My problem was that my family was gone to the U.S.A. for a wedding leaving me alone on Mother of Perl. I had to get her a little more sea worth for the North Sea, and find a crew to get to England. And get her there. At least that was the plan.

I asked every boat that came to the marina if they had crew interested in going to England. I went to the big yacht harbor down river and tried to find a place to post a request. I asked at restaurants and bars. No luck.

Before they left, Gretchen, Thomas, Kristen, and Ben King had done a big provisioning shop, buying cases of food: milk, pasta, cooking, soap, plastic bags, juices, any non-perishables. I didn't have to do that. In fact I could show any potential crew member the provisions to assure them that we wouldn't go hungry. But even after a week, I still had no crew.

A Polish boat came in about midnight one night. I helped them tie up right in front of Mother of Perl and offered the ladies our showers and explained to the men that one of the showers in the harbor didn't really need a coin to operate. It was switch on all the time. In appreciation, the next morning they invited me to their boat for a very hearty breakfast and a lot of good laughter. A young woman on board spoke excellent English and worked as interpretur for us, so well that the jokes went both ways with a great feeling of comaradere.

A frequent visitor was one of the harbor police that had come for the boat papers when we first entered Hamburg. A young man whose hobby was ridding a unicycle. He joined me for dinner one evening and expressed his interest in sailing. He and a friend were rebuilding a small sailboat. Further conversations revealed that he had experience in the merchant marines and had traveled on tankers to all the oceans of the world. His name is Christof. He couldn't sail with me, but his friend Rolf was probably available as a crew member. I had not yet met Rolf.

The next day, Rolf stopped by the boat to meet me and check out Mother of Perl. He was in his late forties, worked part-time as a graphics computer specialist, and avid sailor, but mostly single-handed. He had sailed a small boat very far north, past the Arctic circle, along the Norwegean coast. He talked frequently of the beauty the Norwegian coast.

We hit off pretty well. I was eager to hear his sailing stories. With Christof, we talk of the plans to go to England. It seemed too late in the season to make it there directly by the North Sea. The more prudent path, though considerably longer, was to get as far south as possible using the canals of the Netherlands, a route that Tjeerd of Johanna Hendrika (see our adventures of the summer of 1999) had talk about. I quick call to Tjeerd gave us directions of how to do this passage with our mast up.

So the plan evolved that Rolf would sail with me at least to the Netherlands border and Christor would join me there. We would start in a day or two, head down the Elb and out to Helgoland, then back in to the German coastal town of Nordenay. The next stop would be Delfzhil, the entry to the Netherlands.

The night of the 3rd of September, we left Hamburg. Since it was after work for him, Christof joined us for the first hour and a half, after which we left him off on a dock, and then continued on to the little Elb harbor of Gluckstand, a somewhat frightening entry in the total dark with a strong current, but with no mishaps.

The next morning, we left with the outgoing tide and got down to the delta by the time the tide was turning. Rolf wanted to show me the delta islands that disappeared with high water, so we brought the boat in to very shallow just off of one of these sandy islands. The current was still quite strong, and I was hesitant to row the dinghy across the current, let alone leave the boat without anyone on it. So, Rolf rowed over, but I put out the long floating dock line trailing behind in case he needed something to grab onto. It helped. The current was stronger than he had anticipated.

Once back aboard, he pointed out that the downstream end of the island had no current. If we were to move the boat there, it would be much safer, a better anchorage, and I could join him ashore. So we hauled anchor and moved. We saw a small congregation of seals on the beach where we thought we would land, so we went on a little farther.

The island was beautiful in its pristine beauty of clean sand, seals, and seagulls. Avoiding the seals, we walk the perimeter as the island got smaller and smaller from the rising water. Tourist boats came by to look at the seals. They were a little surprised to see Mother of Perl and us. We enjoyed the mischif of what we were doing and hammed it up for the tourists.

Once back on board, we had a late lunch, and then it was time to leave again, with the outgoing tide. We headed on to Helgoland. It was 1820 and beginning to get dark.

Helgoland is an island with high red cliffs that lies off the west coast of Denmark but belongs to Germany (though has had a long British history as well). Unlike the ports of the Elb and the German coast of the North Sea, Helgoland has very little tidal currents (even though it does have significant, 3 meter, tide). No mater what the tide or state of the wind, it is easy to get into the the harbor at Helgoland because the harbor is between two islands and has two additional breakwaters. Helgoland's main source of revenue is derived from its unique tax status: It is tax free. Tourists flock there to buy liquor and perfume. Cruising boats go there for the tax free fuel.

