Saved by the Danes!

We have been bouncing around for six hours overnight in the Kattegat, exhausted, sailing with our genoa and no engine in choppy waters. It turns out, this is the easy part. How will we get to land? Our engine isn’t moving our boat. The wind is pushing us away from the marina ahead. So, like the ancient Vikings, we are at the mercy of the elements. But we’re not Vikings. We have no oars. The Kattegat is known for its shifting sands, rocks, and currents. We could try to anchor in the shallows to rest, but the risk is that we would ram our boat into a sandbank, or worse — rocks. We need to get Star Mist into a marina, to find out what is wrong with our engine.

As we approach tiny Grenaa on the eastern tip of Denmark’s mainland, we phone the marina’s harbormaster starting at 6:00 am. We get no answer. We try again, and again. We are drifting dangerously into the shallows. Gero is at the helm, watching the depth and controlling our sails. Time is running out. Heavier winds will arrive this afternoon.

Finally I grab the VHF handheld and push the talk button. “GRENAA MARINA, GRENAA MARINA, this is sailing vessel Star Mist. We have lost engine control and need assistance!” 

A voice comes on the radio but we can’t understand the instruction. “We don’t understand. Could you repeat please?” I notice on our electronic chart that our boat is drifting into dark blue — very shallow seas.

Finally a woman’s voice crackles through the radio. 

"This is the Port of Grenaa. Please turn to Channel 4.” We spin the dial to that number, the Port Operations channel. I’m clutching the handheld so tightly, my fingers are white.

The port officer asks us to state our position and our call sign. I read the numbers on the plotter “56 North 49 531 longitude,  11 East zero 22 latitude. Call sign Mike Alpha Oscar X-ray Six!” The woman says she sees us on her radar and calmly announces that she will call Search and Rescue. These are the EMTs of the sea. “Danish SAR will call you,” she says, asking for our cell phone number. “You know you will have to pay them,” she says. Yes, we say. We are out of options.

Five minutes go by. Ten minutes. SAR hasn’t called. We realize we don’t have cell service!! As I punch the “talk” button on the handheld again, we squint into the mist as a tiny orange speck on the horizon grows bigger and races toward us through the dawn.

Popping up and down over the waves, the orange speck becomes a raft-like lifeboat roaring toward us. As it reaches our beam, three white-haired men in day-glow yellow and black body suits start gathering lines and shouting simple instructions. “We will tow you to shore!” they call out, “but first you need to steer into deeper water!”The men throw 2-inch thick blue lines to Gero and direct us to move our fenders lower in the water between our boats. We scurry over the deck, obeying their commands.

With giant tows fore and aft, their engines vrooming, the rescuers pull our boats together, directing us to adjust fenders and lines. The pilot sounds a huge horn as we pass sailboats along the coast. Once we enter the outer marina’s calm waters, one enthusiastic sailboat sits in the middle of the fairway, ready to launch. “HONNNNK!” The pilot shouts words we don’t understand. A bewildered German sailor stares at us, reversing his vessel in the small channel surrounded by rocky walls. 

This is one way to enter a marina. Obviously, not the preferred way! 

Gero has called the Harbormaster during the tow to alert him and ask if there is a place for us. “Don’t worry, it is all arranged. We are waiting for you,” assures the Danish harbor manager. Wearing a navy baseball cap with a long grey beard, he is standing on the dock as we approach. The rescue boat eases us against the dock and we tie up in mere seconds as observers step in to assist. The Harbormaster calmly greets us. “Welcome! You are here,” he nods warmly. Somehow, the sky has cleared to a bright blue. “You will do some paperwork from the Danish rescue,” he says. “Then, you rest. Later, come inside and we will talk.” The rescue workers are cheerful, in contrast to our heads hung low. We feel embarrassed, and worried. But the rescuers don’t ask us what happened. As we present our passports and fill out forms, these smiling fellows change the subject. “Did you know there is a big music festival in Grenaa this weekend? You have to go!!!” Exhaling, we are too tired to ask questions. They make us feel relieved. 

We walk glumly to the harbormaster’s office. “Sorry we called you so many times this morning,” we apologize. We tell our story starting the night before. To our surprise, the harbormaster is unequivocal: “You absolutely did the right thing by calling SAR,” he says. We report our idea of dropping an anchor once in the harbor. He shakes his head. “No, that would have been much worse. You did the right thing,” he repeats, nodding. The harbormaster encourages us to relax and not worry about paying our harbor dues. 

The sun is strong and a nice breeze soothes us. We wander over to the marina café. A friendly Moroccan greets us in French from behind the counter and whips up tasty latte macchiatos. Presiding over the sound of a gleaming espresso machine steaming milk, Mahdi El Maditi, owner of Café Venezia, asks about the rescue. 

“Ah!” he exclaims, shaking his head. “But why do you feel bad? You are here! Something much worse could have happened. You are here on a beautiful day. You are healthy, you are safe. There is a reason for this!” Mahdi assures us. The next moment, the busy cafe owner re-appears with a tray bearing steaming cinnamon rolls. “These are compliments of the house!” He declares. “Enjoy!”

Mist gathers in my eyes as Mahdi’s kindness lifts our spirits.

As we pad slowly back to Star Mist, Gero says, “Maybe we can find someone with a Go Pro camera to look under our boat.” Hmmm, I think. In this small marina? But sure enough, we spy a man with thick grey hair, wearing a flannel shirt and holding an unlit cigarette, talking with his friend a few boats down. “Excuse me,” Gero says. “By any chance do you know someone with a Go Pro? We just arrived.” 

“Oh yes, we saw you arrive. What is wrong?” the friendly fellow holding a Marlboro butt asks, blue eyes shining into ours. “I have a friend who is a diver. I’ll call him.” He stares down at his scratched iPhone and punches in a number, walking a few steps away.

After a few words we don’t understand, the gentlemen paces back to us. “My friend the diver will be here this afternoon. I don’t know what time,” he shrugs. “He has to put his equipment together. But he will be here. Maybe 4:00 or 5:00?”

We thank our new friend. I walk to a grocery store 20-minutes inland while Gero patiently waits for the diver. When I return, I see an old man stripping off a wet suit and dripping diving mask. 

“What happened??” I ask, as I see Gero in the distance on our deck. 

“Ahh! It’s simple,” the diver says. “You have no propeller!”

No propeller? How could that be? 

The diver gets on the phone with the local mechanics. “Yes, they have some propellers that might work. Daniel is the mechanic. I couldn’t reach him, but I called his father Viggo. Viggo knows how to do it. They will help you. They will get you fixed up. Do not worry.” 

Perplexed but relieved, we press a fistful of Euros and US dollars in to Richard’s hand, plus a bottle of wine from our wedding, a delicious Grauer Bergunder. If our propeller fell off in the middle of the Kattegat, at least this emergency episode wasn’t our fault.

Meanwhile, other sailors dock near us and tell us tales of adventure and, of course, mishaps at sea. Their comraderie lifts our chins a little higher. Ask an apricot sun dips toward the horizon, we watch a group of boys diving gleefully into the marina's waters, ignoring the chill. Mahdi was right. We will enjoy this beatuiful summer evening, too.