NAVIGATION A LA VOILE (en français)
MATTI A. JOKINEN
[5.11.2000]
SAILING
YACHT RACINGIt was in 1961 when I first became acquainted with a sailing boat. And rolling around in a small Optimist dinghy during an afternoon was an effective lesson in handling a sailing boat. Later on I came to know quite thoroughly this dinghy type.
Hard times in a Finn dinghyIn 1968 I bought a Finn dingy. Quite soon I decided to take part in a real race. As I am of humble weight, around 62 kg only, I had prepared a thick coat of wool, which gave me 15 kg extra weight when wet. There was a fresh wind blowing, 5 BF, but I thought I could handle it. I had read in a dinghy-racing book that unless you are prepared to lose ground you have to steer right on when gybing. Read and done, I gybed like that and turned around immediately. Righting the boat after this first capsize was not very difficult, even if the narrow toe list of the Finn dinghy does not favor the act at all. The wet coat remained on and the race continued. On the second round the gybe went exactly in the same way. I was steering right on and the capsize followed unavoidably. This time the righting of the boat was exhausting, and I let the wet coat slip away and disappear to the bottom of the bay. After the fifth capsize the boat turned turtle, the mast was pointing downwards. I was shaking from exhaustion, but after interminable fight the boat was in the right position again. But I did not manage to get into it. Then I felt a steady grip in my neck and a strong hand lifted me into the boat. It was a fellow competitor who had passed by and given a helping hand. The race was over for that day and I sailed quietly back towards the homeport.
Speeding with a 505It was a pleasure to sail the Finn when the wind strength was reasonable, but I found it wiser to stay in port when it blew force 4 or more. So the new 'modern' dinghy class 505, which we succeeded in introducing to our racing waters in 1968, was really a find. It is a two man boat, the skipper may be quite light if the crew has enough body weight. The boat is fast as wind and the spinnaker big. The Finn was sold to Yrjö, who is not any relative of mine in spite of the same name, but sort of a 'country cousin' as we state it. He was to be of inestimable help in the development of our data systems later on. In 1970 we were runner up in the Finnish 505 championship and were therefore able to take part in the World championship regatta, which was held in Plymouth, England. The wind was too strong to our capabilities, and my crew Antti K. was not especially weighty either. However, speaking eagerly English and French during the after race parties we could persuade the dominating persons of the international 505 hierarchy that we would be capable to organize the 1972 championship races in Finland.
The destruction of the Hanko CasinoOur team of 505 sailors had great parties after all races, but is nothing compared to what the international teams were able to do when given free hands. The World championship 1972 in Hanko was a success as a regatta. But the finishing day saw the international crews starting drinking already before the evening party. The white Hanko Casino was the site for the great finishing gala and prize giving. Unfortunately the proprietor was not on the level of the situation and had strengthened the service team only with some inexperienced young waitresses. So the two hundred or more guests had to wait for hours for their food and drinks. The Finnish team was sitting kindly in their table without having a single drink not to speak of any food during the whole evening, even if every one had the beforehand paid supper tickets in their pockets. But the Swedish and French lost their patience and having collected lots of alcohol in the veins they started making havoc. The old grey-headed officials and honorary members were carried on the shoulders around the restaurant. Then tables were cast off through windows. Little by little a great part of the furniture of the great parlor was destroyed. The proprietors panicked and called the police. But the police forces of the little city were too weak and the nearby army troops were alerted to help. At last the Casino was surrounded with tanks and so the peace returned to the badly damaged site of pride of the Hanko town.
End of dinghy racingNext year in the European championship in Copenhagen we had a good first race, but in the second got a bad attack of back pain and could not move away from the boat. The friendly Swedes helped me and drew on a trolley to the showers. Hot water and back massaging helped at last and I could walk again. But it meant a finish to my dinghy racing career and a difficult return home lying in the back part of my farmer car.
Offshore racingWe were a group of five men and had two weeks time to build a racing offshore boat. The empty hull, lead keel, mast and boom were ready in a shed on the Lidingö island of Stockholm. Sounds unbelievable but the 26 feet long Arabesque was ready in time for the annual Gotland Runt race. The boat behaved well but there was a fault in the bottom casting, and the boat was leaking. The obligatory liferaft did not arrive in time, so the constructor of the boat gave us an air mattress and an empty whisky bottle. The race inspector on the Sandham islands fumbled the packed 'liferaft' and felt a 'air bottle' to be inside and gave his admission sign. During the three-day race there were water sloshing inside the boat, and one man had to be 'in the pumps' almost permanently. This was the first time we represented our yacht club HSK (Helsingfors Segelklubb) and were seventh in our class, which is not much to boast about, but yet it was a beginning. In August in the Gulf of Finland race the wind started blowing heavily about 9 BF and continued so during two days. Only three of the small boats ventured to the open sea, where the lighthouses on the Finnish and on the other side of the sea on the Estonian coast had to be rounded. The second day one of these two sank and second was towed in the shelter of the islands. The crew was rescued to Russian tugs. We did not know that, as the radiotelephone was not a part of our equipment. As our only small foresail was torn we had to limp to cover inside the Porvoo archipelago. We spent the night in anchor. All clothes were wet, but I was lucky to have a spinnaker as a blanket. The third day was sunny and the wind had moderated. We sailed home the shortest way. Had we known that we were the only competitor left in our class, we could quite easily have rounded the last lighthouse to end the route and had thus received the winning trophy.
