The afternoon sunlight had that sharp clarity of spring in the Baltic; warm and golden, but with cold shadows in which the world felt suspended, undecided at winter’s retreat. Silently, we drifted out past the church spire, the lighthouse on the harbour mole, and the deserted basket-chairs on the white sand beach. The mirror flat water began to ruffle into the softest of carpets across which to glide, as the breeze tumbled over the town before steadying itself further out. With the wind gusting from 5 to 17 knots, and shifting several compass points at a time, our wake was that of a drunkard, though my eyes were glued to the telltales.
I was in Eckernförde, where Germany teeters on the edge of Scandinavia, to sail the new Saare 47,…