Enkhuizen brought the clarity I needed. I was mulling over this for a few days. Weeks of delay, and it is mid-June and I am still in the Netherlands. Ten weeks to sail to the south-west of England, up the west coast towards Scotland, through the Hebrides on to the Shetlands, and off to Norway and then back in the Baltic before the September gales? Perhaps it would be possible, but if so, only in pure delivery mode.
Were it early May now – a different game. But as things stand it would be just pressing on. No time to simply be somewhere. That's fun for a while. But ten weeks at a stretch: I'd be knackered halfway through.
Letting go of the ambitious plan – in hindsight too ambitious a plan – wasn’t easy. Now that it’s done, though, it feels good. Out of the overwhelm, into the enjoyment. An alternative plan is already taking shape in my head. Its first steps: a few more days unwinding on the sandy beaches off Vlieland, and then it’s back east for now. A step back into the Baltic, after a good time in the Netherlands and on the North Sea.
So: Harlingen again. Probably the most curious day’s sailing I’ve had this year. In the morning I’d timed my departure from Enkhuizen so as to get through Kornwerderzand – the lock out to the North Sea – at high water, then push an hour against the current and slip on through the Wadden Sea to Vlieland, using the Vlieland tidal stream.
Five Beaufort blowing on the beams made leaving the berth a bit more technical than usual. Once clear of the harbour, Koraki first pitched into the steep IJsselmeer chop; as soon as both sails were up (first reef), and away we went, doing constantly about 6.5 knots. Good stuff. Lovely sailing. Always moving, these moments, when the wind’s up and there’s nothing but water all around. Me aboard Koraki, all six tonnes of her drawing briskly through the water.
Aside from the treacherous lobster-pots, which lurk in the IJsselmeer too, nothing much else of note.
I reach Kornwerderzand a little earlier than expected and find myself puzzled by the great number of masts. The true scale of it only dawns on me once I’ve rounded the dyke: a jam at the lock. Stop and go. Like the metered queueing at a road tunnel. Tie up, cast off again with the next surge, tie up a little further forward. Five times we play this game before I, too, can get into the lock. Three and a half hours in the queue. I hadn’t known such a thing existed. Some lose their nerve; others keep their humour. Forget the usual harbour cinema. This was lock cinema, at its finest. Human, all too human. Only now do I learn that the lock closes from tomorrow for a week, for repairs. That’s why everyone still wants out to the North Sea.
After three and a half hours of waiting, though, it’s also clear that I’ll no longer catch the tide towards Vlieland. Today it will be Harlingen. There, in the Noorderhaven, I raft up alongside and run into a few faces from the queue. My boat-neighbour, sailing with his son loves sailing in England as well. And it’s good to talk about sailing in England – even if it’s clear that England isn’t going to happen this year.