A Summer in the Baltic
Nicholas Hill
Lithuania and Latvia
| Page 1: Introduction | Page 2: Lithuania and Latvia | Page 3: Westward Ho! |
I left on a rather hazy morning, with little or no wind. I doubt the wind got above F2 all the way, which made for a tedious twenty four hours of motoring. The port lies on the eastern Baltic. The river ?? flows out, and behind the shoreline to the south lie the ??. There is a snag when approaching early in the morning: the rising sun makes it very difficult to make out details of the approach. However, the advice is to steer almost due east from the fairway buoy, and this was good advice. The best landmarks are the new oil storage tanks on the port side, all new and gleaming in their cylindrical industrial efficiency. Entry later in the day would probably be easier.
The breakwaters have obviously been renewed recently [EU money?] and so the entrance is slightly different from that shown in the pilot books. It is still very obvious. So far I had been punctilious about radioing in ['Harbour control, this is British yacht Prospero, Prospero], which in this case brought just a cheerful 'Okay'. You then have to find Immigration and Customs. Those familiar with Douglas Adam's work may recall his description of trying to find the local planning office. Finding Customs in Klaipeda is much the same. It can be found. First, you have to know which basin you are looking for, then you turn into it from the main river. The quayside here is filled with a variety of vessels: a local SAR boat, large Russian trawlers that look as though they have been left to rust quietly to death, ferries, various indeterminate ships [you get the picture]. You want Pier 41. I have read that there are signs to this in the river. There may well be. My eyesight is still quite good, although perhaps my attention span is dwindling ... [Note: there is a notice – not an obvious notice, but a notice. I discovered it later]. Certainly, without the Cruising Association guide, I'd have been totally lost.
Anyway, having turned off the river into this large basin, you have to turn to port and keep turning, then continue down what is a nautical cul de sac, which in my case was also a downwind cul de sac ...
Eventually you arrive at Pier 41. Well, it's not a pier. A bit of quayside, really, with a pontoon. At one end, large derelict Russian trawlers loom over you – and when I say 'loom', I really do mean 'loom'... At the other end is a houseboat. There is a notice saying Customs and Immigration – I could read it quite easily with my binoculars as I approached. The chap on the houseboat spoke no English, but told me to: “Wait. Car.” Well, it was a bicycle, actually. Chap was quite friendly, and I filled in the usual poorly photocopied A4 sheet ['Was I carrying arms or ammunition?'], before he sent me on my way.
There are two marinas or yacht clubs – one marina was in the town, and looked a little awkward of access (and I later discovered used rather cramped, stern buoy mooring), or there was a yacht club just across the river; I'd spotted it earlier. I motored over for a recce. Most of the moorings were of the Baltic bows on, with two stern ropes to posts. Not keen on that. Not a lot of room on the quay in the main basin either. I decided to look in the other basin Lots of room there – and a concrete wall, at least a hundred metres long, all to myself.
As concrete walls go, it wasn't bad. Been on worse. But facilities? Water? Electric? Er – no.
The quayside at Klaipeda. The port is a little ... industrial - although perhaps this photograph isn't quite representative.
After having the engine on incessantly for twenty four hours, and being lacking in sleep, the first thing I did on tying up (after a stiff drink or two) was to crash out. I might have expected some peace, but after an hour or so, I heard something crashing against the boat.
The basin was about two hundred metres by one hundred, and virtually empty. However, Prospero had acted like a magnet for a small girl in an Optimist. Worse, she was pinned against the stern of the boat by the breeze, and I had to grab the boom to manoeuvre her free.
After that, I tried to get a bit more sleep, but without a great deal of success. Time to look at the city then.
The next thing I needed was local money. Where I was, there were no shops: the city centre was on the other side. There were ferries across, so I walked down to one. Snag is, of course, that you need local money to buy a ticket to go other the other side to find a cash machine to get local money to buy a ticket ...
