Kiel Canal and Helgoland, Germany

We are trapped at Helgoland, Germany! Of and on, the rain pours down--plunk and splatter--on the deck. In the last six hours, 1 inch has fallen. We stayed down below this morning, and I am still here. When the the volume of precipitation decreased recently, Peter and Rob left the boat separately, Rob to explore and Peter to find a hardware store. A bit of rain is predicted tomorrow, but it is not rain that keeps us from sailing on, with only 4 days, including today, left on our visas. The wind is 20 knots from the west right now, our direction of travel. By 6:00 p.m. the sustained wind is predicted for 30, with gusts to 45 knots, continuing for the 24 hour period the next day. In the early hours of Sunday, September 6, it will begin to decrease steadily and be blowing from the northwest, finally allowing us to continue our journey toward England. By then, the wind will be lighter and backing throughout the day from NW to south. We probably need to make a run for it then, as the trip across the North Sea is more than two days (Yes, I am dreading it!) and the wind is expected to increase again after Tuesday. Fortunately, the wind seems to be more benign the closer we get to the east coast of England during this time frame, so perhaps our anxiety about the weather will prove to be unwarranted. 

Our transit through the Kiel Canal on Wednesday, September 2, was uneventful. We cast off the dock in Holtenau at 7 a.m. and were through the lock, along with several other sail boats and one container ship, by 7:30. Eight and a half hours later, at 4 p.m., we rafted up by a Dutch sail boat in the holding area for the Brunsbüttel Lock. We were in the lock at 5:20 with other sailboats and one tug. The water level rose 1.6 meters, the seaward gate opened and we were in the large mouth of the Elbe River. 

The 61-mile trip through the Kiel Canal was uneventful. Since autopilot is not allowed, someone had to be at the wheel at all times, so we took one and a half hour shifts. Passing through the flat Schleswig-Holstein region of northern Germany at close to 6 knots, we swept pass wooded areas, silos, various industrial sites and a few villages and cities with port facilities. Occasionally, we saw bevies of a dozen our more mute swans. An average of 90 cargo ships per day use the Kiel Canal. Several passed on in either direction, towering over us. The smallest load I counted was 250 containers. 

Our boat by the container ship in the Holtenau lock of the Kiel Canal

A bevy of mute swans

Container ship in the canal

It was calm in the canal, of course, but the waves and wind picked up as we motored down the Elbe and into the North Sea. We knew that adverse weather was coming and had to make a decision for a port to hole up for three days. Peter did not want to deal with currents when we start our next leg, so we chose the island of Helgoland, which the two of us visited in June. We recalled that after a two day stay, we had agreed that we had seen all there was to see there, so this destination did not really offer new areas of exploration for us.

In high wind, rain and rough seas, we sailed across the Bight of Germany to the island, avoiding shoals and navigating in the dark to the harbor, which was tricky to enter. I stayed below until we reached the outer harbor. The repeated ka-thump of the bow dropping back into the water after every wave raised her up did not facilitate sleep nor even rest, but I least I was warm and dry down below during the crossing. (We are so lucky to have Rob on board!) On this dark and stormy night, with 20 knots of wind from the southwest, we managed to find a spot at the head of the long dock on the southeast side of Helgoland. Rob and Peter had a cup of tea with biscuits, but I went directly to bed.

We all slept in the next morning and then found ways to amuse ourselves, including a game of Take 5. When the rain stopped in mid-afternoon, we left Mantra to walk around the island. In the heart of Untedland, we briefly visited a quite small natural history museum packed with specimens of sea birds and their eggs as well as marine life. All the information was is German, so we had to draw our own conclusions. (There is no signage and no menus in any language other than German anywhere on the island since, as far as we can tell, only Germans come here on holiday.) Then we stopped at a bagel shop just before 4 p.m. (closing time) and enjoyed sandwiches on fresh bagels. Then we set off for Uberland and the cliffs on the west side of the island. The town of 1,200 year-round residents is divided by a near-vertical 50 meter (164 foot) cliff between the area at sea level and the plateau of the higher ground. The plateau is reached either by elevator (at a small price) or flights of steps. We chose to walk as it is not a great difference in elevation and the stairways zig-zag up the slope. When we reached Uberland, we came across a small male singing group performing in front of a couple dozen people seated in front of a duty-free shop where they were enjoying the music and flights of whisky for 40 euros each.