Tornado!In the next summer's race the first day began peacefully. At the late afternoon when returning to the north from the Estonian coast, a thick dark veil arrived behind us. The wind hit like a hammer, and we rolled over so that the mast top was under water. When the squall was over it was time to lessen sail in a hurry. The wind blew quite hardly afterwards. Later we saw a strange cloud formation appearing. It had its foot in the sea. 'Tornado!' shouted someone. When it hit we were all pressed to the deck as tightly as we ever could. Besides we were connected to the hull with safety belts. It did not last very long, but we felt it was an eternity. All battens flew away from the mainsail and all loose gear disappeared from the deck. But afterwards we found to be capable to continue racing. The incident had, however, shaken us considerably and as the night was beginning, we proceeded with too small sails. So the trophy we did not gain even this time.
Dinghy coachThe backache was almost ever-present trouble now, and I had to quit the offshore racing after just having started it. But it was possible to continue with the racing scene. Two of my sons, Petteri and Sami were daily sailing with their dinghies on a lake. The former had started at the age of 5 and the latter at 4. They had already taken part in some local races. It was a funny sight to see the optimist of Sami proceeding among the fleet, as nothing was to be seen ashore from the skipper. He was almost smaller than the side of the boat. When building an Optimist you are allowed some tolerances in the measurement. We planned better hulls, and a boat builder called Manner was ready to fulfill our wishes. I had also a good idea to make a mast from the aluminum. It proved much stiffer than the wooden spars everybody else was using. With these assets we took part in the official races on the south coast. It was a surprise when Pete won a big race in Otaniemi, even if he was one of the youngest of all.
Football against BrazilIn 1974 Pete won the Finnish Optimist championship in the junior class. He was so superior in it that he was invited to the Finnish team in the World championship, which took place on a lake of St.Moritz, Switzerland. I was the team leader. Everybody was quite inexperienced, so we did not expect much. Great was our joy when the team got the third price in team racing among 26 nations. Not everybody can boast of playing football against Brazil. In St.Moritz we lived in the famous Palace hotel and had a football tournament in its glass wall playhouse. The team-leaders were allowed to be goalkeepers, so that was also my task. We won the most matches, Brazil among others, as the black-haired youngsters looked the mouth open when our center Nina dribbled on the field with her blond curls streaming in the air.
Bronze medal in QuiberonIn 1976 Pete won the qualification races with the E-dinghy for the IYRU Youth championship, which was held in Quiberon on the Atlantic coast of France. I had again the possibility to be along as the team leader. Pete sailed well and ended up to the third place. At the same time we got news from Yugoslavia, where Sami had gained the fifth place in the Optimist World championship.
And silver in La BauleTwo years later we were on the French Atlantic coast in La Baule. This time with Sami and the Finnish Optimist team in the annual World championship. Peter was our favorite, as he had been unbeatable in all our races that year. However, the first start seemed to end fatally for him. He arrived as second to the finishing line, but mistook the flags and sailed past the marks. He understood his error and came directly towards the rubber dinghy I was sitting in, with a disappointment on his face. As it was forbidden to team leaders to discuss with the competitors, I turned away and waved with hand. Peter understood and returned and sailed between the finishing marks, may be as the 10th boat. In the evening in the meeting of the race committee I had great pains to assure the French officials, that Peter's way of sailing was a right one. I thanked myself for having learned the language of our hosts as Peter was at last granted the second position in that race. If a competitor crosses the finishing line extension outside the finishing gate and subsequently turns around and sails through the gate, the first crossing of the line is the true moment of arrival. Peter was finally second in the championship races with even points with the winner and Sami was sixth, if I remember correctly, good placements among 120 competitors.