English? I asked at the kiosk. No. But the chap in charge of herding people on and off spoke some. I said I had zloties, euros, pounds, a Visa card – but no Litals. How had I got on that side in the first place? he asked suspiciously. Boat, I told him. He then pointed to a sign for a cash machine. Aha. No need to cross then. I looked at the sign more closely. Cash machine 1800m. Ah, well, just over a mile. Nothing really. So along I walked. Reached the other end. Searched. No cash machine. Searched again. Still no machine. Walked back, fed up, spoke to the young man at the ferry again, and he let me on. Just as well, really. Temper was getting short by then.
I did say to him that 'I needed to get to the other side of the river to get some money.' 'Not river,' he said. 'Oh? What was it?' 'Sea.' I wasn't going to argue either the semantics or the English usage. But I would not describe it as a sea.
On the other side, I managed to find that elusive cash machine, but not a shop that would sell bread, milk etc. I returned empty handed and foot sore.
The next day I decided to approach the town from the other ferry, about half a kilometre in the other direction. I walked along the path by the sea wall where locals hang out fishing. Their idea of litter collecting would not, I'm afraid, have met Scandinavian standards. Once on the other side, I walked along a wasteland of used car dealers and the like (the word for a car dealer seems to be 'daly', which might amuse those who have seen 'Minder' on television). Eventually I reached the town again, and was back where I had been the previous day, and still not a grocery shop to be found. Eventually I asked a young man where I might find one, and in reasonable English, he pointed me the right way.
I had found the old heart of the town. Cobbled streets and no concrete. Well, not much, anyway. And I found a small supermarket! Prices here were absurdly cheap by UK standards: I bought milk, a carton of orange, a couple of pastries, nuts, cheese, and half a litre of vodka. Total bill was less than 40 Litu, or &#pound;8. You'd pay that for the vodka alone in the UK. Marlboro cigarettes were less than &#pound;1 a packet, compared with &#pound;5+ in the UK. But what wages were, I'd no idea.
Well, enough of Klaipeda, I thought. Off up north. Leipaja in Latvia next stop.
The trip up the coast – just over 40 miles – was uneventful enough. There was a light westerly wind – not enough to sail, except for a spell of about half an hour or so, so the engine was on. When about 5 miles away, it seemed to be very misty ahead, and I remembered the low fog in Klaipeda the night before. But this suddenly cleared to leave a blue cloudless sky, and excellent visibility. A brisk NNW wind sprung up, which made my waypoint dead to windward. I could switch the engine off, and sailed hard on the wind, which was now about F4. It was then I discovered that the sink in the heads flooded nicely on starboard tack.
After a couple of tacks I found myself heading nicely towards the southerly entrance of the outer breakwater. The port did not seem very prepossessing from here, and once inside, and in relative shelter, I turned round to take the main down, as the channel to the yacht quay was dead downwind. The pilot books caution you strongly to keep to the main channel, and indeed, there seemed to be a wreck of a fishing boat, its upper works just visible, near the breakwater wall. There was a large gravel mound by the turn into the main canal, and also stacks of cut pinewood. The resinous smell of wood hit you strongly as you came downwind of it.
Then, for the first time, you could see that Liepaja was indeed an important port. In the river were tankers, scores of semiderelict trawlers, and two or three minesweepers. After seeing all the warnings on the charts as to former mined areas, I wasn't surprised. Following the river, which runs in almost a straight line, after a mile or so a bridge loomed up, and, to starboard, I saw the yacht quay. An elderly gentleman was waiting for me, and helped take a line, then insisted on moving me down along the quay right up to the next boat. Although annoying at the time, the space would be needed when another boat came along a little later. Indeed, by the end of the evening, the quay would be full.
All the ex-communist ports have these watchtowers, which were no doubt manned day and night in the Cold War days. Still, they make useful landmarks these days. Spot one of these from the sea and you known there's a harbour.