It has one more feature that made our trip to it very simple: an extremely bright lighthouse. We were guided in by this light from twenty miles away. We arrived at 2300 hours, the inner harbor was quiet, but the sailboat dock was in very shallow water at the time, and crowded. We tied with long spring lines to the 5 meter high concrete walls of the inner harbor.

There were a few fishing boats near us and some sea and air rescue boats on the opposite corner of the harbor. Because of the high walls, we couldn't see anything while on the boat. We scrambled up a steel ladder to have a look around. Everything was closed, including the customs/boatyard office.

The next day was quite different. Before we were out of the cabin, the dock was full of activity. A ferry boat from the German mainland had delivered a few hundred shoppers, and the port official was trying to tell us we couldn't stay where we had tied up. Some big boats had the space reserved. So we moved over next to the Sea and Air Rescue boats. Tieing up was more difficult because there really wasn't anything on the wall other than the ladder. We ran even longer spring lines to lamp posts and railings on the top of the wall.

We had planned on taking a day off in Helgoland to explore the cliffs and the village. The village didn't have much to offer us other than some good restaurants. The grocery shopping was pitiful. But the cliffs and the walking paths up to and along them were well worth the visit.

That afternoon a fleet of traditional sailing ships, mostly from Holland and Germany, sailed in. The harbor was filled with old-time masts and rigging. What a sight. But there was bad weather headed our way as well. That night it howled. We suddenly began to appreciate the high walls. During the night, a Polish boat, a little larger than Mother of Perl, tied up agaist us. Then the next morning, a second Polish boat tied to them. There English and German were poor or non-existant, so the communication amounted to smiles and waves as they went across our deck to get to shore.

We had planned to leave that day, but the weather was so bad that we just spent the day in the harbor, on board. That afternoon, the wind decreased but only a few boats left. We decided to leave the next morning to insure a daylight landfall on the Freisian coastal town of Nordeney.

The next morning was glorious: blue sky and moderate winds. We motored our way out of inner harbor (which required the Polish boats to untie and stand off) and then the outer harbor, around between the main island and the sheltering island with the airport, to the fuel dock. We took advantage of the cheap, tax-free fuel and fully filled both 500 Liter tanks. As we motored back through the channel between the islands on our way to the open sea, I noticed that engine exhaust didn't sound right. Looking at the outlet on the port side, I could see that the exhaust was almost dry. The sea-water inlet valve was open, but the water filter wasn't getting any water, nor the engine for that matter. Apparently the through-hull was clogged.

We motored very slowly back in to the outer harbor, watching the engine temperature all the way. Once tied up, I was able to inspect the through hull by removing the top of the standpipe (which is above the waterline most of the time) by pushing a mop handle down it. Sure enough, there was something in the pipe, and it was soft. I made a hook out of some very heavy steel wire. Reaching down the pipe, I snagged the obstruction and was able to work it on out the top. A black plastic garbage bag.

We let go our lines and made our way out, once again. This time, the engine was happy.

Once away from the island only a mile, the seas became rough, maybe two meter seas, but with a short period and a cross sea. The result was unpleasant rolling. Rolf's response was to go below and lie down. Mine was to take the wheel and hold on. And hold on, I did. Every fourth or fifth wave would snap the boat hard from side to side. But the wind was good, and there was no reason not to hoist sail. It took half an hour for me to get the main and stays'l up by myself in those seas, but immediately the boat steadied. For four hours, we crashed on through the seas at between six and seven knots.

Rolf had been asleep most of the time. When Nodeney channel was visible, the seas were flatter, and he was able to stand and move about. When he appeared on deck, I offered him the wheel so that he could make the approach, and I could take a break.

The Freisian islands are little more than overgrown sand dunes. The water between them and the mainland is so shallow that much of it exposed at low tide, like the islands of the Elb delta.

As we approached the line of bouys that showed the channel, a line so straight that it looked like a aiirport runway, Rolf hugged the port side of the channel, the downwind side. i asked him to head up to the windward side. His response was to say that he could see the red line (port line) better than the more sparse green line. When I was more insistant, he merely held to his argument.

The problem with having dedicaated singlehanded sailors as crew is that, more often than not, they have little experience with taking directions (or orders) from someone else. Rolf is an excellent sailor and navigator (except for a weakness of seasickness). But he and I were disagreeing, and I was the owner and skipper of the boat.