CRUISINGSailing alone to GotlandIn the late seventies our yacht 'Arabeski' was still in good shape, even if it was not raced any more. Each summer I was cruising with it on the south coast of Finland. At the end of June in 1980 Arabeski was lying in the famous seaside resort Hanko. I was left alone as my comrades had to return to their activities at home. We had tried to sail to Gotland, but did not succeed. Sailing alone back to homeport was not a problem; I had done it several times before through the beautiful passages inside the shelter of the brown and green islands, which decorate the whole coastline from west to east. Very early in the morning of 30th of June I woke up and felt quite lonely in the ascetic cabin of the 26 feet long yacht. The weather was peaceful, but there were some wind blowing. A new idea was cooking slowly in my brains: how about sailing alone to the distant island of Gotland? We had sailed around it in the early offshore races, but I had never put my foot on it. All of a sudden I made up my mind and cast off the ropes. Getting out of the port was now easy as in the spring a small gasoline motor was installed in the boat. The EMI log showed 2444 nautical miles. Where the sea opens beside the island Russarö, I hoisted up the sails, mainsail and the big genoa and stopped the motor. The time was 0630, and after Russarö Arabeski was heading to 226°. A great joy was invading me: I was free as a bird and sailing towards the open sea. The second very important new equipment I had acquired was an Autohelm pilot that had also a wind vane connected to it. It was like a black sleeve with the shining rod coming out of it like an arm, which was fastened to peg on the upper side of the rudder stock. It moved forth and back with whiny voices getting impulses from the compass and trying to keep the boat in the proper course. In the aft pulpit there were a black vertical rod at the end of which was a lively red wing, the wind pilot. If it was connected to the system the boat was steered by the wind. The pilot steering the boat I had my hands free and could take care of the sails and the sea charts and all the small tasks the cruising on an open sea requires. In the late afternoon the wind was blowing steadily from the northeast with force four or five, and Arabeski made constant progress towards west-southwest. The coastline of Finland had disappeared, and around me was only the open sea. I was becoming hungry. Not being any kind of a cook I had in the boat some ready-made food packed in a tin foil. All I had to do was to heat water on the spirit stove and drop the package into it. On the cockpit seat was a small special device, a radar detector, which I had bought a couple of years earlier. This Marine Check was tried on the coastly waters outside Helsinki, but it was never useful in any way and other people just laughed at it. I kept it, however, along in the boat and now turned the current on and put it on the cockpit seat. At least it could not do any harm anyway. The wind blows more heavily now, but the autopilot seems to manage the situation. I had changed the headsail putting on a smaller jib. Arabeski swallows the waves nicely, and the log shows the speed to be 5 knots or even more. Then in the afternoon I was beginning to feel something in the stomach. Am I becoming seasick? The night came, I slept an hour or two, checked the situation onboard and slept again. The wind was steady, and the pilot was functioning perfectly. The wind-vane was like a bird, so I began to call it 'Waxwing'. When correcting the course the pilot arm made a voice like the seabirds do, so I named the device 'Jackdaw'. The boat had a good compass and log, and I tried to keep account of the right track to Gotland. The radar detector was silent all the time, and I did not see any ships. The next time the log shows a reading of 2540 and the clock is 0300. I begin to feel cramps in the stomach. At first light but then becoming severe. When the night is brightening to dawn they are almost unbearable, and I have to lie down, curled with convulsions. Then I hear some beeps of the radar detector. Well, as it has never functioned properly I let it be. But it continues to mew like a cat and at last I start crawling into the cockpit to take a look. As expected, nothing to see but dim, waves and distant waters. But ho! What is that dark shape before us? I look and look and slowly it becomes more clear and at last reminds of a ship. A cargo ship is coming and passing by, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. I open the rocket canister and take the red parachute rockets. The first does not ignite at all and I throw it away. The second flows to the skies with a red glare and descends slowly with dignity. The cargo ship steams on its way. I fire the third missile, but it does not catch fire. The fourth and last rocket is okay and also my last hope. When it goes out the ship is already far away. I am alone again. I creep back to the cabin, but can not get on the berth. Lying on the floorboards I think I was dying. But after a long time the pains ease little by little, and I can breath a little more freely. A radiotelephone and a better medical kit would have been precious facilities, but Arabeski was poorly equipped and I had not planned such cruises beforehand. I take bearings to the radio beacons, but the important Gotska Sandö is alwas silent. Until I find out, that its frequency is not the usual 299 but 395. What a joy to hear its clear signal. It really helps in giving the right direction to follow. I find out that counting the distance made good and the direction of the beacon, that we must be some 5 miles off the right track to the southwest. Anyway the Gotland island should soon be in the horizon! At 1400 in the afternoon of I sight land ahead of us. And Gotland it must be! I sail past the northern Salvorev reef, turn around to the west and later to the south and head for the Fårö sound, which offer the nearest shelter on these islands. 37 hours after my start and some 200 miles from Hanko I land in a small quiet port in the channel between Gotland and Fårö. It is 1900 o'clock and the log shows 2626 miles. We are in Gotland! I spend a peaceful night there recovering from the sickness and tiredness, sleeping freely without having to listen to the 'Jackdaw' and the black radar detector box and its miaows. The Fårö island, where Ingmar Bergman among others has his summer residence, is forbidden region for foreigners. On the Gotland side there is a small village, and I take a look at it walking through the quiet streets. Some youngster are skating there with the four-wheeled roll-skates, being a new fashion then. But the Gotland capital Visby is waiting and I prepare the boat for this ultimate leg in Gotland. You may stay in the Fårösund strait only for 72 hours, so say the law. The next day I wake up just after the noon. The night was not cold, but I burned some handfuls of wood charcoal in the small aluminun stove of Arabeski. After some important preparations we leave the friendly port at 1600. When coming out of the strait I see that there are no wind on the sea at all. So we continue using the small motor and follow the coastline of Gotland towards the distant Visby town. Visby on the high hills above the sea has kept watch over the western Baltic during a thousand years. The slopes start from the port and high up are the old, partly crumbling walls of the city. Behind the walls is the modern part of the town, but it is not interesting like the old center on the slopes. It was to become quite familiar to me during the next years. This time it is at 0200 when I drive into the large harbour after having been guided here with the bright light rows of the airport. Two alternating red blinking lights on both sides of the port mouth tell you where to drive in, 'var så god!'. There are a lot of boats in the harbour, but in the small fishers basin you may pick up your place where you like. As there is already a Finnish boat there, I drive to the side of the s/y 'Nova'. If the Fårösund was quiet and peaceful, Visby is a very lively tourist center. Its old walls of light brown rocks keep inside many attractive places to visit. I climb up outside the wall, where on the even plateau is the modern Visby. There I recall the young boys of Fårö and hire a pair of roll-skates for the first time of my life. It is more difficult than I have anticipated, and after a half hour my legs are dead tired.
