white sails glowing like beacons in the dark, you want to — no, survival demands that you — move out of the way. If you can. In the shipping channels, which are impossible to avoid, piloting a sailboat is like crossing a four-lane highway on foot — diagonally! I picked up the VHF and called to the first tanker (carrying hazmats, the AIS said) twice. “Tanker Fram, Tanker Fram, this is Sailing Vessel Star Mist,” I radioed, trying to sound in control. We waited for seconds that felt like hours. No answer. Then I called to the cargo ship. We had been told that a woman’s voice is more likely to be answered on these male-dominated airwaves. In the required protocol, I gave our compass course and speed, “Do you see us, over?” I pleaded. After a pause, a response: static. “Cargo Ship ECO WESER, we couldn’t hear you. Could you repeat?” Again, the response was static. At least someone was answering. Then, the blinking AIS light signaled that the ship’s course was pivoting a few precious degrees. With only 10 minutes left, disaster was avoided. ECO WESER’s 200,000 tons would roar past us with 180 meters to spare. Whew!
At 2 am, it was my watch again. We were sailing with a pie-slice of genoa, but Star Mist was groaning as she galloped forward. I glued my eyes to the plotter and held on. “If we lose the autopilot or anything happens,” I thought, “at least I will know and can wake up Gero.” That was the best I could do for a comforting thought. At about 3:30, the winds lightened. “At last,” I exhaled. “The rough stuff is over and the next 10 hours will be easier.” I turned over the watch gero at 4 am and fell into a blackout sleep in the master cabin, the lowest point in the center of the boat, the most stable place on Star Mist. Knocked out, I was blissfully unaware as the winds returned to a howl. When I emerged at 6:00 for my sunrise watch, even Gero looked chastened.
He had furled in the entire genoa except for a tiny tongue for stability. As the sun rose, the winds got even stronger. As we approached Copenhagen, the width of the sea between land was narrowing. I thought, “Brilliant!” But by the time we were entering the channel to the Danish capital 24 hours after we had set sail, the winds were punching at 23 to 25 knots, gusting to stronger blasts. We had called the harbor master of a large marina in town. “Sure,” he said, “you’re welcome, it’s first come first serve. But you should know there is construction here.” As we reached the final stretch into a thimble-wide channel into the marina, the entrance said, “DO NOT ENTER!!” A construction site of cement pilings and iron fences presented an obstacle course of hazards. “Do not enter” signs were plastered everywhere. Just then, a tiny skiff with two twenty somethings in bathing suits motored by. “Can we enter here?” we called a few times. “NO! NO! DON’T GO THERE!!” they waved their arms frantically. We had almost entered an area where we surely would have run around. The bikini-clad sunbathers pointed us to another channel. Thank you!!
Exhausted, we prowled into a tiny space in the marina, out of breath, congratulating ourselves for a smooth docking. While the berth, too narrow and filled with crawling vines and debris, was not perfect, it was perfect for us at that moment. More than 25 hours after our start, we stumbled off Star Mist into the very cute neighborhood of Nordhavn next to the marina. Ordering large beers that seemed tiny compared to what we desired, we nonetheless felt rewarded and thankful to taste the delicious potions on terra firma. It wouldn’t be long before we collapsed for the night. Ahhhhhh, Copenhagen at last!🇩🇰❤️🥂🍾❤️
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