To some people, it may appear that my expectation that my crew obey my requests is rather old fashioned and inflexible, but any skipper will tell you that there can be only one skipper (or captain) on a ship. The request of the skipper may be in error, but he is ultimately responsible no matter who does what. It is better that he be responsible for his own errors than someone elses. Secondarily, the command must be decisive. A prolonged discussion or argument more than likely will put boat and crew in danger more than a clear decision which might be changed when the error, if there is one is discovered.

On the other hand, I have felt that my crew have come onto Mother of Perl to sail her and not just be passengers. In this light, the man at the wheel (or on watch) is the man in control of the boat and should be given as much freedom to do as he or she wants with course and sails, within reason. I let Rolf continue on with his approach to Nordeney, and withheld my discussion of his choice of which side of the channel to sail.

The Nordeney yacht harbor is on the mainland side of the island. There are slips with piers on either side to which to tie. Previously, Mother of Perl had only been tied up with her side to a dock or a wall. This was the first time that I had brought her in to a slip. The first issue of this kind of docking is the width of the slip. Mother of Perl has a 15.5 feet beam. Coming between pilings that have less space between them would be like driving a wedge into a log. Not only would there likely be damage to both the boat and the pilings, it would be difficult to get unstuck. I was a little worried about this.

The second problem is that of tieing her off to the piers and the dock when the crew was only the two of us. The process ideally has two men in the stern passing a line around the pier on either side and then slowly letting out those lines as the boath inches forward to the dock under the guideance of the helmsman. A man on the bow jumps ashore or tosses a line to a dockman. Tension is put between the stern lines and the bowlines to hold the boat in place.

But there were only two of us and no dockman. To add a little excitement, the wind was directly on our stern, accelerating our approach rather than braking it. Nonetheless, Rolf deftly passed a line around one of the piers, moved to the bow, let down the gate in the pulpit and jump ashore to make the bow lines fast. I finished up by passing the second stern line around the pier on the other side by using a boathook. I short order, we were ashore, checked in to the marina, and taking hot showers in the best showering and toilet facilities that I have yet encountered in a marina.

Not only were the other marina services excellent in Nordeney, the restaurant was as well. We treated ourselves to a rich meal with wine and a fine desert. Relaxed, clean, and well fed, I thought I could bring up a discussion our differences of opinion about how to sail the entrance channel. It was a stalemate. Rolf insisted that he had taken the safer route, and I insisted that even though that may or may not have been the case, that he was expected to do as the skipper requested. I cut off the discussion in order to avoid the escalation to an argument. I ended it with "The orders of the captain are not to be argued with." Not the most tactful statement.

I have been weak as a manager. I work well with small teams that don't question my authority, but I have been an authority challenge myself. The difficulty arises from the fact that often the intelligent and innovative people, like Rolf, are often the people who are in conflict with their bosses. I suppose my management problems are quite common, but I would like to have better skills this way. In the three weeks at sea in our Atlantic crossing in November of this year, I had fewer problems that I had with Rolf. Maybe I am learning, but the tension between Rolf and me indicated that we would part ways as soon as convenient.. when we reached Holland. We were, however, able to put this discord away while we made the last few days of that passage.

After talking to the harbormaster and a few boats in the harbor, we realized that it was quite feasable to stay inside the islands while working our way to Delfzil, Holland. The passage had to be timed precisely with the tides because at low tide, the channel was actually closed by land. But, when the water was high, there were only a few places where we needed to be extra careful; the depth was two meters. We needed to leave an hour and a half before high water. The morning high water was too early, before dawn, so we had to wait for the afternoon highwater. While we waited, I explored the bussling resort town of Nordeney, had a big lunch at local bar, and walk the streets. We left the dock just after 1600 hours and entered the channel just before 1700 hours.

The channel is marked by "pricks," sapling trees stuck in the bottom of the channel on one side only. There was one, smaller, boat along with us in the channel. We saw no other boats coming the other way. It was only fifteen minutes along the channel that we went over the shallowest point. The depth guage showed 1.6 meters from the water line. (We are 1.7 meters, so the guage must have needed some calibration.) As night began, rain cut down the visibility, but we had achieved our goal: a small pond of water just off of the main channel. We set the anchor and waited for the tide to go out at about 1900 hours. We hoped to see the islands appear around us, but the clouds and rain made it difficult. Nonetheless, we had a quiet dinner and peaceful night.

When the light of day arrived, so had the high water. We brought up our anchor and wound our way through the shallows to Delfzil. By noon we were tied up outside the first canal lock in Holland where we met Christof and spent the afternoon in the town.

Cristof had driven a car. Rolf bundled up his things, and Christof moved aboard. That afternoon, Rolf left with the car to return to Hamburg.