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The distant island of Bornholm is in the horizon, but before long the gasoline finishes as a good part of the supply was thrown overboard near Visby town. I hoist the sails and wait for the wind to freshen up.
In the afternoon of 6th July I sail round the northern tip of Bornholm and into the small port of Hammerhavnen. It is quite full of boats. Once inside I shout and ask where the gasoline tank is. 'There is none', they reply from a Danish boat. I have to turn the boat and try to sail out beating towards the wind through the narrow entrance of the port. There are anglers on both sides with their rods, and I almost wipe them away from their hands as the turns must be done at the last moment, so narrow is the exit to the sea. Luckily Arabeski is a not a big boat, and it is thus possible to handle it alone.
On the steep and rocky coast of Bornholm the flights of birds are screaming. The sun is shining hotly but on the other hand the wind is breathing and cooling. Should I head to the South towards Rönne, the capital of the island --- no, better to continue to the West, where the Swedish coast is waiting.
The island found with trouble is slowly vanishing from the sight. We are heading to Southwest on the port tacks, making some 3 to 4 knots. The distance is not more than 20 NM, but before we are there the day is turning to evening. At 1900 I can distinguish land. I prepare a cup of pea soup, which is one of the standard portions in the pentry of Arabeski. Some yachts are sailing to the North with spinnakers flying and following the coastline. Surely they are going to Simrishamn harbour for the night. It would have been a suitable place also for me, but I do not know it yet. I am heading to Southwest, where the coast is turning to the West.
During the night I locate the blinking light of the small port of Kåseberga. I lower the genoa and in total darkness I wonder what to do. Driving to and fro outside the harbor walls I try to get a picture of the situation. The wind is starting to blow harder, so something should be done soon. Then there are lights to be seen on the open sea. Somebody is approaching the port. I follow its doings, and when the small motor vessel makes a turn around from the eastern side and then slowly drives in from there, I start to follow up its route. Soon Arabeski is in the mouth of the port, where the wave breaker takes away the wind almost totally. But we have still speed enough and I steer near the breaker, where a lonely figure is standing and looking. He offers help and takes the rope I throw him from the bow. Together we pull the boat beside other vessels and tie it up.
Beside us, on the starboard side there is a steel sloop called 'Antares' from Hamburg. As they see me coming the captain immediately asks me to a night meal into their spacious saloon, where a small party is gathering to drink some beer. Before I have had time to take a deep breath of relief, there is a plate full of sausages, mustard and bread in front of me, and a spacious glass of German beer beside. Only a quarter of an hour earlier I was alone on the dark sea wondering what to do and where to spend the rest of the night.
One member of the crew, who had already emptied more than one mug, began to scold me for sailing alone, emphasizing the dangers of such an action. He told us how many had lost their lives in lone voyages on the seas. I could not very well present the positive sides of singlehanded sailing, I was only in the middle of my first adventure of that kind. From the negative sides I could later read more in the Joachim Schult's book 'Mayday, Yachten in Seenot'. There are many stories of cases, when a drifting boat was found empty, steered only by a windpilot and even of cases, where nothing was found from the sailor nor from the boat.
Next morning I see Arabeski was lying in a very idyllic harbor, which lies some ten miles from Ystad to the East. There were only small boats inside, as the depth of the water was only about 2 meters.High up above the meadows is an historical find, which is specially interesting to a sailor: the grave of an viking chief in the form of a ship. It is made from rock benches, some 2 meters high, which from the outlines of a big ship. There are still 58 stones and the whole ship is 68 meters long. An imposing view opens from the place to the south, to the Southern Baltic Sea, where the vikings had started their tremendous voyages.
The quiet but friendly captain of port gives me gas. Half a day is spent pumping and sucking the pipes, until the fuel is running from the tank to the carburettor. In the evening I repair my boots by glueing the halfly detached sole back to its place and adding soft corners to the radar reflector, which are a threat to the sails.
My next destination was the South end of the Lolland island in Denmark, where there is the famous ferry harbor Gedser. Arabeski could not do it during the daylight, so we had again night sailing wainting. The Swedish Radio promised southeastern wind for tomorrow, which would be ok. So in the morning of 8th of July 1980 Arabeski was making a southwesterly course with a variable speed of 3 to 5 knots. I hoped to find after a 50 NM sailing the light ship 'Mön Se', because then I would know that we were on the proper track. After that I would steer towards the German Fehmarn or Danish Gedser, if necessary.
The wind was shifting back and forth by some 20 degrees, so I had to adjust the pilot from time to time. Genoa was partly hiding the sight to forward. It it only would have a window like in racing dinghies! Many times the words of the song 'the sailor was looking from behind the sail as the captain kissed the sailor's wife' came to my mind.
The air was hazy and for all certainty I got the Marine Check and put it on the bench of the cockpit, its 'tail' pointing behind the sail. Then at 1130 the black box made noise, and looking under the sail I saw the white 'Nikolaj Kopernik' from Swinoujscie, Poland. The name was painted broadly on the side of the ship.