Musical entertainment for whisky loving tourists

As soon as we arrived on the open cliff tops, we were literally almost blown away by the strong wind which sometime pushed us backwards or sideways. However, despite the breeze, it was warm. Admiring the steep red sandstone cliffs at the base of which are sea walls all along the coast, we made it to the northwest part of the small island where seabirds nest, the 2.7 acre nature reserve Lummenfelsen. Over 400 bird species have been recorded on this isolated island. Peter and I had been here on these cliffs three months ago, on June 5, and observed the guillemots and northern gannets (the largest sea birds in the North Atlantic) clinging to the sides of the cliffs and nesting on the exposed tops. By early June, the guillemots, which arrive in mid-April and nest on the cliff faces, have produced their young and by the middle of the month all of the hatchlings, not yet able to fly, leap off the cliffs into the sea, where their parents wait for them. Now, the guillemots are gone. However, to our elation, the adult northern gannets are till present--along with their young.

The gannets have a longer breeding season, and the young are practically the size of the adults before they can soar and fly. When we were here in June, the parents--over 700 breeding pairs--were sitting on the closely placed mound nests, having started the nesting process in late March or April using seaweed, plants, earth and debris from the sea, largely collected by the males. Only one egg per pair is laid, although a replacement egg may be produced if one is lost. Now, the eggs have hatched, having been incubated for 42 to 46 days. 

The adults are stunning in form and color. They have white plumage with black to dark-brown wingtips. The head and neck are tinged buff-yellow, a hue which becomes more pronounced in breeding season. Fine black lines separate the parts of the head, including the mandible, forehead and throat. The beaks are a very light shade of blue. The fascinating eyes are surrounded by black bare skin and have a cobalt outer ring and a light gray-blue iris. The four toes of the feet are joined by a dark gray to dark brown. Distinct lines that are greenish-yellow in males and blue in females run along the tops of the toes. The wings of the northern gannet are long and narrow and are positioned towards the front of the body, allowing efficient use of air currents. 

Adult caring for its baby who is still losing its down

Details of a northern gannet's head

Throat view

Male adult with is baby

Soaring northern gannets

Closely spaced nests

In contrast to the sleek whiteness of the adults, the plumage of the young is dark-brown to slate-gray with fluffy tufts of down; their beaks are black and their feet are a muddy brown color. Born featherless, they grow a thick, wooly layer of white down within the first two weeks. This is gradually replaced by darker plumage flecked with triangular-shaped spots, one at the end of each feather. When we saw them yesterday, the juveniles were in various stages of losing their fluffy feathers. The adults feed the young until they are ready to launch into flight and go to the sea, 84 to 97 days after hatching. 

It was a thrill to watch the adults hanging almost motionless close to the cliff, almost effortlessly, it seemed, holding their place in the high winds. As in June, it was with reluctance that I left the cliffs to continue on our walk. We passed over to the lee side of the island and walked down a long stairway to North Beach, where the sand is dotted with red rocks and bricks and seaweed lines the shoreline where sandpipers hunt for food until disturbed by our presence, taking to the air in undulating flight low over the water. We walked along the east side of the island to return to the dock. Along the way, our sense of smell was entranced by the sweet fragrance of wildflowers, including common tansy and rock samphire.

Guillemot at North Beach

North Beach on Helgoland

Common tansy by the waterfront

Rock samphire 

Yesterday evening, we had dinner at a restaurant called Pizza or Pasta Brun, which was quite good. Peter and Rob enjoyed large bottles of German beer. On the way back to our boat, we made a slight detour in the harbor area to see His Danish Majesty's Yacht, the Dannebrog. We had seen her anchored in Copenhagen. Talking to a couple crew members on watch, we learned that she was on her way to Belgium when a detour was necessitated by the funeral of King Harald of Norway in Oslo, scheduled to take place on September 9. She is a gorgeous vessel, painted cream white and golden-yellow with a clipper bow and an elliptical stern. She was commissioned in 1932 by Queen Alexandrine.

The Dannebrog

A few hours have passed since I began this post. Rob and Peter returned and we had a healthy lunch of salad. Now the wind is howling at 30 mph from the west with gusts to 37, and the rain continues. The boat is swaying with the choppy waves in the harbor and the force of the wind, the fenders creaking against the dock.