My most beautiful mistakes

No one should have to be ashamed of their sailing mistakes. They are crucial for learning. Over the past few years, we’ve sailed more than 25,000 nautical miles. And, of course, we still make mistakes. Does that bother us? Not at all. It shapes us. This article is meant to encourage everyone taking their first steps on the water.

Bloody rookie mistake

I was just a kid, maybe eleven years old, when I first ran our family boat aground in Holland. My father had entrusted me with the tiller of our Neptune 22, and for some reason, I decided to tack around the buoy in front of me. The only problem was that it was a shallow water marker.

When our boat suddenly came to an abrupt halt, my mother’s sunglasses flew off her face into the water and my father stumbled from the cockpit into the companionway, cutting his knee on the mainsheet block. It was a “bloody” rookie mistake, literally. I still remember picking him up from the hospital hours later, sitting in a wheelchair with his leg bandaged. Since then, I have known shallow water buoys are not for tacking.

As a teenager, I spent every day on the water in a rowing boat, not a sailboat. As rowboats have significantly less draught than sailing boats, we were also quite successful and became German youth champions in the fours and eights several times. The road to success was grueling, including a ten-day training camp on Lake Baldeney in Essen during the Easter holidays.

One year, we had two sailors along—former rowers who had just bought a dinghy. But every day, they found excuses not to go out on the water: no wind, rain, too cold, or, like on this particular day, too much wind.

Ready about. Or is it a jibe?

In a fit of overconfidence, I wanted to prove that the strong wind was perfect for sailing. I grabbed a rowing buddy who had never sailed before, and off we went—on a beam reach. We had the lake to ourselves on this gray, cold March day. The first two tacks went well, but on the third, we capsized. The water was freezing.

I could still explain to my co-sailor that he should climb onto the centerboard while I paddled to the masthead to prevent the boat from capsizing. However, I had forgotten to tell him not to climb into the boat before I could serve as a counterweight.

As he tried to pull himself aboard the dinghy, it fully capsized, the mast pointing straight down. My friend managed to climb onto the hull of the dinghy, where he crouched and shivered until our trainers rescued us with the motorboat. However, he ended up catching pneumonia. I was “lucky.” During the capsize, I lost a shoe, which I tried to retrieve. Swimming kept me warm.

As it turns out, the others had suspected how our impromptu sailing trip would end and had recorded everything on video. It was only during the analysis that I realized why we capsized. In my excitement, I hadn’t tacked at all—I had only jibed. The lesson: pride comes before a (literal) fall.

Treacherous Maschsee

At 16, I embarked on earning a sailing license to wreak havoc on the Baltic Sea with friends. The theory was a breeze; I didn’t take the practical part seriously. My sailing school was in Celle, but the exam was in Hanover.

While the sailing students on the Maschsee were meticulously prepared for every maneuver, I zigzagged aimlessly across the lake. At the end of a frustrating day, I failed the practical exam. My lesson: preparation is everything!

Accidental jibe under the bridge

Instead of sailing with friends, I spent the summer – still without a license – sailing with my father. The trip almost ended shortly after it began, at the Lindaunis Bridge. Like many other boats, we circled on the Schlei under sail, waiting for the bridge to open.

When it finally did, I wanted to start the engine to proceed. But my old man refused. “Then we’d have to put up the motor cone,” he said, noting that the water police were cracking down on boats running engines without the required signal. Besides, he argued, we had plenty of wind.

With a Corsair on the Main, circa 2000 © Brambusch

As we sailed through the narrow channel in a convoy, oncoming traffic approached. The wind swirled under the bridge, causing us to execute a perfect accidental jibe at the narrowest point. The boat heeled over and picked up speed. I just barely managed to regain control without causing damage. But we were now sailing with the oncoming traffic back the way we came.

An hour later, we had the motor cone in place at the next bridge opening. What did I learn? The person holding the tiller should make the decisions.

Escape to Fynshav

A year later, still under 18 but now the proud owner of a sport boat license, I set out with friends to explore the Danish South Sea. However, we had to flee our safe harbor at Åbenrå in a rush despite strong winds.

Why? We didn’t feel safe—not because of the wind but due to the commotion caused by one friend’s impromptu overnight escapade.