At 1715 I got a signal from the 'Mön Se': directly from forward. The barometer was falling slowly. When the night came the wind was blowing already 18 knots and our speed a splended 6 knots. Then I could see the light of the 'Mön Se' on the starboard side. In the midnight we went already at 10 knots, and I changed the genoa to the jib. And then a furious thunderstorm broke out. The wind was blowing very hard, and rainwater was entering in an acute angle. There must have been strong forces in the tiller, but the 'Jackdaw' kept it with an iron grip. Then I saw lights in front of us and changed the course to the port. Could it be the coast of Lolland? No, the lights came from ships, and at last the sky was enlightened: there was 'Finnjet' on its trip to Finland!
From the rest of the night I have only very confused memories, I must have slept every now and then. When the morning came, and I was at last properly awake, the wind was weaker and the air very hazy. I could not see any land and was very uncertain about our position. So I decided to steer to the West, which was the right solution, as after a while the coast became forth from the fog and then the high tower with a giant radar turning in the top of it. I hoped it was Lolland and Denmark and was afraid it might even be Rügen and East Germany and the iron curtain.
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My 15 years old son Sami was taking part in a sailing regatta in the Netherlands. When returning home he could be persuaded to leave the other Finnish competitors and take a train to the southern part of Denmark, to the port of Rödby. It is on the opposite side of the large sound of Kiel. There I should meet him and thereafter we could sail together back home.
When the day came the wind was still blowing quite hard, but I had no choice. Sami would be in Rödby the next day, so I had to leave the great Olympic Marina early in the morning. But all went well, and I was in Rödby in time. We sailed together to Gotland and continued from there towards Finland. When we passed the big Estonian islands Hiiumaa and Saaremaa it was night and the wind had died some time ago. The tank was full of gasoline, so we could proceed with the help of the motor. I had left the mainsail up, as it helps keeping the boat from rolling and gives some extra speed even without any wind. It leads the airflow behind the mast without making turbulence and lessens the drag.
It was the summer of the year 1980, the year of the Moscow Olympic games. The Olympic sailing regatta was held in the Tallinn port Piritta.
I could see distant lights on the Hiiumaa Island and then a big aircraft flew over. I could se its two motors and the long nose. This type was once described in our newspapers; it was a Soviet U-boat searcher. Suddenly something fell to the water and exploded with a hard blast and bright light. Afterwards it burned on the surface of the sea and made the night light as a day. It was a light-bomb; they wanted to see who we were. Fortunately enough we had the mainsail on with its big nationality letters and serial numbers.
Sami was awakened and appeared in the galley door, perhaps a bit shaken. 'It is going away'; I tried to calm him down. But after a while I could again see its navigation lights, and then the second bomb exploded, this time alarmingly near our boat. The plane returned still twice, dropping its 'bombs', and then disappeared definitely to the east. If it wanted to signal us to keep more distance to the Soviet territory, after such a performance I was quite ready to change course to the north, even if I was sure that we were motoring inside the international sea zone.
We thought that it was time to change to a bigger boat. 'Annapurna' was a Finnfire 33, top-rigged sloop of 10 meters overall length and of 5 tons displacement. In the summer 1982 I wanted to make a long-distance sail with it, and my comrade Antti was ready to participate in the beginning part of the journey with his family. We could not leave before the Midsummer Day feast was over, but then we had to start immediately, as my comrade had only two weeks left of his summer leave.
The weather forecast promised hard winds, something like 15 m/s, and I suggested that we should wait. Antti was stubborn and insisted upon starting immediately. He had only two weeks available and I had the whole summer to use. So we left the small Finnholmen island behind us in the afternoon of the 28th of June. The wind was quite strong, some 10 m/s and freshening slowly. At 21.35 we passed Jurmo and headed for the open sea. I was ready to steer through the night, as I have always had difficulties sleeping in the beginning, and my comrade went to sleep with his family. At midnight the wind was blowing already 14 m/s from the east, and the waves were growing.
At 06.00 in the morning the wind shifted to the north and began to blow with great force. I shouted to my comrade, and he came onto the deck and crawled to lower the number 3 genoa we were using. The job was really difficult, as the wind threw water upon us with great force: the water drops came like bullets. When the wind was at its hardest the surface of the sea was flat, the wind had removed the waves totally. I wondered how Antti could manage with the sail, but at last he came back pulling the white package after him. We put the third reef in the mainsail, and Antti went back inside the boat to take care of his family.
Two hours later the anemometer needle was in the bottom (65 knots), and we had to lower the main, which was a hard task. The wind was coming from the northeast, and the waves were growing bigger and bigger.
At ten o'clock we were on the crest of a really big wave and began to descend with accelerating speed, as I felt water pouring over and the boat swaying to its port side. The slam of the water hit me towards the bottom of the cockpit, which after that was totally filled with water. I was falling out of the cockpit, as the boat began to right itself. I found myself throat deep in the water, as the outlets began to gurgle the water from the cockpit. The mast-top had been under the water, as the Windex indicator was badly bent. Inside the boat Antti's wife had flown against the galley table hurting her hand. The table was in many pieces on the floor. The kids, Tomi and Meri, were fortunately safely in the quarter berth, being very courageous in a swaying and slamming boat, even if otherwise not in a great shape.