The town itself was another surprise when I went for a walk the next afternoon. Clearly, the Latvians like their gadgets, judging by the number of shops selling them. And unlike any of the former Communist bloc towns I'd seen so far, this one hadn't been too badly bashed about. True, it had more than its fair share of concrete, but it also had buildings dating back more than half a century, built in a relatively dignified style, and the whole town had an organic feel to it: it had grown and developed into its present form rather than being rebuilt from scratch. And, despite the cheapness of the place compared with Britain, it seemed almost as prosperous. (A half hour or so in an Internet cafe cost 0.52Lats, or around 50p! My groceries were 12Lats, or &#pound;12.)
Pavilosta is the next town up the coast, and not that far, being about twenty odd miles. Again there was little or no wind, and it was motoring all the way. The breakwaters came into sight after rounding the headland at Amersrags, with its big red lighthouse. The entrance is narrow, but with no tides, there isn't the usual Channel worry about cross currents. I radioed in before entering, and this was perhaps a mistake. 'Pavilosta Marina' answered, rather to my surprise. The pilot books talk only of a small quay. But on the other side was a new quay, with smart signs, and someone waiting for me. Since he'd made the effort to meet me, I thought I'd better go there, and tied up alongside.
There are big plans to make a proper marina there, complete with all the facilities: bar, hotel, etc. Personally, I am a little sceptical about the whole scheme, for a variety of reasons. For a start, the harbour is completely exposed to the west, with no land for a hundred miles or more. Even with a wavebreak around the marina, I wouldn't like to be in there in a blow. Secondly, they may get more yachts on passage in the short summer season, but the number of locals who can afford a yacht would, I think, be few and far between. Further, it doesn't offer much in the way of cruising area. You can go down to Liepaja. You can go up to Ventspils. And that's about it. But then, it's being funded by EU money, as so many marina developments are in this part of the world. And I suspect that the funding agency has insisted on every facility you can imagine. It will be top of the range – with no one there. But I would like to be proved wrong.
But it was convenient enough, except that it was the wrong side of the river for the town. The amiable gentleman in charge did run me over the next morning in a RIB, so I could do some shopping, but I would have preferred to have been on the town side. As far as I was concerned, there was little in it: both had showers and electricity, and I suspect the town quay would have been cheaper. As it was, I was charged 8Lats (&#pound;8) a day at the 'marina'.
I stayed two nights, and whilst I was there, fitted the NASA Clipper GPS repeater in the cockpit: a real boon. It is very basic, and does exactly what I want. It gives track and speed over the course, plus bearing and distance to the next waypoint. This is what I want from a GPS: lat and long are useful for marking a position on a chart, but for general sailing, track, speed, bearing and distance from waypoint are what I need. And the NASA provides it. It doesn't do much else: it does give lat and long as well, but that's all. But that's what I want from a cockpit repeater – the fancy stuff is on the Garmin down below, but it's rare that I need much more.
I left Pavilosta for Ventspils early in the morning: just over thirty miles. I resolved to sail it if I could. The wind was very light to begin with, so I was making only 2 or 3 knots. Behind me I could see a sea mist making its way up the coast, and soon got caught up in it. There was some breeze with it, though, so I was able to make 6+ knots from time to time. Eventually I sailed clear, and the wind dropped and headed me. I sailed for the next few hours with the boatspeed dropping from 3 knots to 2 knots, and when it fell to 1.5, I turned the motor on for the last five miles.
Ventspils from the sea is like all the other ports along this coast: big cylindrical oil storage tanks, lots of cranes, and a large artificial breakwater stretching out from the port. Entering was easy enough, and I headed down to the yacht basin. The entrance to the basin was not obvious, and it was surrounded by a lot of crumbling concrete. The Eastern bloc do seem have achieved a concrete mix that crumbles very effectively. Inside the basin is not only the yacht club, but the fishing dock complete with processing plant. The place stank of fish, reeked of fish (reach for thesaurus), and so did the boat after a few minutes. It was like being drenched in cod liver oil.
