⛵️ See you at sea: North Sea, which is true to its name.

Hello!
It's me again, your sofa sailor Maya, and, as you have probably guessed, the next few minutes I will be telling you about our stay in the North Sea.

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It was autumn, we had just crawled out of Kiel Canal and were immediately refreshed by the North Sea.

It's like going outside on a gray autumn morning - the thin shell of warmth quickly leaves the body, and shoulders involuntarily cringe from a chill.

We were carefully bundling up in woolen scarves and crisp waterproof pants, turning the steering wheel with gorilla-like hands in snowboard gloves, and we were still freezing.

There is nothing more torturous than the moment when you are about to end your day steering shift, when you are cold and starving, and you smell dinner cooking from the insides of the ship. And you can't go there. No, you have to carefully scrutinize the environment, and patiently wait until someone from the new, already satiated shift, comes to change you. Damn it's hard!

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There were other biting moments as well. For example, when we put the staysail and quickly realized that bent nose of our horse was not able to withstand such a load.

In this regard, we decided to do our best to put it in place, so a couple of guys went to the very end of the bowsprit, and began to beat it with feet and a sledgehammer.

At the same time the sea was laughing at them, dipping them into the mass of cold water rising from below, forcing guys to grasp the railings as their rubberized feet flew up with every wave.

Chewed and soggy, they did what they could and we continued our difficult way to the south.

Another moment that, while not torturous, is sensory strange is when you’re sailing in the night, and the darkness is all around as the night is moonless and cloudy. You don't have lights, because you're not a fisherman; you are steering and feel how the wave is rising in this all-consuming darkness, rolling somewhere under your soles and heavily hooting returns you to the starting point.

You can't see the movement, you can't see its height, but you feel it all in your gut - and this rhythm already lives in you, ancient and clear, and you are able to steer the ship with your eyes closed, one-on-one with the liquid space.

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But sometimes this space contains a clump of matter, which we discovered one night.

It was an anchorage of large cargo ships, whose crews presumably were asleep; there was a feeling that the ships came here by themselves, obeying some herd instinct.
At the height of their overwhelming nine-floor sides we saw puddles of light here and there, snatching pieces of chillmere deck of a reigned silence.

We were a lonely autumn fly, crawling among the legion of drones, which seemed to have no end.

We found the end, although some distrust of the large containerships was still there.
And it was confirmed by another case.

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Again the night, the two of us on shift, we were slowly sailing, as on the open sea there is no sense to go on motor, moreover all the diesel had been expended in the Kiel channel.

Then we noticed the lights of the cargo ship, catching up on us from behind, even though we were aside the cargo waterway.
Well, we had nothing to do with this; moreover by the rules we had the right of way, so we kept going our course and watching.

In the meantime, we were approaching each other quite quickly, which was obviously causing a lot of anxiety.

We turned on all the lights, highlighted our sails in the hope that someone there would notice and turn.
Cargo ship was still going on us.
We rang the bell and honked - cargo ship was going on us.
We tried to turn the other way, but the wind was very weak, and the damn ship was coming closer and closer!
We were 15 meters from each other, empty engine wasn't starting, and then - only then - we were seen.

I still remember the wry face of the watchman who ran out of the cabin and saw us in front - even though our faces were pale and wry by animal fear as well.

He turned aside. We also somehow took away on our sails and were nervously glancing at his stern receding from us with the same cruising speed.

That's it. Yes, there is international maritime law, but when the autopilot steers - and on ships of this type usually it is - the unexpected can happen, huh. Do not trust a cargo ship!

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The night was replaced by the day, unusually sunny for the last weeks, and our boat was close to the coast of Holland.

Sea surface was rippling and sparkling, the whiteness of sails were blinding our eyes, and a plane was slowly circling in the sky.
One circle, the other ... the third, the fourth .... looks like he wanted something from us!

We switched on the radio - and yes - captain of an aircraft asked who we were and why we were entering this country.
Probably only a few people don't know what the Netherlands is famous for besides cheese and tulips, so the question was reasonable.

We said that we are the crew of the boat Rocinante going to your country for a couple of days to refuel everything we need and wait out the impending cyclone. Everything seemed to be accepted and understood.

We came closer, and now along with us a Coast Guard cutter was cruising along; that was already somewhat awkward.
But what could we do? We still had to enter the port.

And we went in.
Which immediately activated an aggressive police RIB, and it zipped towards us, bristling with cops and guns all around.

What did they wanted to tell us? I'll tell you in the next episode,
Stay on wave,
Bye!

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Big thanks to @anarcho-andrei who helped me with proofreading of my broken english text! If anybody wants your texts neatly corrected - write him a message in steemit.chat , don't hesitate :)

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Previous parts:

1 ⛵️See you at sea: beginning of the story
2 ⛵️See you at sea: story about big repair and winter hibernation in Tallinn
3 ⛵️See you at sea: mooring in Helsinki, custom-friendship and God's help
4 ⛵️See you at sea: ending of the season, or the beginning of autumn in the Baltic Sea
5 ⛵️ See you at sea: Copenhagen or a sheer misunderstanding
6 ⛵️ See you at sea: Kiel Canal, or the first awkward locking

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