Everybody was quite shaken. I started the motor, as we were doing only a couple of knots with the waves, and because the purr of the motor had a soothing effect on the crew and especially on the kids. We had a liferaft for 6 persons under the cockpit sole and a 'Call-Boy'-radio sender, which could be operated on the distress frequency of 2182 kHz. The hull of the yacht was a sound one with a convex flush-deck construction. There were only two small side windows and one large window in the ceiling of the galley. So we were proceeding in a reasonably safe boat.
Antti came to steer the boat, and I changed dry clothes on and ate some food Antti's wife Eeva had succeeded to prepare in the swinging galley. Then I tried to sleep for a while. Half an hour later I was abruptly awakened when the revolutions of the diesel engine rose to a high level, and the boat turned to the side. We had capsized again.
I could not sleep at all. The going was very rough. Later on the afternoon I returned to the cockpit. Antti went inside to take a rest, and I was steering again. Everywhere around us only high, white-crested waves were to seen. We were quite alone on the open Baltic Sea.
Then I recalled the book 'Cap Horn à la voile' by Bernard Moitissieur. He had been running before a storm by trailing long warps, but later on had cut them away and braked the speed of the boat on top of the waves with the rudder. When the next wave arrived, and we began to rise with it, I pulled the tiller towards me as hardly as I could. It did not come a bit, until we had passed the crest of the wave, when it gave in and came easily towards my stomach. At the same time the wave passed us, and we were left peacefully between the waves. In this way I could prevent the boat surfing down the wave, which had caused the wave breaking upon us.
From this moment on I felt we were definitely safe and could proceed with confidence towards the Gotland islands. I told the good news to Antti and his family and hoped they would believe me. We did not broach any more, and I began to inspect the white-crested horizon with eager. We had to find those islands.
It was late in the afternoon, when I suddenly saw a spar-buoy emerging from the water. I was quite sure it was the shallows called Kopparstenarna some ten miles north of the island Gotska Sandön. We had arrived too far north. The wind had abated, but the waves persisted. We rounded the area and headed to the south, where the nearest protective island was waiting. In the evening we dropped anchor near the southwest corner of the Gotska Sandön. The island is almost round and with a low coast offering only a modest protection towards the wind and waves, but we did not ask more and were soon in a deep sleep under the damp covers.
After some sweltering days in the marina of Cuxhaven Annapurna was sailing in a good northeastern breeze towards the west. It was the afternoon of the 13th of July. The sky was overcast, and when I was near the red light-vessel 'Elbe', I began to get a bit anxious. I was now alone and after this point it would be difficult to turn around. So I turned around, sheeted the sails on the opposite side and took a course to east-southeast. After a while I began to feel myself very lousy. Was this really the end point of my journey? Did I stand the many hardships encountered on the Baltic Sea in vain?
I turned the boat once more. This time I was sure: Annapurna shall sail to Holland. I chose the route on the northern side of the ship lines. There I could progress without a fear of meeting ships.
A day later I was approaching the coast of the Netherlands. I think I could see a distant line of land. But I also saw a dark menacing front of clouds. The thunderstorm hit like a whip, I let the Navik wind pilot steer the boat and went under cover of the dodger.
The storm was over. In a light breeze I continued towards southwest. In the evening I could see some lights in the distance. The wind died out, and I started the motor. I was very exhausted; I had not slept much in the previous night. I was not in a ship line and as I saw that there were only 9 meters of water, I decided to anchor.
I put the 12-kg Fisherman anchor in order and dropped it overboard from the stern. It hit the bottom and then there was a tremendous jerk in the rope, which I was keeping in my hands. It threw me against the side of the cockpit, and I had to let go. The rope ran like a devil, and the first thought that came into my mind was that a whale had taken the anchor in its mouth and was swimming away.
I took the rope and wound it round a winch and waited for the jerk to come. It almost tore the winch out, and then the boat seemed to go forward with a speed of several knots. I was in a strong tide stream.
The night went peacefully, and I had a good sleep even if my back began to give itself known. When I woke up the next morning there was no wind at all; the air was hazy as a remembrance of the yesterdays' storm. When I hoisted up the anchor there was not any stream, so the task was an easy one. At 4 o'clock p.m. Annapurna arrived in the port of Den Helder. I was in Holland now.
It is the 23rd of July as I motor through the narrow channel from the Newpoort marina to the open sea. The northerly wind makes it possible to sail westwards via the complicated inshore route towards France. In the afternoon the wind abates too much, and I start the motor, roll the genoa and lower the mainsail. Getting back to the cockpit I tumble somehow and then feel a nasty pain in the lower back. I sit on the cockpit seat, steer with the tiller and hope for the pain to end.
I dare not traverse the shallow Rade de Calais as I am not certain about the phase of the tide. I should descend to the galley navigation table, where all the tables are kept, but my back is so sore now and stiff too, that I can not move at all.
I hope the weather shall keep as it is and slowly round the Rade de Calais towards the port. I find myself very lucky as the wind had lessened and I can try to enter a port using the motor. On the other hand I am a bit frightened about how the things will clear out once inside the port with a heavy traffic.