Tying up is by means of stern buoys – there is no quayside available – and this was my first time of trying this. I could see boats with lines disappearing into the water, and wondered whether they were using stern anchors. But there were some unoccupied buoys with a ring in the top, and with some trepidation, I edged up and fed a line through the ring, bringing the other end back on board. Gingerly I moved forward, and fortunately the club manager had seen me, and came down to the quayside. I had a moment of panic when the buoy disappeared: it had been dragged underwater, but this was apparently normal [that's why I couldn't see the others!]. My longest line turned out not to be long enough – I had to tie an extra length to it whilst still groping towards the jetty. It was also difficult to judge my distance from the quay: this is where a crew would have been very useful. I ended up throwing a line to a slightly surprised manager, who passed it round a bollard and back to me. The same with a line the other side. Now my bow roller was bumping the wooden quay, and I had to go back to adjust the line at the stern. Finally I was complete, and tied up. Then I had to talk to the manager, and try to explain that I didn't have a crew list, and I didn't have a home port.
Ventspils was not inspiring. The berth was 100 metres from the fish processing plant. The wind was in the wrong direction. It wouldn't be true to say that the boat smelt of fish. It stank, it reeked [reaches for thesaurus again]. The environs seemed fuller of crumbling concrete than usual. Fortunately there was a store just outside the dock gates, where I could stock up on the basics. It was quite a long walk, along some wide roads rather like a boulevard in character, before you reach the town centre.
I was faced with a decision: did I go on, as I had intended, to the Estonian islands, or did I start to head back? It would be a long haul round the top of Riga Bay. One of the most offputting factors was the thought of having to retrace my steps through Ventspils and the rest. Enough was enough. Perhaps I had have had the courage of my convictions, and pressed on, but instead I decided I'd seen enough of Latvia – and even so, I still had to go back down the coast again.
I was able to refuel at Ventspils. The lady in charge of the fuelling berth spoke only Latvian or Russian, but when I went across and asked her, she seemed to get the idea, and said, yes, I could refuel there. The operation was a little hazardous, since the fenders on the dock were designed for fishing boats rather than yachts. They resembled the erasures often found on the end of pencils, except that the rubber had been blown up into cylinders a metre across. I tied up gingerly but successfully, and was able to fill the tanks. I could then shake the salt – and concrete - of Ventspils from my shoes.
There was some wind, so I was able to motorsail south reasonably briskly. I bypassed Pavilosta and went straight to Liepaja, arriving just in time for the evening thunderstorm. Apparently there had been sea mist earlier, but I had had a clear run. Port Radio directed me in through the 'southern gate' when I radioed in, and I made my wet way down to the quayside, which was quite full, just squeezing into the one space left.
It blew quite hard from the east from the next few days; hard enough to discourage me from leaving. But I had come to quite like Liepaja. There was a very cheap internet cafe nearby, and the hypermarket across the road, not much more than a hundred metres away, made our local Waitrose look like a corner shop. The quayside was pleasant enough.
It took some days for the winds to ease, and I set off one morning, having cleared out with the Border Guards, at the same time as a Polish boat. Being about fifty foot long, and with a spinnaker hoisted, he had no problem drawing ahead. The wind was just behind the beam - initially about F3, but gradually freshening. I made good speed. But the wind kept on freshening, and eventually I was forced to reef. Even then I was making seven knots.
I wanted to take pictures of the lighthouse at Akmersrags, and went quite close in. This was a mistake. For once, there were shoals some way out from the point, and the shallow depth alarm sounded. I headed straight out to sea, but not before the depth under the keel dropped to around 0.6m!
