In the dark and imposing marina in Borkum, which most of our fellow sailors said was best avoided, Max announced that he and Mette would be leaving at six the following morning. That meant we would have to move to release them from the chained-together boat pack. We groaned a little but woke up at 5:15 am, shooting out of the marina by 6:10. Max and Mette were sailing on their boat Zeevonk to Cuxhaven, 11 hours further east. We watched them on our radar cooking along at six knots against the stiff easterly winds.
As we finally sharp-turned south around the shallows, hugging the island of Nordeney for the final miles of our sail into the island’s well-reputed marina mid-afternoon, we noticed that Zeevonk had turned around. They were now sailing towards us. The emergency channel on our radio lit up.
“Star Mist, Star Mist, this is Zeevonk!” The radio suddenly crackled. We looked at each other and grabbed the handheld.
“Zeevonk, Zeevonk, this is Star Mist. We hear you.” I stayed at the helm in the twisty channel in between sand banks as Gero took the VHF.
“Our engine has failed!” Max said. “Can you tow us into Norderney?”
“We will help you,” Gero radioed back. Soon, Max and Mette were close behind us. Gero used our docking lines to create a bridle at our stern. Max hurled a 100-foot line which Gero tied in.
“Forward, forward,” Max called out, instructing me to pick up speed so the two boats wouldn’t collide as as Gero reached over our wake and manufactured an instant knot to tie Zeevonk’s line to the bridle. We towed them for a while. Max asked if we could tie up side-by-side to enter the marina. I looked at Gero.
“Really?” I questioned. Tying together to dock in a quiet marina as we did the night before was reasonable — if not comfortable — but sailing parallel amid the waves and zig zags of this narrow channel seemed dangerous. I swallowed hard, knowing it was the right thing to do.
“I’ll bet Max has done this before,” Gero reassured. Mette and I stayed at our respective helms while Gero and Max, using multiple lines and sheer strength, manually hauled our boats together. With 10 fenders between us, they tied our bow and stern lines together. Somehow, this ungainly set-up allowed us to glide parallel for a half a mile.
“A little more speed!” Max called as the waves tossed the boats apart, then alarmingly together. We looked up. The biggest danger was the masts colliding, like a sword fight. If and when they crashed, our onward journey would be toast. As we carved the water in a sharp left to the entrance, the harbor master waved us in.
“Go to the working dock!” he called. As he saw our rickety platform from the road above us, a man dropped his bicycle to the ground before running to catch our lines and help maneuver our unsafe duo to the dock. Miraculously, Star Mist and Zeevonk arrived unharmed, unscathed, and, to our knowledge, unscratched. We went for a beer. A few hours later, Max said a clogged fuel line stopped their engine because the rough waters tossed Zeevonk’s fuel tank like a cocktail shaker.
“I can fix it in an hour!” Max proclaimed, smiling. Max and Mette decided to stay the night. We found smoked halibut and all crashed early. Just another day in the North Sea!
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