Late afternoon I arrive at the entrance of the port, and the traffic lights turn to green. Inside the breakwaters there is an inside basin, where I could park the boat, but it may be entered only during the high water phase. Just before the basin there are buoys, where one could moor and wait for the gates to open. I drive near an English yacht and explain my nasty situation. One man jumps to the deck of Annapurna saying 'Now you have a crew' and fastens my boat to the buoy. Later on when the gates open he helps me to enter the basin and berth the boat inside.
Behind Annapurna is a big German motor boat. The owner notices that I do not move in the cockpit and comes to visit me. When the situation is clear to him, he asks his wife to bring some medicine. She arrives with a pill and beer cans. 'My husband has often back trouble, so I know what will help'. And really after an hour and a couple of beers I can move again.
The next day I sail to the harbor of Dover without any incidences. Once inside the port I feel the backache appearing again. I drive near an English yacht again and ask for help. Two men step on the deck of Annapurna and take the anchor out of the bow locker. For some reason they do not know this common type of anchor and throw it over board without putting the crossbar in its place. I notice the fact too late.
The English customs officials arrive and step onboard. When all the necessary papers are ready they ask if I have any liqueur on board. I show to them the nice store of whisky and cognac, which I had bought in Kiel by Herman Thiessen the same way the big ships buy their beverages when passing by. They ask me to put the bottles in a locker. I show them the locker under the quarter berth. The bottles are stored there and the lid is closed with a metal seal. Only later on I remember that there is another opening to that locker a little bit farther aft hidden under the mattress!
The officers tell me the folks in a German motor boat are anxious about my health. I see the familiar boat in the other end of the large port. 'They may not enter Dover because they have a dog on board', the officials explain. I ask them to send my best wishes to them, if they visit the Germans again.
In the middle of the night I wake up abruptly. Loud thumps may be heard from the hull. I crawl to the cockpit with difficulty. We are side by side with another boat. The young owner is already on the deck. 'Why do you not learn to anchor properly. Why do you come here, why don't you stay in your Scandinavia!' I crawl forward on the deck and with great pains try to pull up the anchor rode. At last the anchor is on board. I put the crossbar in its place and lower the anchor again.
The next night I wake up again, because there are the familiar thumps to be heard once more. This time it can not be my fault. Another English boat is side by side with Annapurna. 'I have 70 feet of chain', the embarrassed owner mutters. 'This place is quite deep, your chain must be almost vertical', I answer to him. We have great difficulties in clearing all tangled anchor rodes, as his system had taken along two other ropes.
The third day I hear from a near by boat, that it is possible to go to an inner basin called 'Wellington Dock'. When there is high tide I drive without hesitation to the named basin. The following night I shall be able to sleep in peace.
In the evening of 4th of July in 1983 we had a late party in Hanko. As the weather report was very promising I was ready to start a single-handed sail to Gotland the next day. After a very short sleep I was awake about 4 o'clock. It was a beautiful morning with no wind at all. For a change I decided to follow the Morgonland passage out to the open Gulf of Finland. I had never been there before, but it looked easy on the chart.
I was looking at the effects the sunrise made in the innumerable small rocky islets all around and on the calm surface of the quiet sea. The motor pushed the boat forward, and a tiller pilot took care of the steering. May be I took a very short nap now and then. At once I discovered I was kind of lost. The coast was already far behind, but the open sea had not yet begun. There were shoals around me, may be ahead too.
The only possibility was to lessen the speed to one or two knots and rig a rope between the gas handle and the stem of the boat. There I kept a sharp lookout at the front of the boat the rope ready in hand. If we were near shallow water I could rapidly pull on the backward gear.
At last the echo sounder revealed that we had reached the deep open sea. There were some northerly wind blowing softly, so I hoisted the sails and rigged the Navik wind-pilot. I had not seen a single ship during the morning. I took a course to West-Southwest and installed the radar detector on the cockpit seat. When only open, empty sea was to be seen on all sides, I decided to straighten the legs in the bunk on the lee side of the galley. There the waves were lulling me like in a cradle. Oh how I was tired.
Bum...bum... I was awake again. Someone was shooting with a gun! I wiped sleep from the eyes and crawled up to the cockpit. To my great astonishment and fright I could see a big grey warship quite near on the port side. It was its stem cannon that was shooting. Straight ahead may be a half of a mile from us there was land. I could see people moving on the coast.
Quickly as a lightning I started the motor and lowered the sails. I turned the boat to the northwest and put in the forward gear. I almost had eyes in the back and waiting for the noise of an approaching motor boat. I had almost run on the Soviet warship and the Soviet-Estonian coast. I knew they put intruders in a prison for three weeks and then send the boat back to Finland on the deck of a liner with a salty bill to be paid.
But all was quiet around. They did not shoot any more. I must have slept quite a while. And the wind had backed to the west. The loyal Navik had changed the course to the south. The Soviet warship had wakened me with the help of gunshots. I was not on their territorial waters; I was almost in their port of war! I shivered from fear and kept looking ahead.