The wind kept up for some time, but gradually dropped again as I approached Klaipeda. I took out the reef, and, looking up at the sail, realised I could see light where I shouldn't be able to. A hole had been punctured in the sail at the end of the upper spreader. There was no re-inforcement for this spreader on the double reef, and I had thought, in the past, that it needed it. Now it had been graphically demonstrated.
There is a lighthouse at Pape, and this marks the border between Latvia and Lithuania. It happened that I'd had the handheld VHF switched on and in the cockpit, since I'd read that you might be called up. And Klaipeda Control came on the air, asking the vessel at such and such a position to call them. I pressed the button on the GPS, looked at my lat and long, and decided it was me. There weren't many other boats around to choose from. I answered, and they took my details.
Arriving at Klaipeda, I decided to be naughty, and not to go over to the Immigration quay. Instead, I went straight to the yacht club, and tied up ot the same place on the same concrete quay. This was a mistake. Before I could even make the stern line fast, someone had arrived on a bicycle, pedalling furiously, from the yacht club. I had been tracked coming in [maybe from the call earlier], and I had to go to Immigration straight away. Like now.
Resigned to my fate, I cast off again. A passing harbour launch directed me not to where I had gone before, but a big quay a little further back, which I hadn't been aware of. This had large rubber rollers and metal rings; I managed to get two lines through a ring before losing one, and the bow began to swing out. Two Border Guards watched on impassively as I struggled. After a minute or so, the bow had blown right off, and I was at right angles to the quay, held on only by the stern line. But I realised I could pass up my passport from there, and did so. My details were duly noted.
Eventually I was cleared, my papers handed back, and was able to go back to the yacht club. I spent the next day there, and as before, Prospero seemed to act as a magnet for small children in Optimists. Then back to Poland.
My departure was delayed waiting for the Border Guards to turn up – I eventually called them via the VHF, but I had wasted a good forty minutes waiting. Then I could head out down the river.
There was some breeze blowing, but not enough to sail at 5 knots. The motor stayed on. It was a fine sunny day, and the visibility was good enough to be able to see one of the high rise buildings of Klaipeda twenty miles off. Four patrol boats of the Lithuanian navy were carrying out exercises outside the harbour, but I soon left them behind, and was to see nothing at all in the way of ships, fishing boats or yachts for at least the next ten hours.
Darkness fell as I approached Kaliningrad, and here things were busier. Things might not have been helped by the bulb in the starboard steaming light blowing sometime during the night. A full moon rose to light the sky, but cloud cover increased ahead, and then I saw a vivid flash of lightning. There was still no wind, however, and it would remain calm all the way. Lightning flashed intermittently all night, but too far ahead to be heard.
The light at Mys Taran on the Kaliningrad coast was very effective, and as it faded below the horizon, the light on the Hel peninsula became visible. The approaches to Gdansk Bay were also quite busy with shipping, but I rounded the Hel peninsula, quite close to, and made the harbour by 0600. I had to clear Immigration again, but could then go to the yacht berths to sleep.
After a day or so at Hel, I decided it was time to visit Gdansk by sea, and set off for a gentle sail in the sunshine. As I entered, I slowed down by the Immigration Quay again to give them my details, and went upriver. Inevitably, the evening thunderstorm was brewing again, and it poured down. I arrived at the marina, dripping, and the bosman pointed to a set of pontoons from the shelter of his office.
Gdansk Marina has one great asset, which is also a slight drawback. It is right in the heart of the city. It would be impossible to get closer. You are perhaps 200 metres walk from the main street. There are a myriad of shops nearby. The drawback is that it can also be noisy with traffic etc. There is a small chandlery. Its stock isn't large, but you can order what they haven't got. The loos and showers are in portakabins, and are guarded by a lady who will demand money. They are closed at night (not helpful). I stayed there a couple more days before deciding to head out and back to Gorki.
Since it wasn't that far to go, I thought I would be idle, and not bother with the mainsail. After all, it was just a few miles, and I had all day. I motored down the river, said my farewells to the Border Guard, and carried on out. The wind was stronger than I had thought, and Gorki was now dead to windward. Still no problem, I thought. Well, the wind was now about F5, and the jib was quite enough sail, thank you. I headed back to Gorki in a series of tacks, and tied up on a pontoon with a stiff breeze behind the boat.
I thought I ought to do something about the rip in the main, and looked up the sailmakers on the Internet. They were only a couple of miles from Gorki, so, still having the car with me, I drove round to explain the problem. I was intrigued to see a very old chart of the Western Solent (depths in fathoms!) as decoration on the staircase. The boss was on holiday, but his son was there, who phoned father. Neither spoke a lot of English, but thankfully Robert, his business partner, was available. Eventually I was able to communicate the problem. Could they come and look at it? Yes. I realised that they were prepared to come there and then, so led the way to Gorki. They inspected the sail, I explained I would like another patch over the place where the upper spreader was, and they took it away with them, promising to be back at 2 o'clock the next day!
Well, next day, 2 o'clock came and went, and no sail. But later in the evening, perhaps at seven or eight o'clock, Robert was there, sail in hand, and we put it back on. Not only had they put a re-inforcement on, they had renewed the Huzar logo which would otherwise have been covered by the new patch. I asked how much the repair would be. No charge, they said – done under warranty. You sure? They were. Well, service like that is hard to beat!
I was intending to head back to England fairly soon – the snag was, my departure date [I had made a ferry booking via the Internet] was still a week or so off. Sitting in Gorki could pall. Well, there was one more harbour in Gdansk bay still to visit: Jastarnia. This was halfway along the Hel peninsula. First of all, I used the opportunity of having the car to drive round to Wladyslawowo and Jastarnia to scout out the harbours. Then, leaving the car at Gorki, I set off with a very light breeze. Inevitably, the afternoon thunderstorms set in, and I arrived wet again.
The harbour had a couple of sets of rather short pontoons, and not much room. I squeezed into one, and again was thankful for the set of cleats midway down the boat. The stern was hanging out a long way.
Unfortunately, the harbour is open to the south, and a light southerly was blowing. This was not enough to create a swell, but the waves slapping against the hull all night meant I didn't sleep that well. I left early the next morning, not feeling I had had a peaceful night.
The wind was on the starboard quarter, about F3-4, and I started heading round to the tip of the Hel peninsula. It looked very murky over towards Gdansk and Gdynia, and I soon discovered why. Quite unexpectedly, the heavens opened. There was a flash of lightning and crack of thunder. The rain turned to hail.
I was able to get my waterproof top, climbed into it, and huddled as best I could under the sprayhood, but my shoes and feet were saturated. The storm passed as quickly as it had arrived, and the wind settled down to a steady F3/4, and I was just able to hold a course, closehauled, for my destination, Wladyslawowo. I arrived in the late afternoon, and was able to find a spot on the pontoons at the end of the harbour.
The next task was to fetch the car, and there was a train from Wladyslawowo to Gdynia. When I arrived at the station, the train was on the far side of the tracks, and rather than provide a tunnel or bridge, one simply walks across the nearside set of rails. I'm not sure that Health and Safety in the UK would allow you to do that.
The train was packed with Polish families, and so I settled myself in an empty first class compartment. When the ticket collector came, I was charged all of 18zl (&#pound;3) for a journey of perhaps 40 kilometres. From Gdynia, a train to Gdansk, and a taxi to Gorki. Now I had the car again.
Back in Wladyslawowo, I had to leave the car in a side street, as it wasn't allowed into the harbour, and there was a charge for parking nearby. That evening, I saw my only other British sailor – a gentleman from Whitby. We exchanged reminiscences over vodka.
Now having the car again, I used the chance to do a recce of Leba, and drive around the countryside. It was also my last opportunity to stock up at the Gdynia Tesco. Then came the long drive back to England.
After that - westward ho!