Nobody followed me. When the coast disappeared and the ship too, I began to breathe more freely. I had been lucky. I had sailed in the middle of the naval maneuvers of the Warsaw pact in the year 1983, and they had let me go. Later on in Gotland I could read about it in the newspapers. A couple of years earlier I certainly could not have avoided an arrest and the role of a prisoner. May be the frontiers of the Soviet regime were softening already. Three years later Matias Rust would fly over the same area on his way to Moscow.
*
In the beginning of the summer 1984 the word congress of oftalmologists was organized in Helsinki. Antti had arranged some meetings in our yacht club HSK in Lauttasaari. As I had the Annapurna in good sailing condition it was announced to the participants that if they were interested in sailing they could do short trips with me outside the Helsinki waters. One doctor from Boston had the courage to make his first ever sail on a foggy day, when the visibility was very limited. We managed to spend a couple of hours in a light breeze without seeing practically nothing and hearing some big shiphs passing by. My crew was, however, very enthousiastic of our sail and later on I heard that he had bought himself a yacht and being an eager yachtsman ever since.
It was my intention to try a real long singlehanded sail during the summer, to Portugal and Mediterranian if possible. I had an agreement with a friend, Antero Järvinen, to sail together to Hanko. One of the oftalmologists, a Bulgarian Nicola Evtimov, expressed a wish to come with us as the congress was about to end and he had the possibility to stay there a couple of days more. We started at noon on a beautiful sunny day, and with the moderate wind blowing from the east promised an easy sail westwards. In the evening we had entered the Barö straits, where we found a quiet lagoon for the night. The next day was even better than the first: wind has freshended a bit, and the waves tossed our boat smoothly through the most beautiful archipelago one could ever hope for. The light brown rocks and woody islands passed by and as there were very few other boats around, we had this magic world all to ourselves.
In the evening we arrived to Hanko and made fast to the quay of the yach club. Of course we had to spend the late evening in the white wooden Hanko Casino. We listened to the good music, and Nicola offered us the best drinks the house could serve. In our table a young man started a sort of quarrel with me. He claimed I had made a pass to his girl, which may have been partly true. Nicola asked us about the situation and when we had explained it to him, he partly rose from his seat and said to the man to leave the table. Nicola looked a bit like a bulgarian wrestler with broad shoulders and thick neck, and the man left the table quickly without saying a word.
We slept alse this night in Annapurna, and the next morning my two comrades, Nicola and Antero left for the train in order to return to Helsinki by railway. But before he left, Nicola asked for the log book of the boat, wrote something to it and told me:"I have never spent such miraculous days as these two by sailing outside your magnificent coast and between the innumerable islands! If you manage to sail to the Mediterranian and land into a difficult situation, just ring to me to the telephone number I have written into the log book and Muammar will surely send a ship or a couple of Mirage fighter planes to help you!" I knew he was the personal doctor of the Emperor of Libya, Muammar Ghaddafi and lived in Tripoli.
This time I had slept thoroughly and started only at noon. The wind was still from the east; the barometric pressure was 1027 MB. During the night the wind turned and freshened, so I had to put a reef in the mainsail. As I was winching the sail, as a gust hit. The loose boom on its turn hit directly in my ear. It was quite a blow; I may have fainted for a while.
The left side of the head was in clotted blood. I was feeling bad and vomited. I had difficulties in walking, a disturbance of equilibrium. I do not recall how I managed to sail the next day and night. Yet the morning thereafter the boat was safely in the port of Visby. In the hospital they washed my head and cleaned the ear.
I recovered in three, four days. After a day's sail I made port in Borgholm, in the strait of Kalmar. Nearby was a bigger boat than Annapurna, called 'Opus Uusi Suomi', under the Finnish flag. As we were the sole Finnish yachts in the marina, I was invited onboard. The skipper was the Finnish-Swedish priest and philosopher Lennart Koskinen, on his way to the Spitzbergen. They had a sauna aboard, not so unusual in Finnish boats, but first time for me to experience.
The next day I finished the traverse of the Kalmar sound and crossed the open sea towards the Bornholm Island. During the night the easterly wind developed to a gale. I sailed only with the storm jib, and I was the plaything of the wind and the waves. It was a hard night.
Once in the German port Kiel I decided to visit again the ship-chandler Thiessen. When taking fuel, a tugboat passed by creating bad waves. They threatened to smash the side of Annapurna towards the quay, and I had to push it away as hard as I could. That night I felt it in my back. It meant the end to the journey to Portugal.
As my back was quite sore after ten days, I called my friend Antero, who was ready to arrive on the 'Finnjet'. Together we sailed nonstop from Kiel to Helsinki in 4 ½ days, with southwesterly winds all the time.
The next summer I started from Hanko on the 17th June at 11 o'clock with a northwesterly wind of 8 knots. Early the next morning the wind was 24 knots, and there was a thick fog. Annapurna progressed with great speed, and I could see nothing. The radar detector gave its warnings through the night, and I was very afraid. When I arrived in Visby at 19 o'clock, the air was clear with no wind at all. This was my fastest traverse to Gotland, only 32 hours. On the quay were two men awaiting. 'Congratulations, you won us with an hour!'. They had arrived an hour earlier with an Avance 33 'Illusion'. They had sighted me far behind on the sea after the departure from Hanko. And they had seen me in the distance during the whole trip.
